Why we talk about the heat

We talk about the heat because it’s constant. We wake up every morning to its warm embrace, and fall asleep every night attempting to hide from it behind our trusty fans. The heat accompanies us to class, sits next to us on the bus, and weighs us down when we try to exercise.

We talk about the heat because it makes people laugh. Old ladies sitting on their patios chuckle as we walk by saying “adios” while wiping sweat off our foreheads. The kids at the soccer field point and grin at the gringo whose shirt is already soaked through after only one lap. A sweaty selfie never fails to entertain our friends and family back home.

We talk about the heat because it helps us explain our lives to everyone at home. We want you to know that yes, we do go to the beach all the time, but we’ve earned that refreshing ocean breeze!!

We talk about the heat because it’s no one’s fault. It’s a faceless enemy that the cautious gringo can criticize without offending anyone or being culturally ignorant. When a curious community member asks us our opinions on Colombia and won’t settle for a “I love everything about it!,” we talk about the heat. We can blame our agony and lack of productivity on the heat without an ounce of guilt, whereas questioning “costeño culture” and “different priorities” forces a deeper examination of our biases and privilege that often triggers existential dread.

We talk about the heat because it’s constant. It’s the only thing that is certain throughout our two years of service. The buses, the school schedule, our counterparts, our students, and our moods are inconsistent and unreliable. Project ideas, optimism, and fellow volunteers come and go, but the heat sticks around. Nothing is dependable except the blistering sun.

We talk about the heat because it’s easier than talking about the other things. Attempting to voice our frustrations with corrupt and inefficient partner institutions while simultaneously conveying our gratitude for this opportunity is tricky. It’s hard to explain why working less than 20 hours a week on our primary project is so exhausting. It’s easier to say, “it’s too hot to do anything but lay in my hammock.”

We talk about the heat because we’re defensive. We don’t want to contribute to the negative stereotypes about this country that has given us such a warm (!!!) welcome. We try to find a balance between venting about the daily struggles, being honest, and fulfilling Peace Corps’ Third Goal of sharing the Colombian culture with Americans. We don’t want to add “people are always late to meetings” to the short list of things people know about Colombia. So we say it’s great, we love it, and we’re learning so much, but it’s hot.

We talk about the heat because it’s relatable. We’re not sure our friends, living in apartments with friends or significant others, will understand when we say that our host families are lovely and generous people but that we sometimes feel smothered, lonely, or awkward in their homes. We’re worried you won’t really get it when we define success as more than five people showing up to class or convincing someone to save 30 cents in a wooden box. We know you want to get it, but we don’t always know how to make that happen. We know you know what it’s like to be hot, so we talk about the heat.

We talk about the heat because it’s constant. Since the moment we arrived to Colombia, it’s been here by our side. While our friends and families at home start new jobs, move apartments, get married, and go through changes with the seasons, we’re still here and we’re still hot.

We talk about the heat because while it drains our energy, it ties us to each other. Whether you are from Minnesota, Miami, or the coast of Colombia, you can agree that it’s hot here. We talk about the heat because it’s a way of bonding, of commiserating, and we all know we’ll secretly miss it when we’re no longer here.