Two-year stint in Ecuador? Don't mind if I do.

Vacay

2011-06-04T17:49:00.000-07:00

There is a phenomenon that occurs when adventure seekers make travel plans whose explanation is still unknown to even the most dedicated of researchers. Once we have purchased our plane tickets to that exotic destination, be it Ecuador, South Africa, or somewhere in the South Pacific, we see a white light. Much like the white light one supposedly sees right before they check out for good, we have little choice but to walk into its mystical glow. The difference is that while one white light leads to the other side (stay with me, skeptics, this is not that kind of entry), ours leads us directly to the nearest R.E.I. Once there we are moved to spend at least a quarter of our savings on assorted travel gear, much of which we never knew existed.

"Oh! Waterproof, flame-retardant, 100% wools socks guaranteed in temperatures as low as -20°F?!"

"Ma´am, didn´t you say you were traveling to Fiji?"

*hypnotic stare*

"I´ll take. The socks."

We walk out of the story not only with items on our packing list, but items suited to the packing lists the next two continents over - just in case.

I can only make fun to a certain extent as I too, inevitably saw the white light. I bought the pack, the coat, the socks and the shoes, seemingly thinking that "moving to Ecuador" was synonymous with "scaling Mt. Everest". Luckily, I got to country and realized that I was not alone. There were other new volunteers who had joined me in my R.E.I. frenzy, though at the time, states away. I don´t know what exactly it is that makes us feel that it will be a good idea to step off of the plane dressed like Boy Scouts, but it seems that a good share of us get the memo.

The great thing about Peace Corps is that as PCVs, we are given a considerable amount of time to take a step back, observe the situation, and adjust ourselves accordingly. We become insiders, looking out at the new arrivals and wishing that someone had gotten to them in time. Our objective slowly morphs from one of preparedness to blending in, as we discover that nothing quite says, "Sup? I´m not from here and most things of value to me are currently on my person," than an outfit that a park ranger may find fashionable and a backpack large enough to tote a couple of small children.

I have a hunch that I will see quite a few people who fit the above discription in the next few days and so instead of filling up the backpack and dusting off the hiking shoes in preparation for my sola trip to Peru, I opted for flip-flops and a duffle bag in a hopeful attempt to blend. This will reduce my chances of being express kidnapped, gringoed*, and forced into conversations about Paris Hilton and Britney Spears. Yes. I will put on a shirt with the same pattern as the wallpaper behind me, and nobody will see me coming or going.

Join me. The trip starts here, in Guayaquil, Ecuador; the largest city in the country and unfortunately the most dangerous as well. Jump in my duffle bag and let´s see how we do with a 600 dollar budget, 10 days of vacation, and 100 plus hours on various buses, as we head through Lima, to Cusco, and eventually to the Incan ruins of Machu Picchu.

*****

The trip gets off to an expected start when Cabbie #1 attempts to charge me 4 dollars for a 4 block ride to the terminal. For those of you cynical math whizzes who are also big spendas, a cab ride in this country is not worth a dollar a block. Knowing that he is ripping me off by at least $2.50 (which is worth fighting for when you make 300/mo.) I stay and argue in the cab, determined to hold my ground. The cab driver refuses to budge and even gets a little nasty. In the heat of the moment my coastal Ecuadorian accent, which I try to use as a shield against getting ripped off, begins to fail me. The longer the argument goes on, the more accidental subliminal messages I send that scream, "I´M FOREIGN!" Cabbie #1 is all over it and since I much prefer getting ripped off to being express kidnapped (a concept I will only share with family and friends once I am back on U.S. soil) I begrudgingly hand over the 4 dollars and step out of the cab. First attempt at blending: unsuccessful.

Ormeño is a Peruvian bus company that now connects nearly all of the major cities in South America. Their terminal is located in the centro de negocios, el terminal bloque C oficina "C" 34. It is its own terminal located very near the main Guayaquil bus terminal. The trip to Lima from Guayaquil costs $70 (USD) and lasts between 24 and 26 hours. The bus to Lima leaves daily anywhere between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. The company is safe. It makes stops every 8 hours to change drivers and will help you across the sketchy Ecuadorian-Peruvian border without any issues. Movies are played pretty much the whole time (notice that I never said "good" movies) and breakfast, lunch, and dinner are included in the ticket price. Recommended.

