How NGOs should deal with this is always a matter of debate: it is a local custom (and therefore expected) but couldn’t money be spent on something that is going to last for more than a couple of hours?

Fun and games at a Chocolatada

I work for Latin American Foundation for the Future (LAFF) who partner with groups like children’s homes and projects directed at youth – we could choose to spend funds on chocolatadas at each of our partner projects, but then where would the money come from to fund school supplies, uniforms and other items to further the children’s development?

We have decided not to go down this path.  We have also found that there are organisations who are keen to fund Christmas parties (quite often, frustratingly for me, as their only activity in the whole year) so these kids don’t actually miss out, and even without LAFF participating, can easily have more than one such party.

When I first arrived here, I was surprised by the amount of money that can be spent on these things.  Don’t get me wrong – I love Christmas. I am no Scrooge. And I am definitely in support of children enjoying Christmas.  But surely having five afternoons of hot chocolate and panetón, over just one party along with something more fundamental which will give them opportunity in life (education, clean water, healthcare, nutritious food etc) is a bit skewed.  In fact, the number of organisations and companies clawing to provide chocolatadas does seem to have lead to a rather cynical attitude from some receiving parties: the other day I was visiting a children’s home and the director commented to me that there was ‘some group coming in to do a chocolatada, she didn’t even know where from’, that afternoon.

This isn’t to say that all chocolatadas are wrong by any means, but I do think they should be kept to scale and should be deeper than just a one-off activity.  An example of a great use of the chocolatada tradition can be seen in this video by Ollantaytambo-based Awamaki to attract people to their mobile health clinics.

Fran Talavera is currently the International Projects Manager with Latin American Foundation for the Future. For more on her experiences, check out her blog.

How common are Carlos and Diego’s stories for a homosexual man in Bolivia?

In the book Sociolegal Control of Homosexuality, Timothy and Richard Wright discuss the developing gay community in Bolivia and identify a few barriers to homosexuality’s acceptance. One such barrier is the rigidly structured male roles within the gente de ambiente (people of the environment), “characterized by a precarious strategy of heterosexual emulation constructed so as not to disturb the status quo.”

To this effect, homosexual men frequently emulate the heterosexual lifestyle and do not consider themselves gay. In order to maintain legitimacy in their family and work life, many gay men in Bolivia have families and children. According to the taxi drivers, bar tenders, and co-workers I have spoken with, these married and fathered gay men maintain a steady or un-steady boyfriend in addition to their traditional family.

Although certain aspects of the social environment have harmed the cause for acceptance of homosexuals in Bolivia, it’s a double-edged sword. For better or worse, rigidly defined gender roles have set in motion a manageable “cover up” for homosexual men. Maintaining the status quo as a “man” or “woman” in society is relatively easy, as expectations are established and thoroughly ingrained in society.

Gender roles are just one social factor that contributes to the perpetuation of disgrace in Bolivia. This can be seen in deviation from the norms of society. However, La Familia Galan, La Paz’s notoriously famous group of transvestites usually are present at local festivities or parades, are accepted as entertainers.

Additionally, the importance of the family (given that most homosexuals may live with their nuclear or extended families for their whole lives) hinders acceptance of the gay community, because most families are not prepared or accepting of their homosexual children, siblings, or cousins. Family ties are both a point of distress and dependence for the homosexual. Most likely the family unity restricts the freedom of the homosexual – with both men and women marrying in their late twenties, and potential partners living at home as well.

Even if the family is aware of their member’s sexual orientation, they may disapprove and ostracize, while keeping the son or daughter in the home (as with Carlos’s family’s “ban” on interaction with the outside world). Like a moral jail, the son or daughter must find other areas to carry out their relationships and remain restricted to the family’s rules and expectations.  It is clear, however, the benefit and closeness of the family can be a support system (if they accept the homosexual member) or a great source of distress.

Furthermore, the timid nature surrounding the topic of homosexuality can be detrimental to the progress of homosexual integration into society. Yet, even as a hindrance to public discourse, the lack of discussion within Bolivian society allows homosexuals to keep their secret safe without being prodded our questioned. With an opaque understanding of homosexuality, dialogue within society about homosexuality is one of the only ways to end falsities and disdain toward homosexuality.

There is much to be concluded and few actions to be taken in regards to staunch religious perspectives toward homosexuality. As opposed to changing family perceptions, increase the dialogue, or blurring the lines of gender roles; any religion seems unlikely to waiver in their beliefs. The society and homosexuals must reconcile their beliefs with this issue on a personal basis. And, in all honestly, that’s that.

