Licenca?

“Licenca?”

The meek voice apologized in the asking.   I snarled, mostly to myself, but just enough to put a whiff of loathing into the air.  A kinder and gentler me would have awoken instantly, bounced off my daybed with a wide smile, greeting one of any of my neighbors with arms open wide, willing to bestow upon them whatever it was that they were about to request.  But today wasn’t that day.  The last five months at site hadn’t, in fact, been that day.

Any other Peace Corps Volunteer would be at the ready with cardboard cutouts and “papel grande”for an impromptu English lesson.  Possibly popcorn was already popping.  Likely banana bread or cookies were almost ready to come out of a Dutch Oven, warmed over a wood or coal fire that had taken the volunteer hours to light, the sand within the pot heating to bake a near perfect confection.  Or at least a Peace Corps version of one.

I blindly reach for my eyeglasses, patting the cheap foam mattress, reaching into the sinkhole that is in the outline of my body; my interrupted nap looking like a crime scene.  Finding my handkerchief, I first wipe the sweat from my face and mop up the drool on my chin.  Sitting upright, I slip into my flip-flops, left in their constant emergency “get up and go” position and mumble, “Moment”, in a voice as sweet as I could muster.

“Licenca” meant one thing, and one thing only.  Someone wanted something from me.  It might be flour or sugar, the amounts never stated, or a needle, Band-Aids, shampoo or medicines.  It might, in fact, be a request for an English lesson, or to do someone’s homework.  When I first arrived, the requests were for money, straight- forward, unabashed requests for cash.  Upon my third or fourth declination, explaining that I did not have enough resources for everyone in the neighborhood that was in need and that Peace Corps is not here to distribute funds, the terms changed to request a loan.  Attempting to use problem-solving skills, I asked what they did prior to my arrival.  They looked at me directly and simply told me they asked the previous volunteers. 

And, of course, according to them,  all of those volunteers gave gifts of money, made loans, brought  them presents from their travels, and baked cakes and cookies.  Little did I know when I joined the Peace Corps I had become a member of Bakers Without Borders. 

It’s actually a strategy that works well for lots of volunteers, all over the world.  It is a great in-road to making friends in the community and sharing the American culture, the third goal of the Peace Corps.  And, honestly, I’d like to be able to say I can bake a cake over an open fire or in a Dutch Oven filled with sand and stones.  And, who better to teach me than my neighbors?

But, I resist the opportunity to bake for, or with, my neighbors and I am not sure exactly why.  Maybe their relentless requests has me on the offensive, my thin-skin bruised that what I take to be overtures of friendship are actually disguised appeals.  Or, as is my preference, I like to do things in my own way and time frame. I’ve never been much good about fulfilling a prescribed role of any kind. 

Baking with my neighbors would also have me once again under the scrutiny of many eyes.  Control plays a part in my response too.  I can’t actually figure out how to bake for the herds of children that inhabit my neighborhood.  And, at the very least, how does one keep those tiny hands from grabbing everything in site?  My private space, of which there is very little, is also not available for sharing.  On that, I am clear.

Simple and probably over thought, it is actually a perfect Peace Corps experience.  Accepting my hesitation and incompetence at these simple tasks is all a part of living in a very different culture.  And, of course, finding one’s place in a community, as the perpetual outsider, is at the heart of everyday life.  I won’t be the person who doles out money and supplies to my neighbors, but I don’t want to be totally off-limits either.

I might just have to become comfortable with the fact that maybe I don’t want to bake and I’ll integrate with the neighbors through other means; the hula hoops, chalk drawings, yoga and English classes.  But, I do have a small container of sand and three small bricks in my kitchen that I gathered in the yard just this afternoon.  Who knows? Maybe the neighbors will catch a whiff of Upside Down Pineapple Cake in the air tonight.

Do I hear, “Licenca”?