Liliana

After buying my bus ticket I was left with a couple of hours to wander before leaving for Lima. I decided to fill part of this time shopping for food I felt appropriate for a day-long bus ride. Once in the cracker aisle at the grocery store I made the decision that my cracker had to be salty and delicious. My eyes fell on the Ritz. I sprang for the ones with that awesome never-spoiling cheese filling which I am sure is everything but cheese. But since "natural" fell nowhere near my criteria of salty and delicious, I grabbed 3 packs off of the rack. I turned towards the checkout line to find a short, Latina woman in my path.

" Hey, you´re going to Lima, aren´t you?"

The woman was about a head shorter than me with wavy, long black hair. She wore a sweater that screamed fashion with skinny jeans tucked into some even more fashionable boots. Frankly, she was way too put together for my taste.

"I am. How did you know?"

She introduced herself as Liliana from Colombia and explained that she had seen me walk out of the terminal after purchasing my ticket. Her coastal Colombian accent was at first difficult for me to understand and I could tell that mine was for her as well. For the first minute or so, we just spit out sentences and stared at each other, our ears taking time to adjust much the way your eyes do when you first open them in the dark.

"Hey do you know how to pay for this?"

Liliana held a water bottle in one hand and a handful of quarters in the other. I did not understand her confusion.

"Uh, yeah...pay with one of those.." I said skeptically pointing at a quarter. As I watched her examine the quarters and turn them over in her hand, my skepticism began to take over. Why had this woman followed me to the cracker line? Why the over-the-top interest in quarters? I observed her with growing suspicion, until my suspicion materialized in the form of Julieta, my Peace Corps safety and security officer, hovering over my left shoulder. She begged me to snap out of it. "Have you forgotten where you are?!" she almost yelled at me, "Trust NOBODY!"

Julieta was right. This woman was suspicious. I mean she just "saw" me come out of the terminal, just "ran" into me in the cracker aisle and now is confused as to how to use a quarter? I imagined the following day´s headline: PCV ROBBED BLIND AFTER SMALL COLOMBIAN WOMAN INQUIRED ABOUT THE CURRENCY AND THEN "OFFERED HER FRIENDSHIP" More on page 8. Not this girl. It was way too early in my trip to fall for some Colombian quarter scam.

Liliana followed me to the checkout aisle and asked me to join her for breakfast. I lied saying that I had just eaten and had some more shopping to do. Liliana looked hurt, and I felt a little bad, but Julieta was satisfied so I let it go.

About an hour later I was sitting in the terminal waiting for my bus to leave when I realized that I had forgotten to buy toilet paper. Knowing that being caught in these parts without toilet paper can land you in situations that should be featured on Fear Factor, I got up to make a quick run. I ran into Liliana on the way out.

She asked if she could join me saying that she needed to make a phone call to Colombia. This time I said it was fine, noting that my stride was the equivalent of at least one and a half of hers, making feasible a potential escape

We got to the store and I waited for Liliana to make her call. When she came out her eyes were puffy and face stained from tears. Since I possess the U.S. emotionally closedness that apparently not even 2 years in Ecuador could cure, Liliana´s tears made me uncomfortable. "Everything okay." I said as more of a statement than a question with deer-in-the-headlights-eyes. She took a minute to gather herself, and then began to tell me her story. She told me how her department store in Colombia had gone under and how she was struggling to raise two small children alone. She explained to me that a girlfriend in Santiago, Chile, had offered her a job as a restaurant worker and how she had jumped at the offer in order to make money to send home to her parents and children. She told me that this was her first day away from home - ever, and how everyone on the phone was struggling with the reality of her being away. She started to cry again and I began to scold myself. "Why do you think that she asked you to breakfast?" "Why do you think she doesn´t know how much a quarter is worth?

Real nice.

Liliana´s tears seemed somewhat familiar now and so I began to explain to her that I also understood how it felt to leave familiarity. I told her the story of this girl I knew from a reasonably small town in Minnesota who joined the Peace Corps and had just about made it out in one piece. My story seemed to make her feel a little better.

Once on the bus was exchanged Ritz crackers, email addresses, and juice boxes as she explained to me that in order to get to Santiago within her budget she would spend the next 5 days on the bus. One hundred hours didn´t seem so bad anymore.

Bus hour 1: Leaving Guayaquil. We are welcomed aboard and dictated the rules. Rule #1: keep your seatbelts fastened while seated. Rule #2: no number twos.