*          *          *

There are always anomalies within societies. I found one in Bolivia. She is a 70-something-year-old woman who owns the only two “official” gay discotecas in La Paz. Why would a devout Catholic married mother of two own these bars? Because one son identifies as gay and the other is a transvestite. Their mother wanted to own and offer locations where people would never be discriminated against for their sexual orientation. I talked with her around midnight on a Saturday. She was dressed in a mauve knit sweater and a patterned floor length skirt, and might have been one of the sweetest, tender women I have met.

With great dignity she stands behind the bar until 6 a.m. on Friday and Saturday nights, making sure her dance club is safe and the patrons are not afraid of the stigmas they face on the “outside.” She is offering the gay and lesbian community an escape from fear of discrimination and an open environment to be who they are. She’s empowering a small, marginalized community that may one day break the silence in Bolivian society. And who knows- maybe, while at tea with friends, she is changing their opinions of the gay community in Bolivia. This woman is changing lives, and not only those who attend her dance club.

This is the final post in Eric Rindal’s series on Living Gay in Bolivia. Check out the the first, second, or third posts to learn more about Diego, Carlos, and challenges facing the gay community in Bolivia. Eric currently working with the 16th Class of Kiva Fellows in Bolivia, bouncing between La Paz, Cochabamba, and Santa Cruz.

Diego’s secret was revealed in a flash during his late teens. His older sister found a photo of him simply embracing his boyfriend with a hug—it was both liberation from secrecy and illumination to a harsh reality. His mother, particularly, was shattered with the news and refused to accept the truth about her son. Nothing really changed but the knowledge of who their only son was. However it was as if Diego’s existence was wiped clean; his family suddenly could not understand who he was. The shock went from head to toe and the suffering each member endured arose from a disbelief and fear for the future implications.

Now, as a 20-year-old student living in a temperate and relaxed eastern city in Bolivia, he walks a thin line of inherently being part of the family, yet unequivocally outside the family. As soon as they “found out,” Diego says, things were unbearably difficult. “No one knew who [I] was anymore,” and they still do not. Diego’s family is “the pillar of who [he is],” yet he is growing up and growing apart from the ideals of his family. If you met Diego, you would see that he knows himself well. There was never a point when he questioned his sexuality; he has “known [he] was gay since [he] began knowing.”

At the age of 15 he fell in love with his first (last, and only) partner, whom he was with for three blissful but secretive years. The end of the relationship was riddled with infidelity, on the part of his partner, and the insincerity broke his heart. Diego simply wishes what was normal to him was normal to everyone else. He wishes he could live his life “in plentitude, to hold hands with a boyfriend, to marry, and establish a loving home and family.”

Diego’s first relationship brings to light the difficulty in finding a long-term partner among the surreptitious gay environment within Bolivia. It must be said that long-term sincere homosexual relationships certainly occur in Bolivia, but from my interviews and research I found them to be more of an ideal over a reality. Diego describes the gay community in his city as prevalent, yet from an outsider’s perspective it remains relatively unknown – partially due to the fact that it is difficult to detect homosexuals, as they must fit the status quo, purporting to be straight. Within the silence of society, homosexual activity murmurs almost unnoticed. Yet, amongst those murmurs, a disjointed gay community exists and seems to find each other in the early morning hours at discotecas or boliches (where I eventually found them – a little about that in the next post).

There is a preconceived notion of homosexuals, which, Diego believes, is derived from a lack of dialogue and information in Bolivian society about homosexuality. Stemming from longstanding disapproval and public unfamiliarity with homosexuals, Bolivian gays are typecast as promiscuous and deviant. Which, due to this societal repression, may be true in that the discrete “short-term” relationships are only feasible. When one cannot be publically gay, Diego says, private gay life occurs wherever and whenever one can find it. The secrecy one must maintain is unveiled during those brief moments out of sight and in the proverbial shadows of society.

*          *          *

So where does Diego go from here? And what does the future for the gay community in Bolivia look like?

One place to start is within the family. Diego’s bond with his family is vibrant in nearly every aspect, yet his relationships are muted. The closeness of family, where most children live at home into their late 20’s, infringes on personal privacy and inhibits expression of self. Homosexuals must adapt to their family life, which is often uncomfortable, in order to maintain the familial connection that is so vital to one’s emotional and financial wellbeing. Diego knows of other families who accept their homosexual children, which is certainly an anomaly in Bolivian culture. But once an exemplar of the homosexual community is known, acceptance appears to follow. Diego has turned to an unlikely source of strength, his grandmother, who helped him move on from his first relationship. Within time, his other family members might come to the same understanding.

Studying at a local university, Diego says that homosexuals in Bolivia encounter discrimination from other students, ranging from jokes about their sexual orientation to snide remarks that can “deeply hurt a person.” “The truth is, it’s not as though Bolivia is accustomed [to homosexuals], so there is still discrimination in every way,” Diego laments. He sees open dialogue in schools as a main way to combat discrimination. Validating the existence homosexuality in society and portraying gays as equals, rather than deviants, has the potential to normalize what Diego believes is normal for so many Bolivians.

