Well, it should actually say that my life is out of MY control, but that’s not as catchy. 

The Peace Corps warns you about many issues that may arise during your time as a volunteer such as intense boredom, complete lack of a familiar support system to help you through difficult times, the fishbowl affect and dealing with cultural adjustment.  I have already experienced every one of these issues.  But the one thing that I am pretty sure no one told me about was the feeling of your life being for the most part out of your control.   

Yes, I do have some control if I think really hard:  I choose what clothes I wear in the morning, I choose when I get up or if I just roll over and go back to sleep, and I choose how I handle these different issues which make up part of my Peace Corps experience. 

But the reality is such that not much else of my life is in my control.  I eat when my family prepares the meal and I eat whatever is served to me.  I shower when the family decides that the hot water can be heated.  At work, I am told whatever it is that needs to be done at the moment it needs to be done.  When guesting (yes that is a verb), I am forced to wait for a family member to return from wherever to give me a ride home (it is not culturally appropriate for a woman to be alone on the street at night here). 

The reasons for these scenarios stem from a tangled web of cultural differences weighted down by my lack of fluent language skills.  I have a great little story to illustrate this point.  Read on if you have another moment or two...

Yesterday, my hostma was working the day shift instead of her normal night shift as a nurse in the local hospital.  On the day shift she works 12 hours, from 8AM - 8PM.  My host sister and I visited her before we headed home for the day.  At the visit I told her that I would make fried potatoes.  I was actually looking forward to making friend potatoes my way - crispy. 

Upon arriving home I was informed that my host dad had purchased all the ingredients for me to make pizza.  I explained to my host dad that it was too late tonight to make pizza as it takes many hours and besides, my hostma usually makes the dough for me. 

“Is it ok if I have it tomorrow?” I ask.  He agrees that yes it would be ok.

At around 6PM I return to the kitchen to start making the fried potatoes and I find my host dad making the dough for pizza, proud as a peacock.  He explains that he called my hostma and was able to get the recipe from her.  He reminds me, once again, that he is a trained chef.  Sigh.

Even as he has his hands in the dough, I try to explain to him that we won’t eat till 9 or so; that the dough needs two hours, that the sauce needs to be made, that, that, that....nope.  He bought all the ingredients for tonight and tonight we will eat pizza.   And so instead of making a simple dinner and eating it at a reasonable hour, I was somehow compelled into making pizza.  My evening went from being my own to being a cook to the family.  The next 3 hours I spent in the kitchen area fixing the requested pizza or waiting for things to be done so I could make the pizza.  My life, once again, was out of my control.  Here’s how my thought process and pizza making process went...

Frustrated or maybe annoyed, (both?) I begin the process of making the sauce.  Chop onions, garlic, fry  - breath - think he’s trying to do a nice thing here.  Add tomato paste - wait not enough paste.  Need some more tom paste, please.  Host sis runs off to the little store to get some.  Chop tomatoes. 

Add  tomatoes and paste to onions and garlic.  Why was he so insistent, why did I give in.  Oops, don’t forget the sugar.  Stir, simmer. Chop green onions, find spices.  Host sis appears with a bottle of Coke (my host fam knows I like Coke with pizza)... Are they trying to do something special for me today? Add green onions and spices stir, simmer.  Chop topping - red peppers.  Grate or is it shred cheese.   

Has two hours passed....not quite.  Dough needs more time.  Sauce simmers - oops might be getting too hot push off to one side (the open electrical coil burner does not have various settings, it’s either on and hot or off and not).  Just give in, life here is what it is, go with the flow, float.... 

Dough is done enough.  Spread dough on oiled cooking sheet, poke or is it prick with fork, prick, poke, prick, poke, prick, poke, bake first dough.  Wait.  Spread the remainder dough.... prick, poke, you get the idea... Wait. 

Oh I am so hungry.  A little bread with sauce will do the trick.  Dough done.  Take out, let cool.  Put other in oven.  Wait.  It’s 8:30.  Add sauce, cheese, then topping.  Wait for other dough to get done.

Hostma walks in.  She asks what I ate for dinner.  Cooking it I say.  Hostpa wanted me to make pizza.  “It’s late!”  she exclaims.  “I know!”, I exasperatedly exclaim.  Whoa careful Jess - the fine dance that men and woman do here, each in their specific roles, is best not pushed too much. At least not in this setting.  The male in the house wanted pizza and thus pizza is being made. 

Other dough is done, put pizza in oven to bake.  Almost there, hang in there Jess.  Make other pizza.  Spread sauce, add cheese, toping. Does the pizza look burnt yet??  That’s when I know pizza is done, when it’s almost too done.  Too often just done pizza is not quite done pizza, which is not good.  Pizza is finally done.... hooray!