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| Paper Mache Masks |
After
lunch I was drifting into the sweet dreams of my rice coma when outside my
window I hear one of my students yelling my name. Poking my head out my window
it is clear that this student is ready to get his bread baking on, so I tell
him I’m coming and regretfully roll out of bed. I gather up my oven,
ingredients, and cooking utensils and head over to the neighbor’s house where
there is a better table to work at. The other students weren’t there yet so we
head to their houses to gather them up.
We find them diligently cleaning the mud off their boots to make them
look like new again. Soon enough I have six students excited to have a new
adventure for the afternoon. We head back up to the neighbors house and set to
work. Hander, the smallest but most vocal of the students steps up to the plate
as leader. He looks at the recipe, that is in English, and jumps into a monologue
of commands and proclamations of what he thinks the recipe says and who should
do what. The others roll their eyes and grab the Kindle from him that has the
recipe on it, quickly figuring out how to turn the pages and scroll through all
the pictures of bread that are in the ebook. I take the spoon and control out
of Hander’s hand and set my minions to work. Flour is flying everywhere as the
students chant, ‘mix mix mix’ while each takes a turn incorporating the
ingredients. Mix is perhaps the only word I have taught my English class so
far, but they are learning how to play Frisbee quite nicely. We set the dough
into the oven with hot water to allow it to rise and busy ourselves by playing
music and looking at pictures on the Kindle.
Forty
minutes later I open up the oven to see the progress on our rising dough, and
it’s a bit bleak. The dough seems about the same size as when we left it, but
the students are antsy to mold it. Accepting that I am not a baker, and these
conditions are no bakery I take the dough out and divide it up amongst
everyone. At first I come down hard wanting all my rolls to look alike,
determined to win the cheese cook off competition, but seeing the joy these
students find in molding the dough, and begging to make it look like other
pictures in the book I let them go wild. There is a bread here called letter
bread because it has an ‘A’ on the top of each roll although the A really looks
like a fight breast cancer ribbon, anyways the students quickly come up with
idea of molding their dough into letter bread except with the first letter of
their name on the top of each one. They make rolls for their friends, for me,
for their family, and everyone they can think of, carefully rolling out each
letter and placing it on top of a dough bun. They are proud of their rolls and
eager to put them into the oven, so I decide to skip the second rising period
and we pop the buns into the oven.
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| Hander making Cinnamon Rolls |
This
time while waiting we start up a game of soccer keep away outside on the
street. One of the kids has a small brown ball, which quickly picks up the dirt
from the street and spreads it all over my pants and sandal bearing feet. The
shouts of joy from the game brings the neighborhood out to watch and I am
loving the confidence that comes with finally playing a sport I am actually
somewhat good at, as opposed to my pathetic volleyball skills. We take a break
to check on the bread, which has nicely browned in the oven so we take out the
first batch and put in the second. I look at the carefully molded bread rolls
and realize that I can’t pack them up to take to my cheese competition, not
when each roll is unique to the person that made it, so we divvy up the rolls
according to who made them. Mayra my one strong female leader of the class
hands me a roll she has made with an ‘M’ on the top and we decide we better
sample the bread to see if its any good. Munching on bread we head back out to
continue our game. I am at the top of the hill trying to get the ball passed
Hander who is in the middle, I fake left go right, wishing I had the agility of
my high school years, and then I wind up to chip the ball over Hander’s head
down to where the others are waiting. Unfortunately as my foot is coming down
for the swing the contact with what I thought was the ball was hard and
unforgiving. The brown rock that I have mistaken for a ball drills into my big
tow, my sandal goes flying, and the actual ball goes nowhere. The pain rushes
through my toe, and I begin a delicate chicken dance hopping up and down,
singing eowww eowww, hoping that this word translates into all languages as a
yelp for pain. I try to take deep breaths not wanting to show the weakness of
tears to my students who have gathered around and all looked confused as to
what they should do to help this hopping yelping gringa. Finally they guide me
to the steps and I sit down rocking back and forth laughing at the situation,
as it seems better to laugh then to cry.
Next
comes the onset of Spanish suggestions of what I should do to best care for the
toe. Out comes a container of freezing water with the remaining salt from my
cooking mixed in, and I find my foot being guided into the water. There are
suggestions of going to the health posts, claims that I should cut the whole
toe nail off, attempts to clean off the dirt, and imitations of my chicken
dance of pain. It is a chaotic scene, that just makes me laugh/cry more and I
surrender any hope of explaining what I think should be done with my toe, and
allow the neighbors to come up with a solution. Finally my host mom is drawn
out of our house from all the commotion and she helps gather up my oven and
cooking supplies and guides me back to the house. They decide we should trim
the nail so that when I am asleep it doesn’t catch on the blanket and fall off.
I agree to this, but moan in pain and laughter as my host mom trims my toenail;
probably being a bit over dramatic, but it seems more comedic that way. They
trim up the toenail, as my host dad shows off his toe that was trampled on by a
cow, way more legit reason to have a purple toe than my wimpy story of
mistaking a rock for a ball. Every other sentence they say is either how dumb
it was that I was playing soccer in sandals or about how my toenail is going to
fall off. They then bring out the purple stuff, which I demand to read before
they apply it, I see the word anti-biotic and decide it can’t be that bad, and
soon my already purple toe is covered in more purple anti-biotic dye. Satisfied
with her nursing job, and proclaiming that she has done everything that the
health post would have done, my host mom heads back to the kitchen to prepare
dinner. I sit there still in pain for a while soaking up all the attention I
can get from visiting neighbors until I get cold and hop back into my room.
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| Kid carries bike up hill |
The
next morning I wake up with one toe that is much larger than the other and can
only put back on the flip flops to head into town for our monthly regional
meeting. I pack up my things; breadless with a painful toe, feeling very
unprepared for this meeting. In the street the neighbor is still showing
passersbys the rock that I kicked showing how far it traveled down the street
from my pure force. At the regional meeting other volunteers laugh as they see
my violet toe proclaiming that the purple anti-biotic is what they usually use
for cows and horses, but occasionally they also put it on their face for
herpes, so it seems to be a universal cure. My dreams of winning the cheese
cook off crumble as I end up making salsa and guacamole to complement some
tacos. However I still enjoy the delicious food, and I’m even more satisfied
knowing that six other kids in my site also got to enjoy some bread!
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