This absence of homosexuality in the public discourse is common through Bolivia. The lack of conversations subtly propagates this long-standing deprecation of homosexuality. Yet taciturnity keeps homosexuals safer because no one brings up their sexual orientation or doubts the “status quo.”  This sentiment is reminiscent to the United States previous military policy of “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Religion is another wall of Diego’s box that attempts to keep him in form. Growing up in an Evangelical household, he feared their outspoken disapproval on the “sins” of homosexuality. Gays are seen as “living against the principals of God,” Diego says, which further dichotomizes his life. Despite the incongruities between their family’s religious beliefs and Carlos and Diego’s sexuality – both men still hold beliefs in God – a friendlier God.

Despite the obstacles to overcoming homophobia- whether family, religion, or the absence of homosexuality in the public discourse, there is hope in Bolivia for homosexuals. Three of their major cities have gay rights groups, and the first Gay Pride parade took place in Santa Cruz in 2001. The “accepting” generation is getting older, and it appears the murmur under the surface is getting louder. The time may soon come when men and women are not afraid to publicly identify as gay or lesbian.

Come back tomorrow for the next installment of Living Gay in Bolivia, or read the first or second post in this series from Eric Rindal. Eric currently working with the 16th Class of Kiva Fellows in Bolivia, bouncing between La Paz, Cochabamba, and Santa Cruz.

Day two of my foray into investigative journalism and uncovering the homosexual community in La Paz. I turned again to the internet for insight, which proved to be the most effective avenue to finding access to a well-concealed gay community. I received 13 responses to an ad (“journalist looking for homosexual interviewees”) I posted on Mundo Anuncio (Craigslist for the Spanish speaking world). Only one response was interested in a regular interview, and the other twelve were interested in something else.

Later that day I was drinking coffee with Carlos, an 18-year-old engineering student living in La Paz. Carlos is a very reserved, respectful, and honest young guy who would never intentionally “rock the boat.” In fact, even though he faces his own battle, Carlos feels it is necessary to take on the “hurt [he] has caused his family.” His view of the world is broad and hopeful, yet his reality is narrow and dire. If you met him you’d be intrigued with his calm, wise demeanor; he has known he was gay for his entire life and “faced the consequences” for his feelings.

It was two years ago when a meeting of two sets of frazzled Catholic parents met to talk about their sixteen-year-old sons’ relationship. Carlos’s boyfriend told his parents about the two-months of dating; infuriated, his parents called Carlos’s parents in order to end the “sinning” between the boys. Shocked and grieved, Carlos’s parents did not eat for the week following the news of their true son. What are the consequences of being gay in an extremely Roman Catholic family? A life turned on its head: Carlos was banned from friends, television, movies, cell phone, and internet–for a year and a half.

From the point after the “meeting,” during his year and a half of reprimand, Carlos’s family bond deteriorated to near nonexistence. At the time his sexual orientation was revealed, Carlos’s older sister was pregnant with her first child. “If anything goes wrong with my pregnancy,” she said, “it is your fault because of your sins.” Stricken with fear, Carlos waited. Months later her daughter was born with uneven hips and is forced to use crutches in order to walk. Two years after the birth, Carlos still bears a daily burden of guilt for what “happened” to his niece, because of his “sins.” Recently his older sister saw him walking home with a male friend and she bitterly said, “looks like you’re still gay, your sins are ruining my child’s infancy.” Strong and defiant, Carlos tries to disregard the hurtful attacks. “None of our friends have children like you, why can’t you be normal,” his parents say, or “You have a sickness, you need to get better,” or “You are an embarrassment to our family.” If one day a family member says they accept him, he hears them telling another how they were lying. For these reasons, Carlos cannot and will not trust his family, ever.

For Carlos the family religion is the most enveloping and detrimental preoccupation in his life. Guilt for his sins anchors him to a helpless existence, where he cannot change his sexual orientation, thus even without acting on his homosexuality he is damned for simply existing. Carlos sees religion as the main force driving his parent’s disapproval and emotional detachment from him. In fact, above all, Carlos views traditional religious beliefs in Bolivia as the homosexual’s biggest obstacle to acceptance in the culture. Yes, Carlos still believes in God, but he does not follow the Roman Catholic religion of his family (and 82% of society) as he disagrees with the basic tenants of its theology. Even still, he remains caged by the guilt and shame he should feel for his “sins.”

