6th Avenue Heartache

The McDonald’s on 6th Avenue in Zone 10 of the capital should promote itself with the slogan, “Where Peace Corps Comes To Poo.” I am not quite sure if it would increase patronage (and if written in English the odds of it hurting business would be slim also), but it would definitely highlight the role this American fast food behemoth plays in the lives of PCVs in Guatemala.

Unbeknownst to the owners and employees of this particular McDonald’s, every Peace Corps Volunteer who enters the establishment does so with one goal on his/her mind: stimulate a bowel movement in order to fill a little paper cup with feces. You see this Home of the Big Mac unfortunately (perhaps for them, but fortunately for us) happens to be adjacent to the lab that is connected to the clinic where all Peace Corps Volunteers have to do their mid-service and close-of-service medical exams. Whether it is to wait out stage fright in a comforting familiar environment or to down some cups of black coffee or a Frosty (both time tested methods) for some last minute stimulation to get the system working, if you see a volunteer in the 6th Avenue McDonald’s, you can be certain what he/she is about to do there.

And because this is Peace Corps and rumors travel faster around the country than through a small town high school (I know, I attended one), there are legends that have emerged from this rite of passage every volunteer has to endure. I will share with you my favorite: There was a volunteer (his name will not be used as to allow him to distance himself from the stupidity of his actions) who was not keen on defecating in a cup held in his own hand, lest he should miss his target. Instead he made a large pallet of paper towels in the stall and proceeded to do his business on the floor. He then scooped up his excrement and transferred it into the provided cup. The visual image of this process is amusing, but I question his methods. To me it seems like his system leaves much larger margin for error and unwanted touching. But to each his own.

You might be asking yourself, “Why does she feel the need to write about this?” Well, perhaps, it is because mixed in with our lofty discussions about how we are each individually saving the world, Peace Corps volunteers like to talk about poo. Maybe “like” isn’t the most apt word, but given the havoc Guatemala has wreaked on many a volunteer’s intestinal track, the subject does make its way into a fair share of after dinner conversations. But the real reason for this post is the fact that I just got to experience the joy of mid-service medical exams in the middle of July.

I had not been “fearing” mid-service meds per say, but I was a little anxious to get them over with. In every group usually one or two people contract Tuberculosis within their first year of service, and I was really hoping not to be among the chosen few (as heartless as it may seem, we actually had bets going on who would end up with TB—the overwhelming majority of my group’s money was on Felipe, who had already had his fair share of digestive problems and even went through a bout of very painful dengue fever). Also given that I have ignored every piece of advice provided by the medical officers during training—I have never washed a piece of fruit or vegetable, and I frequently enjoy food made in the street—I was kind of expecting to discover a family of amoebas and/or parasites happily residing in my stomach. But nothing was found. No TB. No weird tropical diseases. No parasites. No amoebas. No nothing. After three days of pooping in cups, giving a blood sample, examining my teeth, checking for Tuberculosis, and being poked and prodded I was given a clean bill of health.

The only minor hiccup in my otherwise perfect health was the surprising revelation I received at the dentist’s office. Apparently between the ages of 6 and 12, I overdosed on fluoride leaving my teeth “bien protegido,” but with small white stains (too bad I didn’t really OD staining all of my teeth a brilliant white). The fluoride vitamins we took daily at home were cherry flavored, and maybe on occasion I would eat my brothers’ when they didn’t want them and perhaps every once and a while I would double dip with the fluoride at school (everybody was doing it) even though I was not supposed to, but regardless, I am placing the full culpability of my white stains on my parents. Parents should warn their children of the dangers of over-flouriding, and unfortunately, mine did not. At that age I did not have the mental capabilities to be making informed decisions about my drug regimen. I thought fluoride was like Vitamin C—the more the better. But alas 26 years and the advice of a Guatemalan dentist later, I have discovered the folly in my youthful ways…and I only have my parents to blame.

(Mom and Dad you know that I love you, and I am just kidding. The dentist also said that I had very nice straight teeth, which is the direct result of all the money you poured into them during my youth. Thank you.)