As I climb in the tuk-tuk (a small motorized covered almost-tricycle-like thing—you know what, just google it, this is a bad description), I ask the driver “how much?” in Chichewa. He answers and then I get in. Then the familiar question comes: “How long have you been in Malawi?” “Chaka chimodzi,” I answer. One year.

I stare at the smoking mbaula with complete frustration. My watch beeps, signifying that, yes, 9am is here and, yes, I have tried to meticulously light this fire for the past hour. All I want are eggs for breakfast, but it seems like I will be drinking my coffee with charcoal smoke and an empty stomach.

I feel like my personality changes a bit when I speak in Chichewa and others have told me similar things about their own experiences speaking other languages. I make an attempt to speak in the way those around me speak and, in that way, integration and adapting to the environment around me becomes easier. Of course, I can never be Malawian. But I can try my best to understand, as an outsider, to fit in and become a member of the village and part of the extended family of community.

My transition from Peace Corps to Peace Corps Response felt natural.