To cope with this mental and emotional hardship he “represses it all.” Solace is found in writing and drawing. He pulled out a hardcover notebook to let me read his thoughts and view his drawings. Most have to do with finding an unidentified person, or being found by that person, and rescued from hurt, family, and circumstance. It is not specifically a man, but ideally it would be someone with whom he could live “without sin,” in security, in happiness – all the aspects of life he is currently robbed of. I asked if Carlos had dreams, “No,” he replied, “I lost them all when my family began hating me and stopped talking to me for being gay.” While at coffee I prodded him to reveal his dreams. “I don’t have dreams because they are impossible and will never happen.” With moistened eyes he says, “that my family would accept me, and that I’ll find that person to escape with.”

*          *          *

The “ban” on his life ended the day his parents saw him walking home from school with his best friend: a girl. They were certain he was dating her and was no longer gay. “I don’t feel like I’m blood related to my family. I feel like my friends who accept me are my only family,” he says. Carlos is “out” to his closest friends, and he finds his generation in Bolivia more accepting of homosexuality than the older more traditional generation.

Unsure of his future, and unsure if he wants to keep struggling through life, Carlos battles the thoughts of being a “sinner, “causing his niece’s deformity, and being ostracized by his family. Hi still has four years left of intense university study while continuing to live at home. Despite their outspoken disapproval and candid condemnation of their son’s sexual orientation, Carlos’s parents are paying for his education – which binds him, albeit sterilely, to his family. Carlos told me that he has spent entire nights awake, writing out goals and plans to leave his family when he graduates at 22-years-old. He wants to move to France, or Spain, and simply be “free to be who [he] is.” A dream to “live in a place where [he] won’t be repressed, judged, or hated.”

For Carlos, hope lies in the escape, the emancipation from where he is living, and his family. “Finding a relationship within the gay community in La Paz only lasts a night,” he says, “and I want something true and sincere.” To find that long-term relationship and live a publically gay life in Bolivia is nearly impossible. In reality, he says, it may be unimaginable for many years to come. Carlos is not sure where the future will take him; will he leave Bolivia? Will he be rescued? He is giving time, time; and for these reasons he waits, and waits for the moment in his life where he can find his love.

Come back tomorrow for the next installment of Living Gay in Bolivia, or read the first post in this series from Eric Rindal. Eric currently working with the 16th Class of Kiva Fellows in Bolivia, bouncing between La Paz, Cochabamba, and Santa Cruz.

Kate-

Guess what I did today… Tried to be an investigative journalist. Yeah, fun, but turned out to be pretty dangerous. I needed some more real life information for that post on gay culture in Bolivia. But do you KNOW how hard it is to find a gay bar in La Paz?! I didn’t even know where to start. So I turned to the internet in hopes to find cafes or bars safe for gays to meet, but all the postings I found were outdated websites or Lonely Planet discussion forums.

One site mentioned a café-bar across town. So of course I jump in a taxi alone around 9:30 p.m.; the guy drops me off ten blocks before the place because the road was closed. The streets were empty and it was a shady part of town (REALLY shady). I walked those ten blocks super fast. I lit a cigarette to look tough (I don’t even smoke) while moving through the streets. La Paz, by this point, is cold and misty and kind of scary.  Found it…a house (?) with a call box out front – I click the button, click the button… no answer. Strike one.

Defeated, I take a cab back to my place. Feigning investigative journalist confidence, I ask the cab driver (in my wonderful Spanish): “excuse me, but I have a question that is a little strange. I am a journalist and am writing an article about the gay environment here in Bolivia. Do you know any gay bars here?” The taxista thinks for a moment, mulls the question over and nods! He says, “Shoot. I’ll take you to Caballito.” Great, I think, el Caballito. I am dropped off before a black metal gate and pay the taxista, who speeds off. Great? Someone is outside the gate so I ask, “is this Caballito?” “No! This is a house, and there are no clubs on this street!” I was so confused… Strike two?

What to do but ask the shop owner next door about Caballito. The cholita selling sodas LITERALLY looks both ways, then whispers, “It’s very dangerous around here, but yes there are many gay people…but they arrive around 3 in the morning.” So, I decide to wait. For THREE hours I sit at a bar with Romero, the large, old owner of a nearby discoteca. At 12:30 a.m. I lose patience and I steel myself to go knock on the metal gate of Caballito. And I see an eye in the peephole!; I cower. It disappears; Romero comes out of his discoteca to help me. Tells the guy I’m a friend and should be allowed in. Nope! No entrance until 3 a.m… I decide not to wait a total of 6 hours to enter Caballito. Strike three. I head home.

Back in my quiet apartment, I search online for Caballito. It is one of 3 well-known illegal bars in La Paz. The other two are Route 36, the world’s only cocaine bar, and Blues, an illegal club only for foreigners (non-Bolivians). They are all sometimes shut down, move locations, or raided. Caballito is actually also a functioning brothel of sorts, cocaine bar, and is only open from 3-7 a.m. They have 12 guards at the door, they pay off the police to not come within blocks of the area, and it’s super dangerous. Not your typical Castro District gay bar. Let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t go in by myself… or in at all.

