Lessons Continued

Hello! About blogging once a week…yeah…Anyways, I’m still here, happy and healthy. Not a day goes by without a funny/ridiculous/awkward situation that teaches me a lesson about Ecuador. I decided to add on to the list of lessons that I learned at the market back in the sierra with my ex-host mother, with some experiences that I have learned from here on the coast.

Lesson Five: Beware the “Family Effect.”
In the U.S., its common to live in the same general part of the country as your family. All of my close family, for example, are spread around the state of Minnesota. In Ecuador, people don’t tend to move more than a few blocks away from their immediate family members. With the exception of the one or two relatives that decide to move to Spain or the U.S. to live and work, most of the family will stick around the same neighborhood, and if not, the same town. This phenomenon started to become more apparent to me as I would hear comments like, “Hey, I heard you were at my grandma’s house last week,” “Someone told me you met my nephew!” and “That was my brother’s foot you stepped on at the store yesterday,” on a daily basis. The “family effect” as I like to call it, creates an everybody-knows-your-name atmosphere and can make a town of 7,000, feel like a town of 17.
Sometimes the “family effect” can work to your advantage. It makes it easy to relay messages, borrow things, and make connections in the community. However, while the “family effect” can often make life easier, it has it’s obvious disadvantages. For example, your neighbor’s brother was the one who drove you home the other night when it got to dark to walk, but he was also the one who saw you flip the bird to the annoying middle-aged guy with a mullet down the road who makes a point to catcall every time you walk by. (Just an example.) The other day I was apartment hunting as our mandatory three months with a host family are coming to an end. I was sitting outside chatting with my potential landlady when a guy my age who has been on my case about a date since the moment I got here came up to say hello. I gave him short, cold answers like I usually do, and eventually he took the hint and left.
“You know him?” The landlady asked me.
“I mean, he’s just this guy who won’t stop trying to ask me out. He kept asking for my number, and I finally just gave him the wrong one.” I snickered at my cleverness.
“He actually really gets on my nerves,” I continued, “and I don’t want to get to know him.” I confided in my new friend.
“That’s my son.”
Whoops.
“Uh…Oh! Ha ha. Uh…ha. Well you know, I uh…I’m just not looking to date right now…? Ha ha. You know?”
The landlady did not know.
“How about this weather?!”
Needless to say, I did not choose to live in that apartment.

Lesson Six: Don’t Take it Personal.
A couple of my friends who are teachers in the States expressed to me an interest in starting a correspondence with some of my classes here. That is, my children here would draw a name of one of the students from the U.S. and the two of them would become pen pals. Since sending one, normal-sized letter from Ecuador to the U.S. costs between two to four dollars, snail mailing a classroom’s worth of letters is out of the question. I decided to type up all of the kids’ letters on my computer in order to later send them all via email. While typing the letters and reading what the kids had written, I came across one little girl’s letter that cracked me up:

Hello! My name is Sarita and I am 12 years old. I was born in 1997. My skin is the color of cinnamon and I am a little chubby. My hair and eyes are brown. My favorite food is chicken and rice and my favorite subject in school is English. My favorite outfit is a pair of shorts with a blue shirt. What color are you?


I not only like this letter because I know exactly which outfit she is talking about, but also because its a great example of a major difference between Ecuadorian and U.S. culture. Whereas we are taught to dance around certain physical characteristics when describing ourselves or others, Ecuadorians feel very comfortable with describing someone as Black, White, fat, skinny, etc. I sometimes like to imagine how I would have reacted had someone in Northern Minnesota greeted me with a “what’s up Black girl?!” or a “how’s it going, chubby?!” But in Ecuador, terms such as “negrito/a” (black), “morenito/a” (dark-skinned), and “gordito/a” (chubby), are seen as terms of endearment and are a part of everyday conversation. Though hard at times, I have to remind myself not to take it personal.
The other night I was sitting around the house when a familiar voice entered my head. “Eiiiiiiiiik…have you had any ICE CREAM todaaaaaaay?” I tried to tell the voice to shut up, but I should know better by now. The voice will not stop nagging me until I get up and get it some ice cream. I had never been an ice cream fanatic in the States, but 15 cent, homemade ice cream cups at every corner have a way of changing that. I walked down the street to my neighbor Lorenza’s house, who is the sweetest old woman with the best ice cream cups in San Vicente. “Thaaaat’s it,” the voice in my head said, “keeeeeep walkin.” Before I even had a chance to make my request, Lorenza got up out of her chair and headed for the freezer. I smiled as she handed me my favorite flavor - rum with raisins. “Yessssssss.” My neighbor sat back down in her chair as I enjoyed my ice cream cup.
“How are you, Jennifer?”
“I’m good! How are you doing?”
“Good as well. You are looking much fatter!”
“…I am?”
“Oh yes. I was talking about it with my husband today. You are fatter than when you arrived here.”
I held my ice cream with one hand, and shook my fist at the voice in my head with the other.
"Oh, ha ha."
I smiled, finished my ice cream, and canceled all of the ice cream missions the voice in my head had planned for the rest of the week.

Lesson Seven: Learn to Dance.
As soon as Ecuadorian children leave the womb, that is, before the umbilical cord is cut, before their fingers and toes are counted, and before their little pulse is checked, one of the nurses comes in with a straight face, a boom box, and a salsa tape, and the newborn is taught to dance. Men, women, boys, girls, old, young, the demographic doesn’t matter. Everyone knows how to dance and if you don’t know how to dance or at least fake it really well, you’re kind of a really big loser. The first time I realized that my Latin dancing skills were subpar was about two months ago when I went up to one of my friend’s site about 2 hours away. The majority, if not all of the towns, villages, and cities in Ecuador set aside 3 or 4 days a year to celebrate becoming a town, city, etc. Think state fair. Now replace the corn dogs with chicken empanadas and the country music with kumbia, bachata, and/or salsa. Cancel school. Insert six-hour dance party. The volunteer´s town was just starting it’s fiestas, and I, along with 4 other volunteers, went up for the party. Though my plan was to just sit there, chat, and watch other people dance, I soon realized that when an Ecuadorian man asks you to dance and you say “No, thank you,” they hear, “Ask me again!” I eventually gave in and even though I didn’t really know what I was doing, I looked at the 8-year-olds on the dance floor and thought, “how hard can it be?” My dance partner was a 45ish, chubby man who was shorter than me. I felt that all of these things would work to my advantage. I was wrong. My friend, we’ll call him Manuel, lead me out to the dance floor and started to move his hips in a way that I thought only Shakira was capable of. Manuel’s arms moved like he was a cool person who had decided to go for a run but didn’t really want to sweat. I watched his feet, his serious expression, and his Lazy Susan hips, when I realized that I wasn’t dancing back. Come on Eik, you have rhythm. Dance. Trying not to appear as overwhelmed as I felt, I put on my best I’m-too-cool-for-this face, swung my arms, and shuffled my feet from side to side. I was concentrating hard on a) keeping with the music and b) not being out-danced by someone who was old enough to be my father, when Manuel felt that we should have a conversation.
“SO, WHERE ARE YOU FROM?” He shouted over the music.
Normally decent at multitasking, something about the complexity of his question threw me off.
“WHAT?” I continued to shuffle my feet.
“WHERE. ARE. YOU. FROM!”
Hey! This is no time for questions! Concentrate!
“THE UNITED STATES!”
“AH! WHAT BRINGS YOU TO ECUADOR?”
Shoot. I thought the first question was tough. Hmmm…how can I answer in one word? Peace Corps? No, that requires lots of explanation. And its not one word. Family? Now that’s just a lie.
Hey! Keep dancing!
“WORK!!” I yelled as I tried to keep up with my dance partner.
“I SEE!”
Manuel gave a fancy twirl not missing a single beat of the music. His twirl made me nervous. Was I suppose to twirl?
Where is your rhythm!?
“MOVE YOUR HIPS!”
“HUH?”
“YOUR HIPS!! MOVE YOUR HIPS!!” My partner demonstrated by over exaggerating the movement in his hips.
Dang it. This guy was on to me. I thought I was moving my hips.
Well what the heck!? Do what the man says!
I tried to loosen my hips and move like Manuel, but probably looked more like someone with a bad ankle doing the Macarena. Then, as if somebody above could no longer bear to see me suffer, the song ended. I let out an audible sigh of relief. Manuel thanked me for the dance and I returned to our table frustrated that not a single college dance party had prepared me for what I had just experienced. I made a silent note to self: learn to dance.



