Almost all volunteers take too much stuff with them. We're Americans. We're taught that stuff makes life easier and more productive and fun. So when packing up for Asia or Africa or Latin America for two years--which seems like a long time at the outset--almost all of us pack gigantic bags. You shouldn't.

Take for example my $140 waterproof gortex L.L. Bean hiking books purchased two months before my departure for Nepal. Peace Corps had sent me a guide called "Namaste" with advice for the soon-to-be volunteer, including a list of what I should pack. Hiking boots were on the list. Nepal is a very mountainous country, and I didn't want to arrive unprepared. Where I finally arrived, however, was a village where the wealthiest 10% of people wore very cheap sneakers, the middle 50% wore flip-flops, and the poorest 40% went barefoot. My $140 hiking boots attracted a lot of stares. Every single person I met or even passed walking by stopped to ask me where I had bought them and how much they had cost. I lied about the price because it was more money than most Nepali people see in an entire year. I felt so self-conscious in these boots that I left them in Katmandu after wearing them only twice. I bought a pair of cheap sneakers. If I were to do it all over again, I would go to Nepal with one pair of good sandals.

I don't know where you'll end up. Not every Peace Corps assignment is in a place where people can't afford shoes. But some volunteers do land in the very poorest places on this earth. If you do, showing up with your Sony Discman and CD collection, your designer watch, your cameras, your ten changes of clothing, your laptop computer, and your L.L. Bean hiking boots isn't going to help you very much. Almost certainly something will get stolen. Even more certainly people will think you are a millionaire and will interact with you as such.

The Other Side Of The Coin

So five years later, when I got on the plane for Peace Corps in the Dominican Republic, I thought that I knew everything about being a volunteer. I packed light. I had a backpack the size most people would take on a day hiking trip, and my guitar. That's all that I had. Even the staff people sent by Peace Corps to Miami for our staging were kind of amazed.

The Dominican families I stayed with during training and when I got to my site were also amazed. They thought I was really poor. In the Dominican Republic it's important to have expensive clothes and to look fashionable. A lot of the volunteers in my group were rather surprised by this, because we had imagined ourselves helping impoverished people with rags for clothes. Instead, Christina who was assigned to La Romana told me her first day of work was, "Like walking into a Benneton ad." Before swearing in, I went shopping in Santo Domingo, and bought a new pair of shoes.

Economic differences affect human relationships. You know this when a kid in Mexico City follows you down the street asking for a peso. He may not even know your name, but he's interacting with you based on your wealth. People of all cultures are most comfortable and natural making friends with other people of their same economic class. When there's a large economic gap between two people, it makes true friendship more difficult to arrive at.

In my experience, both in Nepal and the Dominican Republic, host country nationals are really pleased when they can help you with something. For instance if you do not have a towel, that's actually good because then your Didi (Nepal) or Doña (D.R.) can loan you one. In poor countries there's a tradition of people taking care of each other. Especially very poor people will feel more comfortable with you if they can do something for you, if they see that you have needs. Two volunteers arrive at their sites and, feeling hungry, go buy a can of tuna fish. One volunteer has a swiss army knife. She opens the can and eats the tuna in her house. The other volunteer gets home and realizes she has no way to open the can. She crosses the street and, holding the can of tuna fish, peers in the door of her neighbor's house. A kid sees her and calls to his mother, who is cooking in the smoke-filled kitchen. The woman rushes out to see what's going on, why the American girl is in her doorway. And because the volunteer cannot remember the word for "can" or "can opener" or even "open" in this moment, she stands there speechless. But it's all right. The woman understands, or thinks she understands, that this American is so simple and unworldly, that she does not know how to open a can. She thinks it's so funny that someone would not know how to open a can. She takes the American by the hand into the smoke-filled kitchen. She sets the can on the dirt floor, takes the biggest knife in her kitchen, and begins slashing through the tin, near the rim, with heavy thrusts of the knife. When it's open, she asks the American if she has bread. The volunteer has no idea what's been said to her, so she smiles, which is the right thing to do. The woman gives her two pieces of stale bread. Fortunately, the American girl doesn't go back to her house. Once again, this young lady from California or Iowa or wherever does the right thing: she gives half the tuna to the woman and they eat crude tuna fish sandwiches together. Later the woman tells all of her neighbors that she is friends with the American girl, that the girl needs a lot of help because she didn't know how to open a can. This goes a long way.

I heard a legend about a volunteer before my time in Nepal who "went native" and would make long trips with nothing more than his toothbrush in his pocket. According to the legend, the Nepalese loved this guy. He was the most popular American in the whole country. But few Americans are really up for hiking two days with nothing more than a toothbrush. I am not up for it. Try to find a balance.