9/9/07
I haven’t written in a couple weeks, at least. I mean, I write in my journal. Then hide it in my bag. I tell myself it is so I will write while I’m on the Marshutkas, the mean autobuses that taxi us around and fall apart. But that is not true, I never write away from my room. My door is always shut.
Two weeks ago I thought I was done with this job. The heat, the trash, the cows eating the trash, the yells and barks from dogs and students, the ass-to-face bus rides, the same red and black checkered dresses, and the daily potato, chicken and tomato dinner, with extra extra butter made me want to quit. It was a couple weeks after summer school, when motivation was waning, and my headache was routine. Eric and I went to the Internet café and searched for flights to anywhere but here: Mexico, Costa Rica. We could teach English in Japan or Thailand. We could try a totally different organization altogether, a non-governmental organization. But we went home idealess. We couldn’t afford a way out.
People call Peace Corps a roller coaster.
The last semi-roller coaster I went on was Drop Zone. We jumped on and belted our waists in with stainless steal straps. The Six Flags staff made their round, wiggling the bright purple machine to make sure we didn’t jump before they could drop us. I can see a bolt amongst the hundreds on the side of the track, slipping from its secure position, rubbing the bolt that acts as its ladder above it, then securing itself to the rusted belt, and doing this more times than I could endure.
When the first belt made the clenching sound I thought to myself, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, and I looked to my friend Crystal for compassion.
Then the kid warranting Crystal’s compassion away said that I shouldn’t be scared, that this was like his fifth time he’d been on this thing and that the ride is so much fun every time. His sister cuddled to his right. She seemed used to his lies.
We reached a certain point, maybe five feet above ground, and the repetition became audible, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” Crystal looked at me with a laugh, so I closed my eyes and then repeated again, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I continued this way all the way to the top.
In between spurts of “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God” this kid kept chatting with us like it was an escalator ride in the Westbury Mall. “It’s such a nice day. How’s your day going?” This boy’s voice and black high-top Nikes told me he’s like most 13-year-olds: awkward, and prematurely confident. He wore camouflage shorts to hide his fears.
As he talked above us, we threw our commentary. “Does he have any idea what’s going on here?” I asked. “What the hell is going on?” He kicked the still blue air. I breathed in, according to the bolts’ patterned climb. As we reached the top he stretched his short arms out to San Jose and pressed his lips: “What a beauuutiful view!” he shouted. Crystal shrugged, and I smiled and clenched the thick bars that protected me. “What a beauuutiful view!”
In these brief 15 seconds at the top that seemed like eternity, I was torn between my fear of heights, the anxiety of being dropped, and all the feelings that came along with this boy: self-assuredness, stupidity, humor, and the love of San Jose.
The drop didn’t fling my legs like I imagined. It was quick and scary as hell, and came with an “Oh shit!” at the start, but in my heart was a quick unknown and a constant rush.
When we hit the bottom we were secure. The kid jiggled in his seat till staff unbuckled his waist. Like a pro he jumped with two sneakers flat to the surface.