On another note, there are mysterious animal droppings appearing in my room (pictured below) and I am giving YOU the chance to play detective!! For about a week now I have woken up to weird, Rice Crispy-like droppings on the spare bed in my room. I wikipediaed bat guano and when my droppings and those pictures didn’t match up, I was stumped. I’m not as worried about the animal in my room as I am sick of cleaning up poop every morning. The question is: (que game show music) WHAT KIND OF POOP IS IT?! Bird? Mouse? Monkey? Take a guess!! Join the contest!! The winner will receive an all expense paid trip to visit Yours Truly here in Ecuador**!! So come on kids! Take a stab at it! What do you have to lose?

UPCOMING EVENTS:
Saturday November 21st: Move in day! New apartment! Holler.
Thursday, November 26th: Thanksgiving dinner with PCVs at Ambassador´s residence.

LOVE!

**Airfare not included

Culture Shock

I have never had the urge to kill an animal. Until last night.

It was about 2 a.m. and I had just drifted off to sleep when a dog decided to camp out right outside my window and bark. No, not bark, howl. I should mention here that lately I have had some trouble sleeping. And by lately, I mean the past two months. It could be my roommate’s snoring, it could be the constantly barking street dogs, or it could be the sensation that there are insects crawling on me all night. My best guess would be D) all of the above. So when I finally do fall asleep and someone or thing has the nerve to wake me up, its not pretty. I tossed in bed for about another half hour listening to the dog bark. I fantasized about busting out the front door, grabbing some large rocks off of the road and taking care of the dog Old Testament style, when it stopped. Silence. I laid there for a moment wondering if the dog was trying to trick me. Nothing. I laughed at how angry I almost got and closed my eyes to sleep.

“WOOF.”

Without thinking, I sprung up out of bed and headed for my window. I whipped it open and spotted the dog. He was a large brownish-grey shaggy mutt and he sat comfortably on the dirt road barking at something far away. I didn’t care what he was barking at. He was keeping me up and now he had to pay. I tore through my room looking for something I could throw at this dog (there is no screen on the window, hence the mosquito issue), when I saw them - pens. No, not the ones you sent me, mom. And not the ones you send me either, Jess. This was a pack of 10 pens that I had proudly bought at the 50 cent store only to find out later that not a single one of them worked. I guess I should have seen that coming. Anyways, the point is I thought I had wasted 50 cents - until now. I grabbed the pens, returned to my window and took aim at the dog. By about pen #6 I think I had actually only hit the dog once. Alarmed at first, the dog got up to leave. But when he realized he was in no actually danger, he sniffed each one of the pens to make sure that they weren’t food, laughed at me, and slowly walked away. I sat there with a scowl on my face and empty pen package clutched in my fist, muttering obscenities at a dog that was now hundreds of feet away. I waited a minute for my heart rate to slow and crawled back into bed.

They say that when somebody enters a new culture he or she goes through a series of phases before becoming comfortable with the new norms and expectations. I would like to think that my recent mood swings, lack of sleep, and sometimes erratic behavior are due to a minor, passing case of culture shock. Let me explain.

The Honeymoon Phase.
During the first phase of culture shock, everything about the new culture seems fun, romantic, and interesting. This was back when I was excited about Ecuadorian food, I laughed about their lack of punctuality, and smiled when people stared at me as I walked down the street. It didn’t take too long, however, for Ecuador to start to lose its bright and shiny appeal.

The Negotiation Phase.
I feel like they call this phase the “negotiation” phase because convincing yourself not to jump on the next plane back to the States takes some negotiation. I think this phase could be more appropriately called the “why does everything about this country get on my nerves” phase. Things that used to be funny become annoying. Things that were once interesting, become annoying. And things that you used to find amusing become…how can I put this…? Annoying. This phase is the shock. I have plenty to say about the negotiation phase.

The men here often act like pubescent teenage boys. When I (or any of the female volunteers at that) walk down the street here a constant “tsssst, tssssst, tsssst,” sound follows me. The hissing is often accompanied by a catcall or similar type of inappropriate comment. And while I know that my Old Navy flip flops, baggy jeans (by Ecuadorian standards of course), t-shirt, and four-month-old extensions are pretty sexy, c’mon guys, they’re not THAT sexy. The most bothersome place to walk in my town is a half-block strip right by a couple of the offices that I work at. I call this strip “the gauntlet” because its where all of the taxi and tricimoto drivers park and wait for customers.

There is never a dull moment walking through the gauntlet. Now, I have to add here for my parents’ and grandfather’s sake that though this situation can be really irritating, I don’t feel as though I am in danger. While the men here can be rude, most abide by national unwritten “look but don’t touch policy.” It kind of has the same effect on a person that a little kid does when he waves his hands half an inch from your face saying, “I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you.” That said, I have to say that all Ecuadorian men do not fall into this category. In fact, I happen to know some very nice ones. Its just that the jerks really stick out.

While I am on the subject of unwanted attention, I have to mention that I don’t only receive it from the men. No, the women and children of San Vicente also take part in the long once-overs and stares. At first, it wasn’t that big of a deal to me. When people stared, I just smiled or said hello. (Both if I was in a really good mood). But my smiles and greetings weren’t returned as often as I thought they should be. Okay, so you know when you are running around, really busy, with a lot on your mind and you pass somebody you know? They smile at you and in your mind you smile back. But later, when you think about it you aren’t sure if you actually smiled or if you just thought about it? You feel bad, right? Well, I think Ecuadorians do that a lot. Except the only thing they are busy with is staring at you. And I don’t think that they feel too bad later about not smiling. I honestly wonder sometimes if I were standing next to an opera-singing zoo animal who would get more attention. Right, I’m foreign. I get that. And I’m different-looking. I get that too. But, its been two months people; maybe its time to get over it? I always appreciate when the uncomfortable stares are followed by a question. Such as, “how’d you get your hair like that,” “are you new here?” or “where are you from?” I would even welcome a, “hey, just wondering, why are you so weird?” But the silent, long stares are getting old. Fast.

Organization is not really Ecuador’s forte. Nor is efficiency at that. For example, the concept of the line doesn’t really exist here. When you walk into a crowded shop you push your way towards the front and try to distract the already busy cashiers by talking to them until they give up and help you. Even then there are 4 people behind you who are attempting to do the same. I realized this for the first time a while back when a 12 year old girl who had walked in about 7 minutes after me had her produce and was out the door while I still waited for somebody to help me. I thought that I had just come across some really rude customers before I realized that’s just how its done. This will take some getting used to.

