After that bluesy post, here’s the flipside: I’m pretty darn proud of how quickly we’ve transitioned this time around. When we signed up to go to Nicaragua for three years back in ’97, the entire first year was spent in language school, living with a different host family nearly every single week (it was as dreadful as it sounds), and then building our own house out of handmade adobe blocks. We didn’t even attempt any official work.

This time around, things are a little different. There is no language study. We’ve been in Guatemala for two-and-a-half weeks and so far we’ve had a day and a half of in-country orientation, moved to our location, started work, gone house hunting, moved, and really started to settle in.

Next week we are supposed to travel to Santiago Atitlán for team meetings and I’m dreading it. Not because I don’t want to go to team meetings, because I do, but because I hate to leave this place. It’s my home and I’m a homebody and I like it here. That I feel this way so soon after moving to a foreign country is a little bit miraculous, I think.

Which doesn’t mean this transition isn’t hard (see previous post). Some things are really wonderful and some things are really frustrating and exhausting. We seesaw back and forth between the two in a most erratic fashion. You’ll get some posts that have us soaring sky high and some posts in which we just banged our butts on the hard ground. It’ll even out…eventually.

Anyway, we didn’t get our house all by ourselves. I contacted some ex-MCCers who live in Cobán, and they, the mother of the family in particular, have gone way above and beyond the call of duty to help us feel at home. When the mother heard about our living situation, she contacted a bunch of potential landlords and then ended up meeting us in town, driving us out to this place, and helping us assess it and work out the details.

The next day we moved in, and that night she and her daughter showed up with a (delicious) ready-to-bake casserole for our supper. She had called ahead and asked if we needed anything from the store. I said, bread, bananas, and eggs, please, and if it’s not too much trouble. She said okay, and then showed up with bags of groceries: mixed nuts, tuna, crackers, cookies, cornflakes, milk, fresh vegetables, homemade jelly and bread, spices, pastries, pastas, a giant honeydew, juice, etc. There was even a basket with candles and a Guatemalan cloth for the table, and an assortment of toys for the children. I was so overjoyed and thankful I nearly cried. We feasted that night. And after our lunch of one boiled egg each, plus tortillas and salt, it was a much needed feast.

This family has continued to help us settle in. They have offered us the use of their vehicle and given us much-needed contact information, such as names of reliable taxi drivers, laundry women, repair men, etc. If it wasn’t for this family, we wouldn’t be nearly as settled as we are.

We are incredibly grateful and deeply indebted.

Transitioning to another culture is hard. Sometimes it’s brutally hard.

It’s like this: not only do I have to manage my own emotions, but I also have to help four children (and a husband) manage theirs. I (we) have to navigate the ins and outs of having a maid, figure out how to get money out of a bank and get groceries to the house without a car, learn the ropes of the buses and taxis and the layout of several different towns, feed a family, stock and manage a household, pay the rent and water and gas, learn to use cell phones and text (I am texting!)…and all of this (or mostly all) while speaking another language.

The simplest things take superhuman effort, like finding vinegar (located yesterday! in a stall in the market! score!). Getting a store to fill out a receipt can take an extra 15 minutes. Just finding a grounded extension cord involves visiting about 20 different hardware stores.

All of the children are struggling in some way or another, but one in particular (the one we knew would have trouble) is crashing and burning right and left. Her anxiety (same stuff she deals with in the States) is through the roof. It manifests in atrocious amounts of defiance and monstrous tantrums. All the kids, in fact, are coping attitudes.

Part of the problem (and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or child psychologist, to figure this out) is that we haven’t had a clear schedule for the last three weeks. Standard methods for discipline haven’t been an option. The children haven’t had regular chores or studies. Plus, they’ve been on overload from all the new things they are learning…

…Like how to smoosh into taxis and buses without fussing (too much).
…Like how to eat their food with tortillas.
…Like how to brush their teeth with a cup of water and take cold showers.
…Like how to put toilet paper in the trash can instead of the toilet.

It’s a lot of newness, and while often exciting and doable, new things all the time take a toll.

In the thick of dealing with a tantruming child, my typical feelings of over-whelmedness are ten-fold. Our regular support system is no longer at hand. (Yes, we have tons of support in spirit—never to be underestimated!—and there are lots of people here who are watching out for us, but it’s a far cry from the thick web of support we’re used to.) We are going this alone. That’s the hard truth.

Yesterday, for the first time in weeks, we had a regular afternoon rest time. Throughout the day, I had enough energy and resolve to follow through with discipline issues (and were there ever issues, hoo-boy). Perhaps we’re finally coming down a little bit, relaxing into this new place that is to be our home, and now, with the extra time and space, comes the payback for all the changes that we’ve gone through? Whatever the case, it’s emotionally exhausting.

The turmoil, stress, and angst is about to be increased, too (more on this soon), so we have a ways to go before we can truly settle and adjust.

But we will (I trust). And soon (I hope).

These days, I get up earlier than I did in the other house. The brightening sky lights our bedroom through the single, large window. It’s still gray outside, but the birds are singing. It will be another gorgeous day.

I pull on a hoodie and tiptoe out to the kitchen. It’s cold. I can see my breath. I slide open the metal barn door and peek outside.

I can see the moon! I grab my camera, slip on my husband’s sneakers (I’ll apologize later) and head outside.

There are dew-drenched spider webs everywhere. The valley is thick with fog.

The ground is silvery and wet. It glimmers and shimmers in the sunlight.

The workers, machetes in hand, are tromping by in their rubber boots on their way to The Big House.

“Buenos dias!” I call quietly, and they singsong the greeting back to me. Suddenly, I am self-conscious of my pajamas—black leggings and long shirt—and fancy camera, so I scuttle back inside.

Coffee time! I fill my teapot with purified water and set it to boiling. While I stir the hot water into the coffee grounds and push the water through my aeropress, I heat some milk in a small saucepan. There is no half-and-half or cream here, so it’s café con leche every morning.

It’s time for the kids to be getting up, so I turn on lights and start clattering dishes, emptying the drainer and getting out the skillets. I chop up the potatoes that I baked last night (the hot oven helped make the house cozy) for the morning’s fried potatoes and whisk a dozen eggs. There will be ketchup, too.

“Breakfast is almost ready! Get up, get dressed, make your beds, and come eat!” I holler at the children. They groan and burrow deeper into the covers. My husband joins me in urging them onward ho.

Soon Luvia will be arriving, and the day will be underway.