I’ll keep you posted,

Eric

*          *          *

I know La Vida Idealist is an international development blog geared toward volunteering. But from my time living in other cultures (both in South America and Africa), volunteering with development organizations, I encountered something that I found equally as interesting to me as economic development: Societal Development; in the sense of progressive societies vs. staunch societies — in this case, attitudes toward homosexuality.

When volunteering in another country it is easy to perceive the visible culture: how the indigenous population may influence the national art and dance, or how the differing altitudes and geography affect attitudes and diets of the population. These are the “ships” on the surface of the cultural “ocean” that quite possibly your grandma will ask about over dinner when you return home. However, if one lives long enough within a culture or has the interest and curiosity to dive deeper into the lives of those around them, they may find the surface of a culture, though extremely vast, is rarely as vibrant and lively as its depths.

Machismo gender roles permeate most every aspect of Bolivian life, where men are unequivocally men, and women are coquettishly women. Bolivians are also fervently religious; about 82% identify as Roman Catholic and 10% are Evangelic (Pentecostal or Non-Catholic Charismatic). One of the more influential factors in the lives of Bolivian homosexuals is the close proximity of the nuclear and extended family, which creates and shapes expectations of what the family values are and are not.

Where does homosexual orientation fit in all this? In many, if not most cases, its song is muted and homosexuals continue to hold their breath under the river current of an unaccepting society. With little dialogue of homosexuality in the workplace, schools or home, religious perspectives ingrained in the culture, and strict gender roles, Bolivian gay men and women defy a large part of who they are to fit the mold of who they are not. I had the rare and fortunate opportunity to meet and talk with not-so-rare homosexual men during my time in Bolivia. The next three posts will tell their stories.

Come back tomorrow for the next installment of Living Gay in Bolivia. For the record, Eric’s editor responded with a very concerned request to please not get himself gringo-napped while doing his research. Eric Rindal is currently working with the 16th Class of Kiva Fellows in Bolivia, bouncing between La Paz, Cochabamba, and Santa Cruz.

Now, it really is considered quite rude to turn this offer down, even though it can, at times, turn out that the family that asks you is really only interested in you footing the bill for a massive party, and then being an on-hand bank to fund various stages of the child’s life.  I am not stingy, but I have always made such an effort to make friends through being myself here, rather than by dishing out cash.  So I wanted to be very careful how I played this.

I asked around and got various answers about the level of responsibility and cost that this role would entail: from ‘should anything happen to the parents you may have to take responsibility for the child’, ‘you may well end up having to foot the bill for the whole party’, ‘you may have to pay for the full education of this kid’ etc etc…   I listened to all the advice given to me by locals and foreigners alike, but decided that I didn’t want to be so sceptical.  These people were my friends and I would hope that they had different motives to others.

Me and my ahijada having a fun day dressing up

I decided to simply speak to them openly and honestly about my concerns and ask about the differences between my British perception of being a madrina (basically remembering the child’s birthday and giving a present then and at Christmas along with being a moral role model) and their perception of the role.  Often the request is to be the madrina for a religious milestone – I am not catholic and would definitely not feel comfortable having such a key role in that.  Thankfully, they were asking me to be the madrina for the haircutting ceremony (a tradition here – the hair gets styled into small plaits and there is a party where everyone who comes contributes financially whilst cutting off one of the plaits, supposedly towards the child’s future, but it is often suspected that is goes towards the party costs).  So, we discussed my concerns and what they wanted my role to be in my future ahijada’s life.  Luckily for me, they actually wanted someone to act more along the lines of what my perception of the role was – someone to be there as a moral role model for their child and also as a way of us always having a bond and keeping in touch should I move away from the area in the future.

Something that has always struck me as interesting is some Peruvians’ choice of foreigners over Peruvians to play this role in their children’s lives.  It just seems like a very short-term investment.  There are not many foreigners that end up staying for indefinite periods of time, or come back every year; so even though they may seem a better choice for funding the event itself, will they really play a key role in their ahijado/a’s life?  Mind you, life choices here quite often are for the short-term benefit, rather than for the long-term and to be honest, I can’t blame them – they have lived through periods of gross instability and inflation, so perhaps it is better to just think about the here and now.

I, however, do really want to play a key role in my ahijada’s life and try and spend as much time with her and the family as possible.  From time to time I’ll bring a little gift, but I don’t want to be her ‘fairy godmother’, only associated with showering her with presents.  I’d prefer to be a reliable, stable and loving figure in her life and be there as much for her as being a friend to her parents.

Fran Talavera is currently the International Projects Manager with Latin American Foundation for the Future. For more on her experiences, check out her blog.