Sometime between hour 4 and 5 the bus attendant begins to come around with our Peruvian customs papers. I see her approach a group of three young adults decked out in Chacos and convertible tan pants (the kind that turn in to shorts with a simple tug of the zipper) just a few seats ahead of me. "USA?" she says to them in English? They nod. Their backpacks were undoubtedly in storage underneath the bus.

Fortunately, people rarely look at me, and say, "USA?" This could possibly be where my mild obsession with blending in was born. I mean, before I had even been in the country for 2 months, before I even had the opportunity to alter the way I dressed or pick up the accent, people were unable to put a finger on where I was from. I think they looked at me and saw a rare breed. A strange, Spanish-speaking, non skinny-jeans-wearing, boyfriendless creature, whose origins were still some kind of scientific mystery. I would get Colombia, the Dominican Republic, and even Brazil before the United States so much as crossed the guesser´s mind.

I began to really like this, and even began to play off of it. I mean, imagine a world where one day you were a quirky college student passing through from Colombia and the next, a sophisticated business woman from Brazil. Maybe this didn´t have so much to do with blending as it had to do with messing with cab drivers´ heads and avoiding long conversations about U.S. politics, but I genuinely began to enjoy the game and found myself playing whenever the opportunity arose. I gave myself a point whenever I was not assumed to be from North America, because this just makes you a target, especially when traveling. And though it does not make much of a difference where I am from while sitting on a day-long bus heading toward Lima, it is always fun to practice.

"Ecuadorian?" the bus attendant says in Spanish to the woman in front of me.

"Colombian?" she asks my new friend Liliana.

I´m next. I look down at my jeans and t-shirt. Okay there, but I could have done better. I pull at my black fleece jacket. Shoot. This may just give me away; I have never seen a Latino in these parts donning a fleece. I squint one eye a little bit, raise an eyebrow and purse my lips as if I were thinking of something really profound in an attempt to make up for the fleece. The bus attendant stops next to my seat and looks at me for a minute, probably trying to figure out why I am making that face.

"And where are you from, ma´am?

I smile.

Second attempt at blending: partially successful.

Hour 4: Nearing the Peruvian border. Nature calls. I walk to the facilities in the back of the bus only to find that someone has broken rule #2. Mission aborted.

Bus Itinerary:

Guayaquil to Lima - 26 hours

Lima to Cusco - 22 hours

Cusco to Aguas Calientes - 6 hours (by van)

Aguas Calientes to Cusco - 6 hours

Cusco to Lima - 22 hours

Lima to Guayaquil - 26 hours

Guayaquil to San Vicente - 6 hours

Hour 8: Peruvian border control. Everyone is told to get off of the bus and our bags are searched for contraband. The woman next to me seems a little too nervous about her bags making it through. When I ask her what all she packed she replies, "oh, nothing."

The nervous woman next to me reminds me of an older woman we came across when crossing the same border last year on our way to Mancora, Peru, for Christmas. And I used the word "older" to be polite because to be honest, this woman was elderly. Apparently, it is fairly common for Peruvians and Ecuadorians living near the border to buy large quantities of clothes, food, and other goods from the huge market on the border. They then take those goods across the border to their respective countries and sell them for a very decent profit. This is, of course illegal (see: frowned upon in Latin America), and people caught engaging in this activity by border control will be subject to at least a considerable fine. So, this old woman had taken all of her bags of clothes, shoes, and jewelry and distributed them throughout the bus: in the overhead compartments, in holes in the seats, under the seats, grandma was creative. Since the thorough revisions of the buses crossing the border are random, you are basically playing a game of Russian Roulette with less severe consequences. Unfortunately for our senior citizen friend, our bus was selected. We did not realize what exactly what was going on until we saw grandma, who had been previously using a cane to help her get around, ditch her walking stick and take off, casually speed walking (oxy moron?) back across the border.

Hour 8½: Nervous woman´s bags make it through. She lets out a sign of relief.

Hour 24: Two hours outside of Lima. Rumor has it this city is home to a Starbucks. First item on the agenda? A tall caramel apple cider and two milk chocolate grahams.

Lima (Round 1)

I got into Lima at about 2 in the afternoon on Tuesday.