Another thing that will take getting used to is Ecuador’s philosophy when it comes to discipline. I think that I noticed this for the first time when I was back with my old host family and Rubi (God love her) would throw daily fits with no consequences. I have noticed similar patterns on the coast with my family here. If the 3 year old wants something and is persistent enough, she gets it. If she doesn’t like what’s for dinner and causes a big enough scene, she gets something else. Today, the one-and-a-half year old (God love her) bit me. Hard. Right in front of her mother. In fact, her mother was holding her at the time. I whipped my arm away and the mother just laughed telling the baby “we don’t do that.” Somehow I failed to see the humor in it. We later talked about how I was third one the baby had bitten that day. And hey, I don’t blame her. If I were a baby and my mom laughed every time I bit someone, I’d bite anyone that got close enough too.
Pictured: Dominica, the teething one-year-old



Once, I was in my oldest English class, which is kids in their last year of high school so about 16ish years old. There are four boys in that class who are seriously awful. On this particular day they decided to take every one’s backpacks and hide them outside. When they came back they were carrying empty cake boxes from who-knows-where and began to throw them at their classmates, who got a little angry. Chaos erupted, and English class became a free-for-all. One of the other teachers came in and asked what was going on. I told her, and when she said that she was going to get the principal I tried hard to hide the smirk on my face. When the principal came in I told him what the boys had been up to and waited for him to give it to them. The boys, denied any wrongdoing to which the principal said, “alright, just try a little harder to behave next time.” I think my jaw actually hit the floor.

I could probably go on for awhile longer about things that I can’t accept right now, but I think you get the idea. The frustrating thing about this is that the littlest thing can A) set me off B) ruin my day or C) both. When locals ask me how I’m doing and I tell them about the things that have been hard for me to adapt to, I often get the “wow, foreigners are sooo sensitive” look. This makes sense because things that may be out of the ordinary for me, are very commonplace for them. And according to this culture shock thing, eventually these difficulties will no longer be issues for me either. The more I think about it, things are already headed that way.

The Acceptance Phase.
I can already see myself doing things that upon arriving I thought were kind of silly. I drink juice out of a bag, I eat green, unripe mangoes with salt and pepper, I claim to be cold when its 75 degrees out and I hate to say this but I even get into bad Ecuadorian soap operas. On one hand, part of me doesn’t want to accept certain aspects of Ecuadorian culture. On the other hand, I will probably sleep better, be less moody, and more effective as a volunteer when certain things no longer phase me.

In an attempt to balance out the tone of this blog, I would like to list the things that I really enjoy about Ecuador so far:
1) Juice. I’m a juice fanatic. Here, I have access to more kinds of fresh juice than you could imagine.
2) Juice boxes. Its perfectly acceptable for grown adults to drink out of juice boxes, so in that aspect I fit in well.
3) Climate. Where I live its never too cold.
4) The US Dollar. Holler.
5) Cheap movies.
6) The diverse landscape. You can see the Amazon, the Andes, and the Pacific in one country, all in a matter of days.


Oh, and I had a few requests for a wish list. And by a few, I mean one. Here ya go Heather!
- crayons
- markers (regular and dry erase)
- stickers
- hard candies that can travel (like jolly ranchers)
- cool pencils (Hannah Montana, High school musical, etc)
- coloring books
Those are things that the kids would like. What kinds of things would I like, you ask?
- books (I’m not picky)
- burned CDs of good new music
- sleeping pills (just kidding.) (sort of.)
- powdered lemonade
- celeb magazines (People, etc.)
- gum (Stride or Orbitz)
- pictures
- anything
- a letter (I’ll write back!)
- love
- I just like to get mail

Addy is in the "about me" section on the top right of the page. Make sure if you send anything is via regular US mail, under 4 lbs, and certified not ecomienda. Thanks!

Happy birthday Mom, Heather, Wheat, and Jakie.

Carlitos

So I walk into the house on Sunday night after a great afternoon of The Real World Cancun (stop judging me) and Skype, to find Aguchita and a few of her friends gathered around the table enjoying their weekly game of cards. We all made small talk as I headed for the refrigerator looking for something to hold me over until dinner. I grabbed three mini-mangos (that’s not what they are really called, I just call them that because they are fun-sized) and stood by the counter to eat them. I was working on mini-mango number three when a baseball-sized black object nearly hit me in the head. I looked up annoyed to see a small bird fly towards the far wall in the living room. It had entered through the front door (which is almost always left open) and now struggled to find its way out of the house. The bird swooped in a panic as it bumped into doors and walls. Aguchita and her friends didn’t look up from their card game.

“Umm…Aguchita? Yeah…theres a bird in the house.”

After taking a few seconds to finish drawing and discarding, Aguchita barely turned her head to look at the bird.

“That’s not a bird, it’s a bat.” She said flatly, returning to her game.

I waited for the plan as to how we were going to get it out of the house, but nobody said anything. I waited for Aguchita to put the cards down and grab a broom, but she must have had a really good hand. I ducked a couple times as I waited for somebody to be as alarmed about the animal in the house as I was, but it was as if I had informed them that there was a fly or a moth in the living room. No big deal. I wouldn’t have been as concerned about the bat as I was, but I had a feeling that this nervous bat was going to somehow make its way into my room. I could just feel it. I watched as the bat discovered the gap in between the wall and the ceiling and crawled into one of the extra rooms of the house. My heart was still racing but the room was two away from mine so I felt pretty safe. I told Aguchita where the bat had gone and she told me that it would probably find its way outside from there, but that I should turn on the lights in the room just to be sure it would leave. I flipped the lights on in the room that the bat was in and ran to turn mine on too - just to be safe.

After dinner I went into my room and crawled into my bed to finish the movie I had started the day before. I laid in bed with my laptop in my lap when I heard a little squeak off somewhere in the room. I wrote it off to the geckos on the walls when I heard the noise again. I looked up to the corner of my mosquito net to find the source of the squeaking. My friend the bat, the man of the hour, Mr. Nervous Circles Around the Living Room himself, had nestled himself in the corner of my mosquito net four feet away from my head. He glared at me with a smirk as if to say, “thought I couldn’t make it to your room, huh?” I will spare you the words that came out of my mouth next, but I will say that my heart stopped for a second. I knew that as soon as I moved my little visitor would feel threatened and begin swooping around my mosquito net, which would surely kill me or at least leave me seriously injured. Because that’s why humans avoid bats - we don’t want to be swooped to death. I set my laptop aside and slowly began to inch towards the end of the bed on my back, not taking my eyes off of the bat. He stared back, confident in his decision to enter my net, knowing that I would be the first one to retreat. When I finally made it close enough to the entrance of my net, I slowly lifted the nylon and slithered my way down out of my bed and onto the floor. I stood up and realized that I hadn‘t taken a breath in like two minutes. I walked into the living room anxious to tell my heartbreaking story to anyone who would listen. Aguchita was in the shower, but I found her cousin Sarita in Aguchita’s bedroom.

Pictured: Sarita, my host aunt and partner in bat extermination

“That bat is in my mosquito net.”

“What bat?”

“The bat that was flying around here earlier. Its in my mosquito net and it looked at me.”

“No. Bats can’t get into those nets, that’s why we use them. Its probably just a big moth.”

Yeah Sarita, it’s a moth. Silly me always mistaking moths for bats.

“No, I am sure it’s a bat. Please come and look.”

Sarita followed me into my room. I stood in the doorway and told her to stick her head into my net and look up.

“Oh my goodness! That is a bat!”

“Yeah! How do I get it out?” I pleaded, in my best attempt of the Ecuadorian whine.

Minutes later Sarita and I entered my room again, each of us with a broom in hand. I don’t think that either of us had a plan, but we both felt better with brooms hanging on our shoulders like baseball bats.

“Alright,” I started, but before I had a chance to strategize with her, Sarita began to beat the bat with her broom from outside of the mosquito net. I ran for the doorway. Sarita stopped and we both just sat there and listened. Clearly the bat would let us know if was dead or not. Nothing. Since Sarita had done the beating, I felt it was my turn to step up. I lifted the net and peeked at the spot where the bat once had been.

“Its not there.” I reported.

“Do you think it left?” Sarita asked.

I looked all over my bed and the net hoping to see the bat laying dead somewhere, but saw nothing.

“I don’t know where it went.”