On the Día del Grito de Santiago, a Spanish couchsurfer named Roser came to stay with me. We had a great time, but she found Santiago to be feo, and didn’t understand the reactions of the people here. Since she has light eyes and does not dress like a Panamanian, Roser got gringa treatment: “Am I a dog,” she said, “that they yell at me and talk as if I don’t understand? I don’t know how you live here.”

Roser playing for us at a local hotel.

She went on to ask me how I keep the volunteers I work with motivated in this town. Of course, most volunteers live with host families, which protects them immeasurably from the behavior Roser was experiencing. Nonetheless, I told her if my volunteers are having difficulties, I brainstorm specific solutions for their problems and ways to make improvements and advances. And when a situation is especially bad, or truly unchangeable, the best thing I can do is give up on being positive, if only for a moment. Often a volunteer simply needs to hear the acknowledgement that what they are dealing with is legitimately difficult; they feel better for having had their struggles noticed and appreciated. We accept that things aren’t easy, and we push through because we believe in what we’re doing.

That day, the Día del Grito de Santiago, there was an eighteen-hour-long parade, in which every single school in the comuna sent their marching band (snares, brass, and xylophones, mostly) down Calle Décima, the street which I call home. I spent all morning in my office working with half a brain and trying to identify the xylophone melodies with the other half. These included the Himno Istmeño, Britney Spears, Lady Gaga, some Sousa, a couple of Panamanian club favorites, and a few other standbys.  The parade lasted from 8 am to 2 am, and was followed by an all-night reggaeton party. Talk about extreme positivity.

Despite the celebrations, Roser left early, after only a few days. Since 2009, she has been traveling in Latin America, and has hitch-hiked up from Argentina, earning money along the way singing and selling handicrafts. Roser has seen it all. And yet, she said it was Santiago, with its awkward combination of big-city indifference and small-town xenophobia, that made her stop a moment and think: “maybe I’ve been traveling for too long.” I totally understood the sentiment, and it was so validating to hear it from a seasoned traveler like herself. I’ve had a hard time here, too. And at some point after she left, I realized that Roser did for me exactly what I try to do for my volunteers: she legitimized my challenges. I had been too relentlessly positive with myself; Roser made me realize not only that it was ok for me to be struggling, but also that admitting it to myself and others was not a bad thing. It was a very empowering realization, and I’m grateful to her for it.

Nereida Heller works in Santiago de Veraguas as the Field Director for WorldTeach’s Panama programs. For more about her experiences, check out her blog. The views expressed in this post are Nereida’s own and do not represent the WorldTeach Program or any of its partner organizations.

I’ve heard lots of people talk about how ‘reverse culture shock’ can actually be worse than the initial adjustment of moving to a new country.  I suppose in some ways you think you know what to expect when you return home whereas when you move somewhere else everything is generally exciting and new.

I have just returned to Peru having spent six weeks at ‘home’ in the UK and I have to admit that for the first time it actually felt more foreign returning home than living abroad.

There were some things that shocked me – prices mainly (going back home while on a ‘local’ wage in South America is a bit tough!) and the amount of extravagance that we enjoy in the UK.  But also the fact that it is actually easier to do certain things in Peru than in the UK.  Public transport and taxis in Peru are very convenient and cheap while where I live in the UK, buses are few and far between and cost at least £2 a journey (9 soles – how much it costs to take a 2-hour journey from Cusco to Ollantaytamo) while a 10-minute taxi ride to the train station would not be less than £8 (36 soles – the equivalent of a 7-hour bus journey from Cusco to Puno).  Obviously the economies are different but returning temporarily does seem to highlight the differences.

Some of the differences were funny – always genuinely feeling confused and looking around for where to put my toilet paper made me laugh each time (not that that helped me stop doing it!).  I have to admit I enjoyed some of the luxuries – cider, cheese, duvets and comfy sofas being my favourites – but it is hard to adjust between the two cultures and norms and I was surprised when I got back to Peru and it actually felt more normal to be here than there.

Fran Talavera is currently the International Projects Manager with Latin American Foundation for the Future. For more on her experiences, check out her blog.

Arriving to one’s town of service, one of the volunteer’s principal concerns is the host family. Will they like me? Is their house clean? Will I have some semblance of privacy and personal space? Will we be able to communicate and co-exist during my stay here? The build-up to that first meeting is a time of anxiousness and excitement.

My baby "cousin" Jeltin with his big brother Malcon

Before arriving to my town as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I had lived with four host-families in various travels and experiences. I always got along very well with them, never any serious mis-communications. (Just the occasional mishap like confusing cucumbers for horseradish. They definitely do not taste as similar as they can look.) Despite my experiences, I was just as nervous and anxious to meet this family that would introduce me to my new home for the next two years. Not to mention, I have always been accustomed to living independently with plenty of personal space. I thought for sure I was going to move into my own place after the obligatory 2-month stay with the host family.

