Bee box.

Monica gave me a kiss on my cheek and handed over the flashlight.

Pituma, goodnight I said, cringing a bit from the pain but not letting it show.

Yasorupai, thanks for your help, she replied.

Yasorupai a nde I responded, mixing Chimeos two languages to make both of us laugh.

While I feigned this nonchalance on the outside, inside I was thinking one thing: thank gosh that’s over. I had just faced my biggest and only real fear in Chimeo- the forest at night. We had to take a bee box from its spot in my yard to a new home about a half of a mile into the woods. I don’t even like walking to the bathroom at night for fear of snakes, and now I had to trudge through the woods on a moonless night. I had dreaded the chore, but it was absolutely necessary to move the box for my safety and that of the neighbors and their many, many kids. Due to the boxes, I couldn’t clear the area around it of tall grasses without being stung. Due to the tall grass, cows constantly enter my yard. These cows could, in a worst-case scenario, topple the bee boxes and send thousands of angry bees stinging up and down the barrio. It had to go.

Before heading into the woods, I had prepared myself. Flashlight. Bee suit. High boots. Smoker. Most importantly, Enrique and Monica to lead the way. Check check check. 30 minutes later, I hobbled out of the woods and bid Pituma to Enrique and Monica. Our mission had been completed, and without a single bee sting or snake bite. The pressure from my heavy boots, however, had brought the injury to my attention- I was pretty sure my big toe was broken or fractured. I peeled off the boot and sock to reveal a fat big toe with a tell-tale purple line running across it. Was I trampled by a cow? Had a full bee box fallen on my foot? Worse: I had danced.

Flashback to three days earlier. Forty of Santa Cruz’s volunteers gathered at a casa del campo with a pool and a view to celebrate Thanksgiving. We swam, played Frisbee and soccer, and finally got around to cooking at about 6 pm. Dinner was followed by an all-nighter of cards, music and, for some more than others, dancing. True to form, I was part of the some. Around 3 am, during a particularly rousing tune by Os Tribalistas, I took a bad landing on the uneven concrete and tumbled to the ground. Luckily, only one person saw. Unluckily, I couldn’t hide my bloody toe and gimpy stride for long. By sun up my wrist and foot were fatter than they had been at sun down, and my knee was purple and scraped.

Fast forward to tonight, Sunday. I ask myself how this can be- I can carry a box of killer bees through a forest with venomous snakes, at night, unscathed. I cannot, however, dance safely. I realize that all of the injuries and illnesses Ive suffered since arriving in Bolivia 10 months ago are along the same vein. Dog bite? By a fluffy black one named “Doll”, while buying toilet paper after computer class. Second degree facial burns? While steaming broccoli. Heat exhaustion? While weeding in the yard. Exotic diseases? Not malaria or dengue, but Shingles.

Perhaps my constant preoccupation with real dangers (Snakes! Scorpions! Spiders! Wiiiild Cat! Killer Bees! Tropical diseases!) distracts me, rendering me accident prone in the Bolivian context? Perhaps this is my true nature showing through? A stroke of bad luck? Either way, Ive learned that its silly to fear those BIG Peace Corps fears- illness, accidents, etc. The PC trains us well to mitigate the possibility of these biggies. It’s the little things, the broccoli fires and the careless dancing that grab you when you least expect it. Nor does this mean Im going to stop eating broccoli or dancing or using the bathroom at night. One thing that important to recognize when observing the PC experience from the outside is this: its just life. It is just as much doing laundry as it is building libraries. Its dangers, let downs, and successes fall into line with the more mediocre aspects of service.