Just as I was about to shut the net again so that Sarita and I could regroup, I spotted the bat on the other side of the net trying to hide between the mattress and the wall.

“There it is!!”

“Where?” Sarita readied her broom. “We have to kill it.”

I looked at the bat again, as it unsuccessfully tried to escape, and for the first time I felt sorry for it. He was probably just an average teenage bat, looking for a new adventure. A montage of the bat’s afternoon played in my head. He happily flew around light posts, enjoyed a lunch of flies, and swooped at a few humans as his friends laughed in the background. His mother had probably warned him a million times not to get too close to front doors, and he had probably blown off her advice as teenagers often do, wondering, “whats the worst that could happen?” He was probably just a nice bat, who had made a bad decision. Now he was scared and probably hurt, cowering in the corner trying to figure a way out of his predicament. I felt sorry for the bat.

“Maybe we should just try and catch him and throw him outside.” I suggested, knowing that when I said ´we´ I really meant ´you.´

“No,” Sarita replied. “We should kill it.”

At this time we completely opened one side of my mosquito net so that Sarita could get a good swing at the bat. I shed a tear as all of the mosquitoes in San Vicente took advantage of my open net and made sure to invite their uncles, siblings, and cousins. I no longer felt sorry the bat.

Sarita got into a perfect batter’s stance and took one, smooth, hard swing at the bat. WHACK! We stood there and watched it. It didn’t move. WHACK! Sarita swung again, and we both paused for a second. WHACK! Sarita hit the bat one more time just to make sure it wasn’t just pretending to be dead. With a plastic bag, I picked up little Carlitos (I named him afterward) and put him on the floor of my room. I then proceeded to sweep him out of my room, into the living room, and out the front door. One thought crossed my mind: its time to blog.


Since I blogged last a few things have changed, I have found constructive, useful ways to occupy my time. I have been teaching English at the Colegio Manglar (the school’s name) three times a week. I have classes of kids from 5 to about 17 years old and its really nice to be able to work with all different ages. I have been going into my memory bank to find fun activities that teachers did with my classes while I was learning Spanish, and am trying to imitate them as best as possible. My favorite one is taking a popular song that the kids want to learn and printing out the lyrics on a sheet with a lot of the words missing. I then play the song and the kids have to listen and try to fill in the missing words. After we finish they can ask about words they don’t understand etc. (shout out to Ms. Fischer!). With the older kids I am doing Rihanna’s “Umbrella” and with the younger kids we are doing a song from High School Musical. They love it.

Since I started talking to the mayor’s wife I have started to give little workshops to all of the seventh grade classes in town (there about 13). The workshops are mainly on self-esteem and decision making and while the kids don’t always show up, I try to make it worth it for those that do. After I am through with all the seventh grade classes, the mayor’s wife, Maria del Carmen, would like me to start giving HIV AIDS workshops to the high schools in the town.

I came home one afternoon to find two teachers at the school for kids with special needs in my living room waiting for me. When I sat to talk with them they asked if I could come and work with their kids. When I told them that I have no experience working with kids with special needs, they told me that no one at the school really did, and that any help would be appreciated. I agreed to go on a Thursday morning and do an activity with the kids. I didn’t know what to expect and to be honest, the situation was a lot worse than I had anticipated. There was one classroom for children from the ages of about 4 to 19, maybe older. Though I don’t know much about special needs I know that in that room there were kids that fell all over the special needs spectrum. There was one situation that really stuck out to me. There were four kids who where about 16 years old and deaf. Since I know no sign language, I had been writing the activity on the board so that these teenagers could follow along. I got half way through the activity when I realized that not only could they not hear, but they couldn’t read either. When I tried to imitate some signs out of one of their sign language books, the teacher informed me that the only knew the alphabet and that they couldn’t read lips. When I asked how their parents communicated with them she told me that they didn’t. I can’t imagine going 16 years without being able to express an idea. Though I am somewhat under qualified (understatement), I am brainstorming ways that I can help these kids to maybe read, write, or sign. If you have any ideas please share.

Oh, and my basketball team. I have good news and bad new about that. They good news is there are a lot of kids who are interested and have signed up to play. The bad news is that there are no basketballs. Well, we have one. But its flat, and we can’t find a pump. We are working on maybe getting the mayor to help us buy a few though. I know I am going to buy a couple basketballs and a pump. We’ll work it out. I want to get started with that next week.

So yeah, things are slowly falling into place. Its just that this whole integrating thing is a really slow process and I am really impatient. I am happy, though, with the way that things are going and excited to try and help in a lot of different ways.

Side note: As confusing as it I for my brain when my eyes try to convince it that Brett Favre now wears purple, I am becoming very fond of his right arm. That 80-yard, back-of-the-end-zone, game-winning touchdown pass was perfection. Not to mention the catch and effort to stay in bounds. Being a Minnesota fan all the way from Ecuador won’t be easy, but somebody has to do it. Go Vikings.

This blog post goes out to Carlitos. A fun-loving, curious bat who will never be forgotten. R.I.P. 9/27/2009

Will Work For...Work

Right now, as I lay in bed writing, my host mother and her cousin (who doubles as our housekeeper) are in the other room whispering about me. I know they are whispering about me because they were talking in normal voices until my name came up. And by my name I mean Jessica, because my housekeeper just can’t seem to remember Jennifer. So, she calls me any similar (or not-so-similar) name that comes to mind like Janet, Jessica, Julissa, or my personal favorite - Stephanie. Its all good though. She means well and the woman makes a bomb banana smoothie.

Whoa. Lots to write about. I would like to say that I haven’t blogged in awhile because I’ve just been so busy, but that would be a lie. The truth is, for the past two-and-a-half weeks I really haven’t been up to much. The fact that my counterpart was on vacation essentially meant that I was on vacation too. Now, I know what you are thinking, but it really hasn’t been all fun and games. Because me, plus a new place, minus work and friends, times two-and-a-half weeks, equals LOTS of time to think. And thinking isn’t really something you want to be doing a lot of when you are trying to adjust to a new situation. Sure, I got out, went on frequent field trips to the market (of course keeping my distance from the fishermen mom), and walked up and down the main strip in town about 15 times a day, but that would only take up a small fraction of my time. So I was pretty excited when my counterpart called me up on Sunday to say that she was back in town and wanted to have a meeting with me. “Bonanza,” I thought to myself, “I am finally going to get to work.”

After returning from a half hour hunt through the neighborhood for a 13 year-old boy named Sergio, we sat down to talk. The meeting went alright, and we did come up with a few good ideas. Like a small basketball league for the kids in my neighborhood and a children’s festival downtown that will take place in November. I sat there with my pen and paper waiting for her to give me some kind of guidance as to what I should do with the other six-and-a-half days of the week. But she just began to organize her papers and get up as if to signal that the meeting was over. Confused, I asked her when she wanted me to come into the school that she had taken me to on my site visit a couple months ago. “Anytime you would like!” she replied happily, “but I am only there on Wednesdays.” Perfect. So now I had somewhere to be on Wednesdays, a festival in a month, and an imaginary basketball team. Even though the PC told us that much of our work would be undefined and that a lot of our service would depend on our willingness to put ourselves out there to meet and collaborate with new people, I always kind of hoped that my job would be a little more spelled out for me. I got up too, telling my counterpart that I would see her on Wednesday.

Luckily, my counterpart wasn’t the only one to call me last Sunday. While I was wandering around town I got a call from my host mother, Carmen, back in Paquiestancia. I was surprised by how excited I was to hear from her. We talked about the cultural differences between the people on the coast versus the sierra, the kids, and the difficulties with my new job. I was able to talk to Rubi and Flor as well who both wanted to know when I would be back to visit. After I hung up I thought about how much had lucked out with a fantastic host family during training. The day I left the sierra Carmen commented that I was “no longer gringa (a foreigner), but one of them,” and Miguel told me that I always had a home with them and thanked me for my friendship. As I sat by the beach and thought about when I would be able to visit them next, my thoughts drifted to my current living situation.