To my surprise, I have yet to move out of my host family’s house and I having been living here for 14 months. Apart from the fact that the house is spacious, very clean, and my host mom is an excellent cook, it turns out that we really did adopt each other as family. My fellow volunteers find it hard to believe how natural and comfortable my living situation is until they come and see it for themselves.

A little bit about my living situation: the house is a quarter-block, traditional style house (patio in the center) in the middle of town. My room is one of three set apart from the main house where the kitchen, living room and two other bedrooms are. The family that lives in the house consists of my host mom, two host sisters (27 and 30 years old respectively), the husband and three-year-old son of the 27 year old, and a 16 year-old housekeeper to help my host mom. I have a 25-year-old sister who lives next door with her new husband and a 31-year-old brother who lives down the road with his wife and her family. My host mom’s husband passed away a year before I arrived, so it’s just us lovely ladies in the house. Plus Juben (my brother-in-law). All of the children are educated, finishing up their first or second university degrees and all three of the sisters are teachers, so they are very open-minded and easy to communicate with. It is an ideal set-up.

Now, let’s be honest, matching volunteers with a good host-family can be a crapshoot. Sometimes you land in situations that are not conducive to your personal and emotional health. I do think that I got lucky, but I also think that one’s attitude towards a host-family situation is crucial.  If you go into such an arrangement with the mind-set that it’s going to be horrible, or that you’re just going to get by until you can move out, you may miss out on some of the benefits and opportunities, such as:

1. Integration

Community integration is key for a volunteer, especially when operating solo as many Peace Corps volunteers do. The better you get to know the people in your community, their customs and expectations, the easier it will be for you to identify community leaders and initiatives that you can pursue. My mayor is good friends with my host family and would often stop by for coffee on Sundays. This was a great opportunity for me to get to know him and also talk to him about the community, what he was doing, and what he thought needed to get done. I also got to know people in the community by going on visits with my host mom or sisters. This was also helpful for learning the proper protocol for visits: what to say, how to behave, what to bring (if necessary), and how long was appropriate to stay. My host family was huge part of my cultural education.

2. Community news/happenings

There is no shortage of chisme (gossip) living with a host family in a small town. Between my family members and the people passing through to pay a visit, I have 24/7 access to my town’s local news network. As with most gossip, it varies from person to person, but I am generally clued into most things from the latest relationship scandals to local crime incidents.

3. Security

On that note, it is important to mention the value of a host family as local protection. Volunteers do not always live in the safest corners of the world and the added fact that they come from developed countries gives the impression that they are carrying around a lot of money. This makes volunteers bigger targets for assaults, robberies, and break-ins. Now, I’m not saying your family acts as a bodyguard in the literal sense, but they do form a shield of “belonging” over you.

Anytime the topic of break-ins comes up, my host mom always tells me, “Oh, Amandita, if you were living by yourself, for certain they already would have tried to break in to your house.” Though that would not have stopped me from moving out if I really wanted to, it is absolutely true. A single, American female living by herself? Not only would I be seen as an easy target, they’d think I was loaded as well (aka: jackpot). So far I have not had any troubles during my service, partly due to my own vigilance but also in part because my family keeps me informed about dangerous times and places.

4. Language skills

Many volunteers who live by themselves plateau in their language skills after they move out. Volunteers and staff who don’t get to see me often always comment on my high level of Spanish and conversational ability compared to when I first got here. Some friends in my community have also told me that they could barely understand what I was saying when they first met me, but now they have no problem. Chock another one up to the host fam. Living with a host family forces me to communicate in Spanish 24/7. Living by myself, I would not have to think or speak in Spanish while at home. With my host family, from the moment I wake up until I go to my room to decompress and go to sleep, I am thinking in Spanish. At first it was exhausting and took some effort, but it got easier after a couple months. It is assuredly the number one thing that has improved my fluency.

5. Other (perhaps better) family and living situations

Like I said, host families can be a crapshoot. If you don’t end up in an ideal situation, and you do not have the option to live by yourself, take advantage of the connections you make with other people and their families. Through my host family, I got to know some of the cousins that would come and visit. Turns out that we got along really well so I started hanging out at their house frequently.  As it turns out, they were one of the families originally considered to be my host family. I visit them almost everyday now. I share my computer and my iPod with them. They fix my cell phone when it gets busted, introduce me to Spanish rock music, and feed me mangos. It’s a pretty sweet relationship. If, for whatever reason, I was no longer able or willing to stay with my current host family or by myself, they would be the first people I would turn to.