And now, a confession: for all of you who lifted one eyebrow at me and pursed your lips when I explained to you that I would be traveling alone, for those of you who flashed back to the time I was unreachable for a week because I had "misplaced" (read: lost) my cell phone or the time I made four consecutive wrong turns on my way to the local mall or the time over Christmas when I was a tad late to that get-together because I got halfway to St. Paul before I realized that I was suppose to be going in the other direction on I-94, I understood the eyebrow. I understood and knew that it was merited, not for any other solo traveler, just for me as I can not count on one hand how many times I have had to change the pin number on my debit card or make a spare out of my spare set of keys. It´s funny because as soon as I stepped out of the terminal in Lima, all of the locals stopped and gave me the eyebrow too. Men set down their newspapers and newborn babies sat straight up in their strollers, raising their eyebrows in distrust, doubting that I could successfully navigate the next two days alone. How the heck did they know?

I ignored the eyebrows and walked up to the first legitimate-looking cab driver. Having dealt with my fair share of cabbies this side of the equator, and after having my memory refreshed in Guayaquil (and hearing a few horror stories about cab rides in Lima), I had devised a plan. Though I had no idea where I was in relation to anything nor did I have knowledge of how much anything was worth (except for the exchange rate), I was going to act like I did. I would assume the role of Esperanza, the South American philanthropist, who was just passing through Lima for the 5th...no 6th, time.

Cabbie #2: Where to?

Esperanza: Hostel so-and-so in Miraflores, you know it?

Cabbie #2: Ah, of course!

Esperanza: Great, how much?

Cabbie #2: Just 15 little soles (sol-ays).

Do not be fooled. The currency in Peru is not the "little" sol. Fifteen little soles is about $5.50, not surprisingly the same value as fifteen normal-sizes soles, or fifteen large soles at that.

Esperanza: Fifteen?! *polite giggle* Thanks anyway.

Cabbie #2: Alright! Ten soles.

Esperanza: *still giggling and shaking her head* No thanks, sir.

And then, Esperanza began to walk away. The "walk-away", as I have creatively coined the term, is key. Not only with cab drivers in South America, but with practically any stranger that wants to sell you something or offer a service. It is all a big game of calling each other´s bluff and if you are seriously in it to win it, you will whip out the walk-away.

Cabbie #2: Wait. Alright. Eight soles. Let´s go.

When you get off of the Ormeño bus in Lima, you will find yourself in a district known as San Isidro. This is about a 7 minute cab ride from one of the most touristy districts, Miraflores, and about a 20 minute cab from the centro or downtown. There will normally be men outside of the terminal ready to exchange your dollars to soles. The normal exchange rate while I was there was $1 = S2.7/2.75. A cab to Miraflores should cost you no more than 8 soles. It is common for cabbies in Lima to tell you that the hostel you have picked out is dirty or in an unsafe area and then recommend a "better" one. This is because the "better" hostel pays cab driverX a commission to recruit tourists. It happened to me both times I arrived in Lima. I did not make it to the downtown area, but if your hostel is located in Miraflores it is undoubtedly safe and clean. You can find good, well-kept hostels for as low as 10 dollars/night.

Miraflores is a great area for people who have been known to get the eyebrow. It is about a 20 block (maybe more?) sector that stretches from a main freeway (via expresa) all the way down to the boardwalk or malecón. Miraflores is great because between the twin parks (Central Park and Kennedy Park, I wonder who they were marketing to), you can find artisan markets, art shows, impromptu theatre, and/or just a bench to spend an afternoon people watching on. This entire area is easy to navigate and littered with police officers, making it safe even long after dark. If you walk about 7 blocks down from the parks you will run into the malecón where, on a sunny day you will have a fantastic bluff-top view of the coast of Lima.

I found the people in this area to be extremely friendly. I was approached a handful of times by locals who were just curious where I was from and where I was headed. The most memorable of these was a mother-daughter duo, whose names escape me at the moment. They joined me on a bench on afternoon in the park. The mother, who was about 65 years old, and daughter, who was about 40, were spending their last day together in Lima as mom would be heading back to her smaller sierran town in the morning. We exchanges pleasantries and when I told them I was on my way to Cusco and Machu Picchu, the daughter´s response was, "Cusco! GREAT-looking men down that way."