I haven’t written much about my new host mother because I didn’t want to make any quick judgments. I didn’t have the best first impression of her but after some thought came to the conclusion that we were both under a little bit of stress during my site visit and that we just hadn’t communicated well. My second impression of my new roommate was a little bit better. She is a 61 year-old divorcee, who lives alone (before me), and works long days at the market. She is chubby, short, loves bright lipstick and loud clothing. It took me a couple weeks to realize that she wasn’t always mad at me but that she just yells everything that she says. She is very persistent when it comes to how much I eat, washing my sheets every week, and well, pretty much anything she is feeling passionate about at the moment. The other day it was her movie collection.
“HEY JENNIFER!! DO YOU LIKE MOVIES?!”
“Um, yeah. I like movies. Why?”
“COME HERE. I HAVE SOME MOVIES TO SHOW YOU!”
Aguchita lead me to her room and opened her closet door to reveal dozens of pirated movies.
“LOOK AT ALL OF THESE! DO YOU WANT TO BORROW SOME?”
I browsed her movie collection which consisted of Ecuadorian soap operas, a few titles in English that I didn’t recognize and The Ten Commandments.
“Wow, those are some interesting movies, but no thanks I don’t think I’ll borrow one right now.”
“WHAT? WHY NOT? THESE ARE GREAT MOVIES! HERE, WATCH THIS ONE!!”
Aguchita handed me a copy of some season of her favorite Ecuadorian soap opera, Victoria.
“Ummm…”
“GO AHEAD!! WATCH IT!! IT’S A GOOD ONE!”
I walked out of her room with five movies.

I think that another one of the reasons that we didn’t hit it off right away was because she came off to me as a little bit of a loose cannon. Aguchita proved to me however, that unlike my other initial assessments of her, this one was entirely true.

Aguchita, her daughter-in-law, son, cousin, granddaughter and I were all sitting around watching the family’s soap opera of choice, Victoria. The main character, a 40 year-old woman with relationship issues, finally worked up the courage to tell off her unfaithful husband. I have to admit that it did give me a little bit of satisfaction to see her finally call the man out. I mean, not that I was too into this program, but a repeat of the afternoon episode is on every night at dinner. I can’t help but watch it. Well, triple my satisfaction by about 47 as Aguchita had waited years for this moment. She stood up, stared at the screen in silence, and didn’t blink once. When the woman on T.V. had finished her rant Aguchita began a rant of her own.
“YES!!! ITS ABOUT TIME!!! WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?? WHAT A DOG THAT MAN WAS, YOU WAITED TOO LONG!!!”
I have to mention that Aguchita eats, sleeps, and breathes this soap opera. She has this little T.V. set up at her stand in the market for the specific purpose of being able to catch her show every afternoon. I laughed to myself, even though her reaction didn’t surprise me at all.
“I SHOULD HAVE DONE THE SAME WITH MY MAN!! THEY ARE ALL THE SAME!! WHY DO THEY TREAT US LIKE THAT?!”
The situation slowly began to shift from funny to uncomfortable.
“I DON’T KNOW WHY I PUT UP WITH THAT GARBAGE. WHY!?”
I looked around the room for the appropriate way to react. All of the adults started to shuffle their feet and look at the floor. I looked at the floor too and began to think of good excuses to leave the room next time Aguchita’s show came on.

Though my host mother is very passionate and…uh… animated, she has been extremely hospitable and helpful. And its not just her. Many people in my community have gone out of their way to introduce themselves and let me know that I can go to them with any concern. This really helps on the days where it seems like I will never really fit in here, and although the men can be overly friendly (if you know what I mean), the majority of the people in my new town have good hearts and good intentions.

There is an older man who lives about two blocks away that I see every time I am going to and from my house. Every time I see this guy he is sitting on the hard dirt outside his house, hunched over with a hammer in hand, pounding cement blocks. If I leave the house at 6 am, he’s there. If I get home at 9 at night, he’s there. I have never walked past this mans house at a time when he wasn’t hammering cement blocks. I was walking past the other day when he looked up and made eye contact. I smiled and he motioned that I come over. He introduced himself as Chalito and said that he had been meaning to introduce himself for some time. I told him my name, and just as I was about to walk away he told me to wait, jumped up, and ran inside his house. I sat outside and hoped that he wasn’t about to do something weird because at this point I thought he was a really nice old man. Chalito returned and handed me two bananas. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Jennifer.” He said.

So, besides my lack of actual work up to this point, I can’t complain too much. Except for when it comes to the mosquitoes. I am going to complain about that. The mosquitoes here are faster, smarter, and more vicious than any mosquitoes I have ever encountered before in my life. I have never really been too allergic to mosquito bites, but when I get bit here, I have marks the size of pennies for days. For this reason I have become reasonably paranoid about getting bit. I ALWAYS wear repellent, even in the house because the roof doesn’t completely connect to the walls, so the mosquitoes come and go as they please. And I swear they only bite me. I never see the other family members slapping their arms or looking around nervously. I feel alone in the fight against them. The only place I feel safe from the mosquitoes is inside my mosquito net at night. Well, most of the time. Once in awhile a mosquito will sneak in when I am not paying attention. I have developed a pre-entering-my-mosquito-net-ritual though, in order to prevent them from doing this. You know that thing that dogs do when they have finally decided on a spot to lay down? Yeah, it kind of reminds me of that. First, I start walking around my room really fast in order to throw off any mosquitoes that may be following me. Then, just before going into the net, I rub any exposed skin quickly to make sure there are none planning on hitching ride inside. Immediately after, I dive head first into the net, pull my legs in, and scramble to shut any part of the net that may have remained open. After this, I flip on my flashlight and inspect the walls of my mosquito net. Its white so its pretty easy to detect one if it gets in. If I don’t see any, I breathe a sigh of relief and hit the sack. But, even after taking this many precautions, at least one mosquito gets in just about every night. Oh whatever Eik, you say, don’t spaz about one measly mosquito. Just got to bed! Friends, I wish it were that easy. But getting into a good, deep sleep is nearly impossible for me if there is a mosquito buzzing around my head/trying to bite me all night. So, once I spot the intruding mosquito with my headlamp, I have a few options as to how to go about eliminating it. I can A) just try to slap it. The problem with this is that the sides of the mosquito net don’t provide a surface hard enough to trap the mosquito. So, I usually go with B) scare it off the side of the net and clap it between my hands. I do have some success with this method though as I said before, the mosquitoes here are lightning fast, so I usually takes about 4 or 5 attempts. The last method is the most risky and the least effective but the most satisfying when it works. I can C) sneak up on the unsuspecting mosquito and pinch it between two fingers. I encourage you to try this if you never have before. It is a lot more difficult than it sounds, but let me tell you, there are few things more exciting than when you can catch a mosquito between two fingers. I usually celebrate with a fist pump or by talking some smack to any mosquitoes who may be watching/listening.













The story in the beginning about my lack of work has somewhat of a happy ending. Or more like a “to be continued.” Since my counterpart told me she would only be at the school once a week, I just decided to go on my own one day. Luckily, I ran into the English teacher that had said he wanted to work with me before. He took me around to his classes and even though he kind of left me hanging to teach one of them by myself (I pulled a fantastic lesson about pronouns out of nowhere by the way), I was happy because he reiterated that he would love to have my help and invited me to come whichever days of the week that I had free. From there I went to the main social center in the city and came up with plans to collaborate with the first lady of my town. I have some work now and I think that working with the mayor’s wife will be a great springboard into other projects.
That was long and I apologize. Thanks for keeping up with me. Take care and write soon!