6. Cost

It is a lot cheaper living with a host family than by yourself. I pay one lump sum to my host family each month and it covers food, lodging, cleaning, laundry, and utilities. Those would all be separate costs if I lived by myself, plus the initial cost of purchasing furniture. I’d say I save at least $50 a month, which is about a fifth of my monthly stipend.

Sometimes, when living abroad, it is necessary to have your own place to manage your personal space and your mental health. However, it’s not always an option and many volunteers I have interacted with dread the thought of having to stay with a host family for more than a few months. I was one of them, actually. What I have found, though, is that building a strong relationship with your host family not only provides the benefits listed above, but also a strong personal support network. Being away from one’s friends and family for an extended period of time can be incredibly difficult. Finding a family away from home makes the distance easier to deal with.

For more posts from La Vida Idealist on the eternal question of host families and homestays, check out check out “Living with Locals, for Better or Worse?” by Becca Mondshein, “Department of Homestay Security” by Kent Green, “Homestay in Rio: an Ode to Ica,” by Mehr Amin,  or “Adopting a Tico Family,” by Jen Johnson. This is Amanda’s first post with La Vida Idealist. Amanda is currently a Municipal Development Advisor for the Peace Corps in Honduras. For more on her experiences, check out her blog.

I caught up to him on Isaiah’s porch, intending to just quickly pop my head in the doorway to say hello to whoever happened to see me and then pop back out to hide around the corner. Isaiah came running outside and found me hiding around the corner. Right away he said what I was trying to avoid, although it wasn’t as powerful coming from a 6-year-old. “What are you doing out in “el sereno” with the baby!?”

Shortly after giving birth to our son in 2009, I learned about something that I had never heard of before in my life in the U.S. or the Dominican Republic. As soon as I tried to walk outside after dusk with my newborn, I was told to get back in the house and met with warnings of “el sereno” in Spanish and “seren an” in Haitian Creole. It is apparently a dangerous something in the air or sky that comes with nightfall that newborn babies and women who have recently given birth should not go out in. They also should not go outside, not even for a minute, if the sky is cloudy at any time of the day.

What will happen if they do? The baby will become sick and his or her yellow poop will turn very dark or green. Even the doctor won’t know how to get rid of it. And the mother will also become sick with one of the main symptoms being a headache. If mother and baby should need to go outside they should be sure to move quickly and to bundle up with socks, hats, long sleeves, the whole works… in August… in the Caribbean.

Now, I tested this a bit in 2009, disobeying and going outside after nightfall. The apartment we lived in at that time was in a pretty scarcely populated area. Therefore, I could get away with it without too much nagging. I am not sure if it was a placebo effect or not, but I do think I observed some of the symptoms after spending time in “el sereno” one evening. The symptoms included my son having darker poop, although it went away quickly.

On Sept. 10th, 2011 I gave birth to our second child, a baby girl. We now live in an area with many neighbors nearby. Our apartment that we live in is also hotter and smaller than the last one. So I have found it impossible to stay inside to avoid “el sereno” and the nagging neighbors that will criticize me for being outside in it and taking the baby out.

At our fifteen-day check-up I asked the pediatrician what “el sereno” was. He said that it waas nothing. Just don’t take the baby outside if it’s raining or cold. I then began responding to my neighbors with this response the doctor gave when they said, “What are you doing out in “el sereno” with the baby? That sereno will harm both you and the baby!”

When I tell them what the doctor said, they just sort of look at me and go on their way. Or sometimes I respond by asking, “What is ‘el sereno’?” No one has really given me a good answer yet. They say, it’s something in the sky or just don’t respond at all. Sometimes after I contest them in some way they look up into the sky as though they are looking to see how severe “el sereno” is at the moment and whether it is light enough to allow me to stay outside.

People often make comments about the weather, the air and their dangerous effects. I have always been confused, coming from a place that has at least a 100 degree Fahrenheit temperature difference throughout the course of the year as opposed to the perhaps 50 degree difference here. I have been told, not by scientific or medical experts, that things are not the same here and that air pressures and temperatures change very quickly, which is what is dangerous. I am not sure if there is any truth to this or not.

I will consider most claims and thoughts, even if I don’t understand them, but I oppose being ordered around with little proof of the danger of something. I often want to reply by reminding people that my daughter was born perfectly healthy despite daily comments that she would be hurt or killed because I carried around my son so much late into pregnancy. People repeatedly removed his knee from where it rested on the top of my stomach and argued that it would squish her head. I replied that the ultrasounds had shown that her head had been down for weeks. I’m not sure if anyone is starting to give me a little liberty to make my own such decisions after seeing that she was born without any harm. I also argue that fresh air is healthy for a baby as opposed to being shut up in a small and hot apartment all of the time. Nonetheless, I search for the best way to communicate without upsetting anyone.

Caitlin McHale is currently living in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic as the co-founder and executive director of Project Esperanza.