A fiery morning

When we first arrived in Peru, the Peace Corps doctors gave each of us one of these bracelets, and promised that if we wore it, we’d never get diarrhea. While that is so far from true it’s not even funny, I do like to think that the bracelet holds a more important talisman-like power: making sure we don’t die. You may laugh, but the reality is that Peace Corps life comes with a set of risks that I simply wouldn’t face in America: narrow curvy mountain roads sped around by worn-out buses and careless drivers that result in hundreds of accidents every year; sticking out as a clearly-foreign female target for robberies, assaults or worse in the big cities; living three+ hours from the nearest capable medical attention in an emergency; the list goes on. So while it may seem silly, a good-luck bracelet provides a little comfort, greatly helped by always paying a little more attention to my danger-radar than I would in the States.

This morning, me and the bracelet had our first really close call: my family’s gas stove exploded while I was trying to cook breakfast. Firstly, I’m okay! A little burned, a little charred, and quite shaken, but nothing that time won’t heal – luckily. Now for the story: I came downstairs to make tea as usual. I noticed that one of the burner knobs was open, but that there was no flame. Since our household-helper/maid/cook was already downstairs, I figured she’d turned on the stove to cook and then hadn’t noticed when the gas had run out (this wasn’t unusual - every so often the gas barrel runs out of gas and we have to call for a replacement). I turned the knob off, and since I didn’t smell gas, thought nothing of it. Just in case there was any fuel left, I decided to try one of the other burners, since I really wanted to cook some eggs. So I opened the burner’s knob, lit the match, and WHOOSH! Two of the burners let out a wave of flames, and the cupboard beneath the stove burst open from the force of the huge fiery gas that rushed out of it. I screamed, both from fear and from the heat, quickly reached to close the knob, and ran the heck out of the kitchen.

A quick check confirmed that I was not in any way on fire, but the front of my clothes felt burnt, parts of my skin felt a bit raw, and I could tell my hair had gotten singed. But in those first minutes (probably more like half hour), what I mostly felt was shock, shaking and crying. I called the Peace Corps doctors, who told me to calm down, try and focus on where I might be burnt, and run those parts under cold water. As time wore on, pain revealed itself and I realized the back of my left hand and fingers, and my left shin were significantly burned (but no blisters; only first degree). A look in the mirror showed that my eyelashes and eyebrows had lost 2/3 of their previous length, and the remaining stubs felt crispy and stiff. My hair, also burnt on the front part of both sides, felt the same, and pieces fell out when I touched them. But thankfully, that was it! No other parts of my skin or face were burnt, and if you didn't look closely, you might not even notice my eyelashes. I'm sure you, as I am, are capable of imagining all the myriad ways this situation could have ended exponentially worse. It turns out the gas burner had been left open all night - I'm lucky the whole room didn't explode, and that most of the gas seemed to have bottled up in just the cabinet. I am incredibly thankful to have escaped basically unharmed, but I know my singed hairs will serve as a reminder to keep my guard up for these last six months - you never know what Peru's going to throw at you next!