Feel better grandpa. I love you!!!

Operation Integration

Image1: Omnibus 102 swears in
Image2: The beach at my site
Image3: My new neighborhood


Well, thats it. Training is over and we are officially Peace Corps Volunteers. We had our swearing-in ceremony at the US Ambassador’s mansion last Wednesday and by Friday we were all in our sites attempting to settle in.

As nice as it would be to arrive at our site and immediately get right to the heart of our work, it doesn’t quite work that way. The PC stresses the importance of integration, or becoming a legitimate member of our community, as it is directly linked with our level of success as volunteers. The people of our communities have to be able to recognize our faces, accept us, and more importantly - they have to trust us. Otherwise, we are just a bunch of weird-looking foreigners with silly accents and strange clothes trying to convince them how to live their lives. Somebody explained it to us by saying that being a PC Volunteer is like putting on a chicken suit and standing in Central Park saying, “no really, I’m here to help!” To avoid the chicken suit scenario the PC recommends that for the first 3 months of service we do not leave our sites and that we attend every community event possible. That is, every soccer game, every family party, and every town event. The night after I arrived to my site, I was presented with my first opportunity to integrate.

I had been in town all day running errands (ie: looking for a fan, even though its “winter” its 80+ degrees around the clock, buying toiletries, and interneting.) I got home after dark (which is about 6:45 p.m. here) not really expecting anyone to be there because my host mother had mentioned to me that she had plans. I opened the door to the house and there stood my host mother with her hair done up, purse in hand, bright red pants and lipstick to match. When I asked her where she was headed she informed me that it was BINGO night and that I was going too. Not really knowing what to expect, I ran to my room, grabbed a couple bucks and was ready to go.

Luckily, BINGO night was less than a block from our house. We walked into a large recreational facility that had tables and chairs scattered all over. Music blasted from two loud speakers at the front of the room. Aguchita (my host mother’s nickname) and I grabbed a table near the front and sat down. Soon after, and older couple came by with the BINGO cards. They were 2 dollars a card so I bought one, and Aguchita bought two. We waited patiently for more people to show up. Little by little the room began to fill up. Families walked in, bought cards, and sat down. I slowly began to realize how seriously these people took their BINGO. Sleeping children were carried into the loud room by their parents and set in chairs. Women were in dresses, nice pants, and open-toed heels, while the men had nice button-up shirts with their hair slicked back. I looked down at my flip-flops, black capris, and blue t-shirt. I suddenly felt underdressed. …For BINGO. I wrote it off to being foreign and hoped that the rest of the crowd would too. I looked at my BINGO card which said the event was suppose to start at 8:30. It was now 9:30 and people were still trickling in. By 10:30 I got the impression that we were waiting for the whole town to show up because the room was only half full and the DJ was still stalling. Finally, at 11 p.m. (Latino Time in full effect) we were ready to play some BINGO. The two dollar card I had bought had four games of BINGO on it. I looked over it and realized that the prizes were much better than I had imagined. For just a normal BINGO any given game, the prize was ten dollars. For a blackout, the prizes ranged from 100-200 dollars and a cow. Since there were about 2,000 people there, I quickly wrote off my chances of winning but thought that this was a good way to get to know people nonetheless. As the second game began to wind down, I realized that I was a “G54” away from winning 200 dollars. As much as I wanted to win the prize, I thought about the idea of having to yell “BINGO!” in a crowd of 2,000 people and go up and receive the money. What would the 60 year-old women who have invested 30 years and hundreds of dollars think when some random young foreign chick went up to get the money? I said a silent prayer that “G54” would not come up. I had to sweat for about 3 more numbers when a young man about 3 tables away from me yelled “BINGO” and went up to receive the money. I let out a sigh of relief.

The next game, I once again found myself one chip away from a prize. This time, it was only a regular BINGO and a ten dollar prize. I needed ‘B10.’ I was nervous but again figured there was no way I would win in a game of this many people. “B10!” The caller yelled out. Dangit. I quickly tried to think of the least conspicuous way to claim my money. While I was thinking, my host mother glanced over at my card. “BINGO…?” She asked as she looked at it again. “BINGO!!!!” “RIGHT HERE!! BINGOOO!!!” My host mother held up my arm and my card simultaneously. Everyone turned to look. So much for being discrete. I sat there for a moment with what I am sure was one of the most uncomfortable looks I have ever had on my face. “Well? Go up and got your money!” My host mother half instructed, half scolded. I walked to the front of the room and the caller went over my card to make sure that I hadn’t made any mistakes. I prayed that I hadn’t misunderstood a 60 for a 70 or a ‘B’ for an ‘I.’ I hadn’t. The caller handed me my prize and I quickly went back to take my seat. My host mother patted me on the back and smiled.

The next day was Sunday which happens to be the day that the whole family gathers at our house to play cards. Aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, and grandchildren filled the house. I was way overdue for doing laundry so while everyone played cards and watched TV, I asked Aguchita if it would be okay if I washed clothes. She said it was fine and told her 17 year-old granddaughter to help me. “No, its fine, I can do it.” I said. But the granddaughter insisted and said she wanted to help. Her 9 and 3 year-old sisters decided that they wanted to help too. I felt weird as they dug into, and began to sort three weeks of my dirty laundry. The American in me wanted to politely brush them out of my personal space, but I took a breath and let them continue. Plus, it was nice to have some help. When my clothes were finished washing we all went out to hang them on the line. The 3 year-old (who they call ‘China’ because she looks part Asian, yeah, they are a lot less PC here) grabbed the clothes pins and handed them to us as needed. She handed me a clothespin and I went to hang up a shirt when I felt a little sharp pain on my foot, followed by another, and another. I quickly shook my foot and lifted it to investigate. Half a dozen tiny red insects scurried away. Fire ants. Part of me was annoyed because my foot hurt, while the other part was really excited because I had only seen them on the Discovery Channel and always wondered what a bite would feel like. I asked the oldest sister if they were in fact fire ants and she confirmed. Anyways, with the sisters’ help, a job that would have taken me 3 hours easily, took about an hour-and-a-half. We ended laundry day with a brief English class where I taught then words like short, table, spoon, and crazy.

Today was suppose to be my first day of work. I had been trying to get a hold of my counterpart (the French woman) and her secretary for the past few days with no success. When I finally got a hold of the secretary this morning she informed me that my counterpart was out of town until next Monday. I was confused about what I was suppose to do if she was out of town, so I decided to go into the office and see if I could help. I talked to a few teachers and administrators but they told me in the most polite way possible that they really didn’t know what to do with me. I decided to take the opportunity to get to know the town and some people in the community if possible. I started at the market because I knew my host mother would be there. The market is pretty big and I came in through a door I hadn’t before, so I was a little turned around. I ended up in the area where all of the fresh seafood is sold. There were fish that were literally the size of a newborn babies. Maybe bigger. As I walked through the room each fisherman greeted me individually. I felt like Belle in the opening scene of Beauty and the Beast. The men told me how beautiful I was and offered me deals on their shrimp, crab, and lobster . They insisted even when I explained to them that I was just passing through, and not really looking to buy anything. Despite the fact that I had no money, I walked out of the fish market today with a free fish, a new 80 year-old friend named Pedro, and a marriage proposal. I now know where to go if my self-esteem is ever low.

Though there were times during training when I wanted nothing more than to not be surrounded by 40 other volunteers, I have to say now that I am already missing my friends a little. I know this is what I signed up for, but it will take some time to get used to starting the process of making friends all over again. That said, I am very happy to be here and excited for the challenge that is ahead of me. I look forward to starting work (next week) and beginning my life as a volunteer. I hope that everything is great back home. Keep the emails coming!!!



P.S. for those of you that have skype I am working on finding an internet connection fast enough to handle it. I will let you all know as soon as I do.