The conversation inevitably turned into 20 questions about my impression of Latin American men and why I was currently without a boyfriend. They congratulated me for traveling alone but explained that if I were to unexpectedly change my mind about livin´ la vida single at any point between Lima and Cusco, that Cusco was where it was at. I thanked them for their advice and they wished me the safest of travels as they got up off of the bench. I went to return to my book but was startled by a familiar voice, shouting in my direction: "Hope you meet a hot Cuzqueño, at least! So you can see what we are talking about!" The daughter craned her neck to shout backwards and the mom just smiled and shook her head.

Me to older man: "Hey, can you take my picture on this bench?"

Older man: "No problem, but do you think you´ll be able to run as fast as me when I take off with your camera?"

At night I was faced with the task of choosing between all of Lima´s unique cuisine, but since all that had been on my mind since two Christmases ago on the Northern Peruvian Coast was the local version of ceviche, I made sure to make that my first stop. I found a place just in front of the parks called Restaurant Café. The picture on the outside menu of their ceviche combined with their witty, original name, had me seated at a table before I had even finished browsing the menu. Peruvian ceviche is, in my opinion, the sexier, sassier version of its Ecuadorian cousin. The raw fish is cut up in to bite sized pieces and not cooked but marinated in lime juice. It is served on a bed of fresh lettuce with raw lemon-marinated onions and bits of hot pepper to taste. All of this is usually served with camote (the local sweet potato), and garnished with sweet corn and warm, roasted corn nuts. It sounds like a wacky combo but I will offer a money back guarantee if you try it and then do not want to eat it every day that you are in the country. The ceviche will cost anywhere between 8 to 10 USD in touristy Miraflores, but it is definetly worth the price. Seriously, try not to die until you´ve had this.

Ceviche with chicharrón (fried sea-awesomeness)

Lima left a great impression on me, granted I was only passing through and stayed in one of the nicest parts of the city. (I´ve heard the downtown area is a must-see but a little rougher, namely why I chose to kick it uptown.) But alas, after two short days it was time to hop back on the bus and head to Cusco.

Here is the info for the hostel that I stayed at:

Lion Backpackers Bed and Breakfast

Grimaldo del Solar 139-143

Miraflores, Lima

A shared room costs S 33 (11USD)/night with internet and breakfast included. Also, if you will be heading south to Machu Picchu and plan on stopping in Lima on your way back up, they will send a cab to get you at the terminal and bring you to the hostel free of charge!

Hour 27: Leaving Lima for Cusco. There are a number of small children on the bus. I graphic horror movie is inserted. This should be interesting.

Paola

My new friend Paola from Bogotá accompanied me to the bus terminal in Lima. Both of us needed tickets to Cusco, Paola for that day and me for the following day. As luck would have it, Paola from Bogotá was my guardian angel for the day. Her big city skills helped us maneuver our way around the city with ease and her savviness with the walk-away got us tickets for just $25 for out predicted 22-hour trip.

Paola insisted that I choose a seat in the front of the bus saying that the panoramic view was something I could not miss. I considered it, but as I looked up at the cashier to confirm my seat, I noticed that Julieta was standing behind her. I jumped. Julieta reminded me that a seat in the middle of the bus on the right side was the safest. She was right. I have found that sitting in the front of the bus here is a little like being on that Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland. Except you are not at Disneyland. And it is not a ride.

I chose seat 24.

Hour 34: 10 p.m. Nasca, Peru. A mere 30% of the seats on the bus are occupied (which I feel is representative of the % of people looney enough to sit on a bus for 20+ hours) and yet middle-aged woman sits right next to me and proceeds to chat loudly on her cell phone. I give her a fake, close-lipped smiled and move.

There are a bunch of bus companies in the San Isidro area that will take you to Cusco. Civa, Cial, Ormeño, and Cruz del Sur are just a few that come to mind. I went with Cial, which seemed to be the cheapest, and got my ticket for just 90 soles (≈ $25). Bring your own food though, theirs is horrible.

Hour 46: Cruising through the Andes. Ten a.m. The middle-aged Peruvian woman in front of me complains of being hot. She tries to open the overhead window but can not reach. She asks for my help. I get one open.

Hour 47: The bus attendant lady comes up and asks who opened the overhead window. I do not like her demanding tone. Time to lay low.

