They still have food and drink outside your comfort zone

I'm in Cochabamba, which besides being fun to say, is Bolivia's third largest city. I've been here less than a week, but things are coming together. I'm exploring the local markets, meeting lots of people, and, despite everyone's warnings, not getting killed.  I am involved with an organization called Sustainable Bolivia, which provides services for volunteers to multiple local organizations.
My goals here are simple: 1:learn some Spanish, 2: do some good, and, as always, 3:have some fun.
So far, goals 1& 3 are getting the most attention. I am taking Spanish classes every day for two hours. It feels like what I would imagine waterboarding to be. But that's not enough torture; to stretch even farther outside my comfort zone, I decided to live with a host family. I now have a Bolivian "mom," "brother," "sister," and 3-year-old "niece."  I may not learn Spanish, but no one can say I didn't try. I am improving bit by bit, but in the last week, I threatened to hit a busdriver (note to self: "pAgar"='to pay'; "pEgar"=to hit); and, when my 'brother' asked if I was married, I answered, "A little bit" (note to self: "casada"=married; "cansada"=tired).

The toughest thing about living with the host family is the food. Bolivians eat a lot-- five meals a day. And, it is marginally rude to not eat what they have given you. Well, my family feeds me as if I am in training as a sumo wrestler. When I slow down, the mom encourages me: "Comi! Comi!" I feel like Cool Hand Luke, just not as cool.
This week I am supposed to start work with Habitat for Humanity, which will fulfill goal number two and hopefully give me the chance to dodge out on a few meals.

In interest of  goal three, I took off yesterday to explore one of the surrounding villages. The advantage of being a minority foreigner in a friendly country is that people include you in their parties like you are honored guests, rather than backpackers scarfing free alcohol. On the cobbled streets of Tarata, I heard loud music playing behind a closed door.  For some reason, I thought I had every right to open that door and stick my head in. Apparently, I did. The senior citizens in the courtyard beyond waved me in, shared the 'Chicha' (a fermented corn drink) they were drinking, handed me a handkerchief, and asked me to dance with them. It was someone's 50th anniversary and they were all too glad we joined the party. Luckily, they weren't serving any food.