P.P.S. I have a new address. It is: Jennifer Eik
Casilla 13-02-27
Bahía de Caráquez
Manabí, Ecuador

Tech Trip etc.

Image1: Me workin with the machete
Image2: Our class of little kids
Image3: All of us with the after school program

Yesterday Flor got bit by a rabbit. Not just some wild rabbit, but one of our pet rabbits. (Well, I haven’t quite figured out if they are pets or a future meal because they are kept outside next to the guinea pigs.) I wasn’t there when it happened, but each child made sure to inform me individually as soon as I got home. I expected to see a bruise or perhaps a tiny scratch, but was surprised to see a gash about as long as a dime and half a centimeter wide on the middle finger of her left hand. It was still bleeding and looked painful. I asked her how it happened and she told me that the rabbit had accidentally tried to eat her finger rather than the carrot she was feeding it. I could tell she was holding back tears, but she said she was fine and asked me if I was ready to walk up the sierra to go milk the cows like I had promised the day before. I changed quickly and all four children, the dog and I headed up to the cows. When we got up there, the three oldest children picked a cow to milk while Rubi made trips down to the stream to bring them water. I ended up with Flor and her cow, Julieta. She washed the cows udders by hand with the little bit of water that Rubi had brought her in a bucket and sat down to milk. She gave one squeeze and immediately jerked her left hand away wincing in pain. Her rabbit bite looked irritated and was dripping with blood. She made another attempt with both hands but was unable to grip the udder with her left. She started to milk the cow with her right hand only. I looked around the field to see Marta about 50 feet away who was clearly speed-milking her cow and Angel who wasn’t far behind her. Flor needed help. When the kids ask me to come up to the cows with them its pretty much assumed that they are just asking for my company and not actual assistance in milking the cows. Not wanting to watch Flor struggle I offered to take her place. She hesitated and asked me if I knew how. I told her no but that I could probably figure it out. She moved and I sat down in front of the cow. The udders were 13 times grosser looking up close than from a distance. They were shrivily and pink and wrinkly. I touched one quick just to make sure it wouldn’t electrocute me or fall off or anything. Then I grabbed it with my whole hand and pulled. Julieta slapped me with her tail but no milk came out. “You have to grab higher and pull harder,” Flor instructed. This time, I grabbed two udders as high as I could and pulled down firmly. Nothing. Flor giggled and asked me if I wanted her to do it. At this point, there was no way I was going to let an eleven-year-old with a finger that could probably use a stitch show me up in cow milking; even if it was my first time. I reached up and pulled again only this time a tiny stream of milk landed in the bucket. Success. I repeated the action each time getting a bit more milk out of the cow. Marta came over with a full bucket and asked why I was milking the cow instead of Flor. We explained and she asked if I wanted her to take over. I said no and told her I was just getting the hang of it. The two of them watched me struggle to get small amounts of milk into the bucket for a couple more minutes when Marta offered again. I told her I was fine and she politely replied that at the rate I was going we wouldn’t make it home in time for dinner. I decided to take a hint and moved so that Marta could finish milking Julieta.

This Saturday we got back from our tech trips. Tech trips are week long excursions that allow us to focus a little bit more on the kind of work that we will experience in our sites. The PC split our training group into four different trips based on our programs. I was put in the group that was headed to Esmeraldas, a provenance on the northern coast.
The first day of our tech trip we visited a current volunteer in the city of Quinninde. At his site, he was involved in work with a Christian youth organization. Part of his project was creating and maintaining a vegetable garden with the children in order to promote nutrition. On the hottest, sunniest day that I have ever experienced before in my life, we went to the garden to help with the weeding, planting, and removal of garbage. Though the heat was telling me to just sit there, complain, try not to sweat, and watch everybody else work, I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to destroy things (weeds) with a machete. I went to town chopping everything within machetes length while the other volunteers used their hands, hoes, and shovels in the garden.
Later that day, after lunch and a quick shower, we came back to help out in the organization’s after school program. It was surprising how quickly the children took to a bunch of weird-looking strangers, but before long we were singing, playing soccer, coloring, and doing workshops together. Two other volunteers and I offered to work with the youngest group of kids who ranged from about 4 to 6 years old. Since its not really possible to talk about more than pets and cartoons with kids at that age, we decided to try to do a simple activity about litter and the environment. Its pretty common in Ecuador to see people just drop their trash on the road or throw it out of the window of the bus. The city of Quninnde was no exception as the streets were lined with used bottles and empty plastic bags. We decided to have the children work together to created a huge picture of how they see their city. The kids came up and one by one added beautiful trees, houses, churches, and flowers to the posterboard at the front of the room. When they had finished, we asked them what they usually do when they finish with their sucker or bottle of Coke, expecting at least one or two of them to say they throw the wrapper/bottle on the ground, at which point we would add the garbage to the picture that they had just drawn. “WE THROW IT IN THE GARBAGE!” They all shouted in unison.
Not the response we had expected. The volunteers and I made eye-contact looking for help on where to go with the activity.
“Ok,” we said, “but what do some of your friends or even your relatives do with their trash?”
“THEY THROW IT IN THE GARBAGE!” The kids all yelled, pleased with their response.
“Everyone…?” We asked somewhat nervous.
“YES!”
The good thing about kids is that an activity like this can go completely wrong, and they will never notice a thing.
“Well, that’s great! Lets make sure we always remember to use the garbage!” The other volunteers and I looked at each other acknowledging the fact that we had just been outsmarted by a room full of four-year-olds.

The rest of our trip went a little more smoothly. We gave a couple HIV AIDS workshops at a high school, visited a teen pregnancy clinic, and had an afternoon of games with some random little kids at a park. Esmeraldas was just as awesome as I had imagined, the kids were great, and the food was fantastic. I am looking forward to my next visit.

Training is almost over. We have less than a week left here in Cayambe. On Sunday we head to Quito, for 3 days, on Wednesday we have our swearing in ceremony with the ambassador, and Wednesday night the 19th we head out to our sites where our two years of service actually begin. Time is flying and as much as I will miss my host family and the sierra, I am pumped to head back out to the coast. I will get my new address up as soon as I find a post office. Take care!!

P.S. I have skype now! It is one of the most fantastic things that man has created! My username is eik.jenn
Get on so we can chat!!

Site Assignment Week!

Ok, so two weeks ago was site assignment week. Site assignments are exciting because they determine where in the country we will spend our two years of service. Since Ecuador has such a diverse landscape, our chances of sweating on the coast were just as good as our chances of chasing cows in the mountains and almost as good as our chances of trying worms in the jungle. Everyone was understandably anxious. The actual revelation of our sites was fun because everyone sat on the benches and the trainers formed a tunnel that we could run through NFL style. As each person’s name was called they would stand up, one of the trainers would yell out which city and provenance they were moving to, and we would all cheer as they ran through the tunnel. Though 88 percent of the time we had no idea where that person’s city actually was, we still cheered. We were just excited to be getting this part of the process over with.

Peace Corps prohibits me from blogging about the exact location of my site, but I can say that it is beautiful, warm, and right on the beach in the provenance of Manabí. Two days after receiving our site assignments, we were all in buses headed our separate ways for a 4 day site visit. On my way to Quito, I called my new counterpart (boss) just as the PC had instructed us to, in order to tell her I was on my way. My counterpart’s secretary picked up the phone and I quickly realized how unprepared I was for the coastal accent. The following conversation ensued:

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Jennifer Eik from Peace Corps, may I speak to Martina?”

“Blah?”

“Um, I am on my way to Manabí, will someone be there to get me?”

“Ah, ok. You blah blah.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get that.”

“Martina is out of town. Do you need blah blah?

“Umm…yes?”

“Ok, great. Bye now!”

“Bye….”