Cusco

I was surprised to see Paola, Thursday´s guardian angel from Bogotá, waiting for me at the bus terminal in Cusco. She had gotten in exactly 24 hours before and wanted to make sure that I found a good hostel and got everything in order for my trip to Machu Picchu. Paola and her native-Colombianess helped really helped to keep me from being gringoed. Boy, did this woman like to haggle! After checking out three hostels she got me a private room with a private bathroom, cable TV and breakfast included, all for $8.00!!

Chyeah!

Cusco is cold. Especially at night. There was a time in my life when I only used the word "cold" to describe things like ice, snow, and liquid nitrogen, but two years on the Equatorial Pacific has a way of altering one´s perspective. In my defense, however, temperatures got as low as 40°F, which is still considered legitimately cold in some of my old circles.

My second impression of Cusco was that fact that the city was being disturbingly overrun by tourists. Of course the voices in my head and I convinced myself that I was not one of them, but man, these other people were really talking over the place. Everyone is on their way down to or back from Machu Picchu and there literally seemed to be a tourist for every local. Luckily, local Cusqueños welcome the masses of tourists as income generated by tourism is what the Incan capital thrives on.

The city is beautiful (albeit cold and touristy). It is centered with a plaza in the middle of a valley with orange-roof topped houses built all the way up the mountains around it. I was lucky enough to be invited to lunch at Paola´s Argentinean boyfriend´s house (what this woman saw in me is beyond me) which was about a ten-block walk up a mountain. Upon arriving to his place, I stood at the top of the steps doubled over and wheezing, thinking about how hunting down my own lunch would be more enjoyable that ever having to walk up those stairs again, when Paola told me to turn around. (Photo) Flippin sweet.

It would have been ideal to have been able to stay in Cusco for a few more days; there is just so much to see in this area. But Machu Picchu was calling, my vacation days were becoming fewer, and my budget was shaking its head and waving its left index finger at me. So by 6 a.m. the next morning I was packed up and ready to make the 6 hour trip through the Sacred Valley, and up passed Mount Victoria to Aguas Calientes.

I chose to take a van service from Cusco to Aguas Calientes. There are a few ways you can get to and from, bus and train among them, but Paola showed me that taking a van much more suited by budget. Where as the train will set you back about $120 roundtrip, taking a van ended up costing about $30 roundtrip. The van service is also a Machu Picchu tourism company that will arrange as much or as little of your tour as you would like. I opted to throw down 3 more dollars for them to have a hostel ready and booked for me once I got to Aguas Calientes, but if you would like they will book your tour guide, entrance to the park, and even your train ticket back from MP. I would recommend having them work out your entrance to the park, hostel and train ticket (I´ll explain in a minute), so that you are not running around like a chicken with your head cut off like this one really desperate girl I saw scrambling around that day.

The van seated 14 people and since I was the last one to make it to the meeting point I was rewarded with the very front seat between the driver and shotty, side straddling the stick shift. My van was filled with people from all over the world, which is why I find it so amusing that I experienced the most communicative misunderstanding with the girl from England.

"What´s your name?"

"Jennifer. And you?"

"Addex."

"No, AH-ddex."

"Oh, Ah-ddex." I pronounced the "ah" with my most refined voice, as if I were holding a tea cup.

"AL-EX."

"Oh! Alex! Nice to meet you..."

"Yeah..."

I like to imagine that at this very moment, somewhere across the pond, that Alex is recounting our little miscommunication to someone back home.

"...so then, mother, she called me Addex," she would say in her British accent, emphasizing "Addex" for effect.

"Addex?" would be her mother´s concerned reply, "why, what kind of a name is Addex?"

"Exactly. I would say, ´Alex´ and she just kept on asking, ´Addex? Addex?´"

"Oh dear." would be the Alex´s mother´s worried response, genuinely concerned about the silly American girl who just could not quite grasp the concept of simple English consonants.

The view through the mountains easily took my mind off of Alex´s accent and the stick shift in my left thigh. That, and the fact that we were at 10,000 ft on the side of a moutain, on a one-lane "road" with no guardrails. Our driver had a sophisticated system of warning oncoming traffic of our approach which consisted in laying on the horn seconds before entering every blind curve.

Dear Peru. How about a guardrail?

We eventually got up to 14,000 feet where the driver stopped, and we al jumped out to snap some pictures.

14,000 ft.

