The Gringo: A Memoir Read Free Page A

candy without taking off the wrapper. A few months down the road, after training ended, he told me with a shrug that he was a new father.
    During the initial days, the head training manager informed us that during our free time (which was either weekends or the few hours after training sessions ended each day), we were not allowed to congregate in groups of more than six. In addition to that rule, she explained that we’d have to be on the bus back to our homestays immediately after training sessions ended, which equated to a curfew of about 6:15 p.m. If we thought we could meet up with other volunteers at the bars or, god forbid, do so in groups of greater than six, we were sorely mistaken.

    ALSO NEAR THE BEGINNING OF training, we got our inaugural visit from Nurse Nancy, head of the Peace Corps Ecuador medical office. Nurse Nancy was a rail-thin blonde who chain-smoked and ate lunch every day at the Quito McDonald’s. She had a high-pitched voice and looked at us with wide-eyed, faux enthusiasm. From our vantage point, enthusiasm was hard to come by when the topic was a (stomach-turning) STD slideshow or a speech on the possibilities of stomach viruses and intestinal worms.
    About a month later, she showed us a video interview with a woman who’d been raped the night of her swearing in as a volunteer in Quito. Following that was an ’80s-era documentary featuring a half-dozen volunteers who’d contracted HIV/AIDS during their services. It was unsettling. Each session ended with Nurse Nancy clapping her hands, shining a spooky smile, and saying, “Are we excited or what!”
    Early on, she conducted one-on-one interviews to get to know each of us personally. When my turn came, I went over and sat next to her on a bench outside the Quonset hut–looking building where our training sessions took place.
    “So, how we doin’?” she said.
    “I’m fine, thank you,” I said. For some reason, every time I met new Peace Corps personnel, I felt compelled to come across as well as possible, as if I were still in the interview process.
    Nurse Nancy then asked me a battery of questions, such as how I was feeling, how I dealt with stress, and if I was “gay, straight, or other , hehehehe.”
    We arrived at what I assume was the auxiliary portion of the get-to-know-each-other interview, and Nurse Nancy scrolled her finger down the page as if she were looking over the highlights of an intelligence briefing for the real meat of the information.
    “Well, well, well, I see here it says you’ve had some counseling in the past,” she said. Even though it was clearly information I had provided them, I couldn’t help but sense a bit of a gotcha tone.
    “Yes,” I said. “Nearly five years ago.”
    “Is there anything you’d like to talk about with me?” she asked.
    “No, that’s okay.”
    That wasn’t all. Nurse Nancy’s finger scrolled some more. Then it flipped over to the second page, and then flipped again back to the first too quickly for me to see what was there.
    “It also says here you’ve had some dealings with depression,” she began. I raised my eyebrows in anticipation of the next words that could possibly come out of her mouth. “You know,” she said, “we have options for counseling and that sort of thing, so you can always tell us what’s going on.”
    “That sounds nice,” I said. And she nearly interrupted me with what was on the tip of her tongue.
    “Because, you know,” said Nurse Nancy, “we don’t want you out there in your site in the middle of nowhere getting all depressed and then thinking to yourself, ‘Hey—there’s a tree branch, I think I’ll go hang myself on it!’” She let out something between a giggle and a hiccup and managed to smile.
    I just looked at her.
    “You know,” she said.
    Possibly sensing the awkwardness in the air—but probably not—Nurse Nancy said a few moments later, “And, well, since you’ve had some, uh, problems , in this whole area, we’re