Batteries

As the K8s are about to arrive and join Peace Corps Cambodia, we've begun the Training of Trainers for our Language and Cross-Cultural Facilitators. In preparing one of my sessions, I came across this Peace Corps story in the book Culture Matters; this story, it seems to me, embodies the beauty and potential of Peace Corps' goals of cultural exchange and relationship building:

I hadn't timed it right. The village I had to get to was still an hour away when night fell. Walking in the dark was a nuisance; also, it had been raining since early afternoon. Worst of all, as I leaned against the wall of the chauntara and felt the blessed release from the weight of my backpack, I discovered my flashlight batteries were dead. The hour ahead was shaping up poorly.

As I stood there in the rain, my glasses fogged, drinking from my water bottle, an old woman came around the bend, bent over under a stack of firewood. She headed for the chauntara, her eyes down, and nearly walked into me, looking up suddenly when she saw my feet. 'Namaste,' she said, shifting her load onto the wall. 'Kaha jaane?'
'To the village,' I said.
'Tonight? It's dark and your shirt is wet.' Then, more urgently, 'You're the American, aren't you?
'My son is in America,' she said. She didn't look like the type whose son would be in America. 'He joined the army, the Gurkhas, and they sent him there for training. Three months ago. He's a country boy. I worry. You need some tea before you go on.'
After ten minutes, we were at her small house beside the trail. She doffed the firewood and turned to me, 'Take off your shirt.' I looked surprised. 'I'll dry it by the fire in the kitchen. Put on this blanket.'
A few minutes later she came out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea, swept a hapless chicken off the table, and pulled up a bench for me. The tea worked wonders, bringing back my courage for the walk ahead. She offered me food, too, but I declined, explaining that I didn't want to be on the trail too late at night. 'It's OK,' she said. 'You have a flashlight.'
She fetched my shirt. I put it on, revived by the warmth against my skin, and went outside to hoist my pack. I turned to thank her. 'Switch on your flashlight,' she told me.

'The batteries are dead.' She went inside and came back with two batteries, a considerable gift for someone of her means.
'I couldn't,' I said. 'Besides, I know the trail.'
'Take them.' She smiled, showing great gaps where teeth had once been.
'You've been very kind to me,' I said.
'My son is in America,' she said. 'Some day, on the trail, he will be cold and wet. Maybe a mother in your land will help him.'