Aguas Calientes

The van was only able to take us as far as a town called Hidroelectrica; the path between there and Aguas Calientes is inaccessable by car. We were instructed to get out and walk along the train tracks and it´s a good thing because this walk is gorgeous. There is also an option to talk the train into Aguas Calientes but I wouldn´t do it if you can help it. The trail is surrounded by green mountains and crossed by two rivers. It is green and beautiful and if you are like me you will feel like you are getting your first little taste of Machu Picchu.

It was around 7 p.m. when we finally walked into the town of Aguas Calientes. I ran to buy my entrance to Machu Picchu (the ticket office closes at 9pm) and then the train ticket from Aguas Calients to Hidroelectrica (the train ticket is to take you back to HE from AC after your day at MP, because odds are, pretty as it may be, you won´t be up for the 2-hour walk), checked into the hostel and set my alarm for 3:30 a.m.

Yes, 3:30. You read that correctly.

Wayna Picchu (also: Huayna Picchu) is an additional set of Incan ruins built on the peak of a mountain that looms no less than 1,000 ft over Machu Picchu. In order to be allowed access to this peak, you have to be one of the first 400 people in line that day to enter the park as 400 is the daily limit of guests to Wayna Picchu. Since the first set of gates are opened to the public at 5 a.m., people roll out of bed and start to head that way as early as 4 in the morning. I set my alarm for 3:30 not only because I was told that the view from the top of WP was spectacular, but also because I am mysteriously drawn to any event that has a cut-off limit for entrees. In high school it was usually sporting events, in college it tended to be bars for drink specials, and this time I was going to channel all of my efforts into being one of the qualifying on that mountain.

Three-thirty came just as early as expected and I hurried to throw on my clothes and get out of the hostel. It was obviously still dark outside but the trail to the entrance was marked with little beams of light from people who had committed to getting the early start. I, of course, being the stellar planner that I am, did not have a flashlight (stop with the eyebrow). Instead, I chose to nonchalantly walk 5 or 6 paces behind a group with a headlamp, hoping that they would not notice the lurking girl mooching off of their light. They, of course, did.

"Are you...alone...?"

"Yeah..."

"You should join our group. You were following us, weren´t you."

"Yeah..."

So much for being inconspicuous.

Their "group" consisted of a girl from Madison, a boy from Mexico, and a girl from Slovakia, all exchange students studying in Lima. The four of us were among the first 50 people in line. Success. I expressed my relief to my new friends.

"Oh, this is not where they start to count," the Mexican student explained to me, "once they let us in here we have an hour-and-a-half walk up this mountain to the actual entrance of Machu Picchu. THAT´S where we have to be among the first 400."

I turned to look at the line of what seemed to be at least 200 people behind me, and it was growing. I had not been prepared for a sprint up a mountain at 5 in the morning, but what the heck. There is nothing like a little friendly race between tourists.

I turned around again to see people double-knotting their shoes and taking final swigs of water. Have they done this before? As soon as the officers opened the gates and started checking passports, elbows were out and people took off. In our own mini version of the Amazing Race, my Slovakian partner and I going by the title of "recently aquainted transcontinental friends", tourists sped-walked and jogged to the first set of big stone steps. There, the path got too narrow for more than 2 people to walk side-by-side, so my group of new friends and I split in to two. The Slovakian girl and I fell behind as she apparently had not yet become accustomed to the altitude. I, on the other hand, well, I didn´t get tired until after at least 8 or 9 steps. After that, my lungs started to burn in that special way that only 7,000 ft. can make them burn, and my legs started to feel like large slabs of rubber.

We kept on though, both of us seemingly finding our second wind, but not until a good crowd of people had already passed us. We kept on climbing up, some of the windy stone steps coming up as high as my knees. About 20 minutes into the hike though, my climbing partner misplaced her second wind and we were forced to stop and rest. As I took her water bottle off of her hands hoping it would get her to the top a little faster, I started to count the people passing by us as we rested. I guestimated that we were somewhere in the low hundreds of the pack due to our first stop 20 minutes earlier. I started at 117 just to play it safe. 118...119...120...red-faced, sweaty tourists worked their way passed us. 121...122...they gave us courteous nods in between deep breaths as if to say, "Nice day for a climb, ay?" But I understood their nods to really mean: "Dropping. Like. Flies. Stay right where you are, ladies."

130...131...I told my climbing partner in the nicest way possible that it was time to move. She nodded in agreement. Luckily for us, we too passed our fare share of bright-red, wheezing faces parked along the side of the trail.

