To Be or Not to Be (As If It Makes a Difference to Choose)

I do believe that my cheeks and arms and legs are a bit ruddier than they were two weeks ago. And I know for a fact that I understand more Spanish and can produce more than I could on my first nervous night in Tegucigalpa some time ago. But somehow these things make no dint on the hard-coating of Americanism that encases me.
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I hear Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego barking and look up from my lesson plans to see cattle passing by our gate, a Honduran rider behind them. I think of my neighbors in VT, their calloused hands waving hello, and their voices calling their howling pets away from my horse. I think of the inconvenience of those creatures that don't obey and that have followed me home, and then I whistle and call the the boys. But the rider and cattle pass by, and the dogs do not return until the last steer lumbers by.
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In the darkness of the room I do not see the kind senora leaning forward to kiss my cheek and I want to pinch myself for forgetting the custom. I don't generally eat dairy products and I am not very hungry, but I accept the maiz with mantequilla and the yucca that she gives me. "Muy rico," I say, and I mean it, but I don't know if she believes me.
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As I walk through El Suyutal, I feel the eyes surrounding me and when my companion says softly, "Muy rapido, muy rapido," my legs are only too happy to comply. Without noticing, I am soon ahead of her. She chuckles, but in her voice I hear the tightness that I feel in my own throat.
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I ring the bell as I finish preparing "almuerza" for the rest of the team and for the two workmen. This week we have had white rice and beans and tortillas and curry and bread and so my Swiss friend and I have decided to be brave and branch out. She cooked brown rice, and I have just finished making an Asian-style stir-fry with some soy sauce I found in our little kitchen. We have already agreed that we will watch and see if any second helpings get taken, and in a half-hour we are back in the kitchen, giggling, as we look at the scanty remains of the big meal we prepared. At least this went over better than my split-pea and fresh vegetable soup...
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As I finish leading out in the final hymn of our prayer meeting, I move amongst the brothers, wishing them a good night, and then begin helping pick up the chairs. Tonight, like other nights, a brother relieves me of my stack with an almost chiding "Emily..." Well, I say to myself, that may be all the English they know--but then again, haven't I noticed that only the women from Buena Vista ever help to pick up, not the women of the village?
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To be, or not to be? I ask again. Do I continue to visit the ridge for quiet time in the mornings, despite the fact that it would not be good were I to be found out their alone? Do I carry a camera so as to preserce the experiences I encounter and at the same time advertise the fact that I might be a "turista americana?" But then again, it seems that whether I choose to be or not, there is the height, and the pale skin, and the blue eyes to betray me