I hung up the phone and just sat there for a minute. Were they going to meet me at the bus terminal? Had she understood that I would arrive tomorrow morning? Should I call back and try again? What the hell language do they speak on the coast? I decided to just relax and try it again when I got closer.

The bus rides to the coast lasted about 10 hours in total, and I arrived to Manabi around 7 am Sunday morning. It didn’t seem that there was anybody there for me. I knew I had to give this phone convo thing another shot. This time I decided to try my host mother, Agustina. This conversation went a little bit better.”

“Hello?”

“Hi, the is Jennifer from the Peace Corps.”

“Oh hi! How are you? Are you here?”

“Yes.” I said with a sigh of relief that I could actually understand what she was saying. “I am across the bay.”

“Ok, I am working at the market. Can you get here?”

“Uh, I don’t really know how…”

“That’s ok, its very easy. I’ll give you directions. Are you ready?”

I had nothing to write with.

“Yes.”

“Ok, from the bus terminal you are going to have to walk to the street and find a taxi. Ask the driver to take you to the dock. Go down, grab a lifejacket, and get on a boat. It should only cost you 30 cents. They will try to charge you more because they will see that you are not from here, but only pay 30. After you get off of the boat, look for a tricimoto and ask to be taken to the market. When you get to the market, look for a young girl in a blue shirt. You’ll know its her if she says she works with Abuchita, that’s my nickname. Anyways, go with her and she will take you to me. Ok?”

It was not ok.

“Sure.”

“Alright! See ya soon!”

Easy? Those instructions seemed everything but easy to me. I felt like I was in Mission Impossible. I A) did not feel prepared to argue with the boat drivers about the price of my boat fare, B) had no idea what a tricimoto was, and C) had already forgotten my host mother’s nickname and didn’t know who to ask for in the market.

Once a taxi had dropped me off at the dock, I walked down, gabbed a lifejacket, and sat down next to a nun on the motor boat. The nun and I made eye contact and smiled at each other. I took 30 cents out of my pocket and clutched it in my fist. Once the boat had filled up, a man in his early 20’s came around to collect the money. When he got to me he held up five fingers as if to say ‘fifty.’ I handed him the 30 cents I had ready. He shook his head and said, “fifty.” Remembering my host mother’s warning and frustrated, I looked over at the nun. Surely this woman of God would speak up. The nun avoided eye contact and looked in the other direction. I mentally took back the smile that the nun and I had exchanged as I handed the man another 20 cents.

Once I arrived on my side of the bay, I saw a long line of young men standing in front of these motorcycles with brightly colored wooden carriage-like things attached. The tricimoto. All of the men attempted to get my attention so that I would chose their tricimoto. I walked up to the one that appeared to be the least sketchy.

“To the market?” I asked.

“Lets go.” He replied.

I hopped in the back and within minutes we arrived at the market. I got a little nervous because I knew I had to find a girl in a blue shirt, but couldn’t remember my host mother’s nickname. I glanced around and zeroed in on a young girl in a bright blue shirt and matching shorts sitting on the steps of the entrance to the market. I hoped that I had the right girl as I approached her.

“Hi.” I said awkwardly.

“Hi. Are you with Abuchita?” She asked.

Abuchita! That was it!

“Yes, I’m Jennifer.”

“Welcome! Nice to meet you!”

I was introduced to my host mother who had a stand at the market. She instructed me to come back and asked me what kind of coffee I would like. When I replied that I didn’t drink coffee, everyone within 14 feet of us stopped and gave me a weird look.

“You don’t like coffee?”

I thought about just lying and accepting the coffee to avoid this uncomfortable exchange. I then thought about how I didn’t want to have to choke down coffee for the next three months. I had to stay firm.

“No, I’m not much of a coffee drinker.” I laughed uncomfortably.

“Look, for coffee we have pig, chicken, or cow. You don’t like any of those?”

Now I was confused.

“Coffee?” I asked pretending to drink an imaginary cup.

“Oh! Haha! No!” My host mother laughed. Everybody else giggled too. “Breakfast!” She exclaimed.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“Ah!” I laughed too thinking about the fact that I had just said that I didn’t like breakfast.

“Chicken would be fine, thank you.” I said, making a mental note that coffee meant breakfast on the coast.

After breakfast my host mother told me her daughter-in-law and some friends were on their way to take me out onto the bay in the boat. On our way down to the water I looked around my new town for the first time. On one side of me, the shore went on for miles and people were playing volleyball and soccer on the beach. Men and women were lined up with bags of fresh shrimp, lobster, crab, oyster, octopus and fish to sell. On my other side was a long line of shops and stores with storeowners yelling out all of the deals they had to offer. The people were much taller than those in the sierra and had very dark complexions. I was very excited at the thought of spending two years on the coast.

On day two, my counterpart, a 50 year-old native French woman with a very French accent, came to pick me up at my house and show me the ropes my new job. She first took me to a school where she said I would be spending a lot of my time. She told me that at the school I would be able to give workshops on HIV AIDS, drugs, alcohol, and sex ed. She said I could work with the youth and start after school activities. She introduced me to one of the school´s English teachers who was very excited that I was there and asked me to think about helping out with his 2^nd-5^th grade English classes when I got back. On the weekends I would be spending time in a facility where children come to make toys out of recycled materials and in a ludoteca, which is a library that rents out toys instead of books. The PC gives us a lot of flexibility when it comes to the projects that we choose to take on, so from there it was up to me.

That night my host mother make shrimp with vegetables over rice. While we were eating dinner, I heard and saw something with four legs scurry up the wall. I tried to ignore it and continue eating. Minutes later, a similar creature (or maybe the same one) ran up the wall and stopped in the middle. It was a little lizard/salamander looking thing. I asked my host mother as politely as I could who else was living in the house. She explained that they were just little lizards. She said that they stay on the walls for the most part and that she doesn’t kill them because they eat the flies and mosquitoes. I nodded my head and continued eating. When I went to bed that night, I slept for the first time in a mosquito net. I was happy to have the protection because there were so many mosquitoes in my room I could hear them buzzing around. But inside the net - not a one. For this reason, I was pretty confused the next morning when I woke up with little red bites all over my feet, ankles, stomach, and arms. I thought back to Nurse Lyn´s session on bedbugs. Little red dots in a line? Check. Itching? Check. Completely grossed out? Check. Lyn told us to put all of our sheets out in the sun if we had bedbugs. My host mother told me not to leave stuff on the line when nobody was home because it would get stolen. I had to leave for work in a half hour. Dilemma. I decided to leave the sheets on the bed and deal with it when I got home in the afternoon. Well, I didn´t get home until dark. I got ready to go to bed and thought about my bedbug bites. I realized I had two options: A) Take as many sheets off of the bed as possible and hopefully suffer fewer bits than the night before, or B) Sleep on the floor and be attacked by mosquitoes. Bedbug bites weren´t nearly as itchy as mosquito bites but they lasted longer. Hmm…I decided to strip my bed and put on long pants and a sweatshirt hoping the bedbugs wouldn´t be able to bite through my clothes. It was about 85 degrees out at this time so I laid in bed as still as I could trying to create as little body heat as possible. I laughed at the situation. Welcome to the Peace Corps.

The rest of the site visit went pretty well. The host family situation (just one 50ish year-old woman) is interesting, but I won´t bore you with the details. In one week we will be heading out on what the PC calls our ´technical trips.´ They are splitting us up into 4 groups and sending us out on 4 different trips. I am very excited to be heading to the provenance of Esmeraldas for the week mainly because that’s where most of the Afro-Ecuadorians live and I have been interested in visiting since the day I found out I would be moving to Ecuador. It should be good and I will be sure to update and post pictures ASAP. Thanks for all the emails, phone calls, messages etc. It really helps to have so much support.

Take care and keep in touch!!