We continued like this; climbing mostly at 15 minute intervals and then stopping to rest. As we stood there I would count the people passing by and give them a wink that said, "Hopefully see you before the finish line." They would smile back as if to say, "In your dreams, sister."

We followed the masses of people up the steps and by minute 60 the lower levels of oxygen reaching my brain due to the altitude caused it to wander into elaborate daydreams. I fantasized about my friend and I falling back to tourists #300 and 301, and then, just before the finish line, to #399. We would stop and look at each other, at first conflicted with the potential implications of our predicament, but then realize that we had only met 90 minutes earlier and would more than likely never see each other again. The two of us would break into a dead sprint towards the cashier at the ticket counter, exchanging the lead with every step. I, of course, would win by inches with my head first dive into the entrance gate as if it were home plate. The cashier and I would turn and shrug our shoulders as if to apologize to my former friend as I disappeared into the fog.

"How are you doing?" Ms. Slovakia asked me trying to catch her breath.

"I´m good, you?"

The end of our trek was signaled by a cheer from somewhere above us and 5 short minutes later, we had reached the entrance. The view was already remarkable, and we hadn´t even entered the park. Oh yeah, and we finished at #115 and 116.

The line at the entrance to Machu Picchu

Machu Picchu

And now, though I know I have already written your eyes off (I know that you are still with me, Mom), I must tell you about Machu Picchu - the main event. This is the view I was met with first walking in.

The city had a building for almost every function any modern day city would need. There are houses and huts, temples, commercial centers, plazas, and even prisons. One of the coolest things about MP to me is that the whole city was contructed without a drop of mortar. All of the stones were sculpted to fit perfectly together and have remained that way for now more than 50 years.

"Wait, a second, Eik, did you have a guide?"

Thanks for your question. The funny thing about guides is that you can hear them even if you didn´t "pay" for them. Persay.

"Well, that´s not very honest now, is it?"

Excellent point. But I find few things dishonest with standing in an area minding my own business and just happening to overhear the explanations of somebody else´s guide.

I´m joking. Kind of. I say that if you are with a group a guide is definitely worth the 30 or so dollar investment for the day, but if you are flying sola with a tight budget like yours truly, keep in mind that eavesdropping is free.

The Incas had effective social welfare systems where food and clothing were stored and later distributed to the most in need, a slick courier system that got messages all the way to Quito in no more than 7 days, and a community service system that was responsible for the infrastructure and upkeep of the city. There are more than 100 structures to walk through and learn about all while taking in the fact that you are witnessing an incredible view at 8,000 ft.

After wandering around MP for a couple of hours, I decided to cash in my golden ticket and head across town to Wayna Picchu. When you get to the "Wayna Picchu control" as they call it, they check your ticket to make sure you are one of the people who busted their @$$ at 5 a.m. and then they ask you to sign in. Once you are let in you can look forward to another 90 minute hike uphill, only this time it is at your leisure; getting to the top is no longer a race.

I got to the top of WP at around 9 a.m. and it took a good 30 minutes for the clouds to part. Once they did, I understood what all of the rave was about. Not only do you get to check out another set of ruins and experience a city that is literally built in the clouds, but you get a unique aerial view of Machu Picchu.

Also, if you are like me, the large boulders and little caverns on Wayna Picchu will have you running around like it´s an adult jungle gym. Actually, I take that back. "Running" is not an appropriate verb at all. I think that I mentioned that this place is high, but I don´t know that I mentioned how narrow the steps are, how few railings there are, and how one misstep on this mountain could send you back down it a little faster than you would be comfortable with. I am not exaggerating, by the way. I was climbing down some windy, narrow steps with a huge rock face on one side and 6 inches to a half-mile drop on the other, thinking that I was going to discover a cool little cavern or something, only to find that the steps lead to nothing. Well, except certain death, I guess. I literally got to the bottom, waited for my heart to return to its rightful position in my chest, and inched my way back up. Those with fear of heights need not apply.

Here are a few more pics!

If my van tour people hadn´t have told us to be back down to meet them at 2 p.m. in Hidroelectrica, I probably could have stayed at MP until dark. But I did, in fact, have a van to catch. So, I caught the bus ($8.00) from MP down to Aguas Calientes, and hopped on the train ($12.00) back down to Hidroelectrica. Once in the van, my 3:30 a.m. start to the day got together with my 5 a.m. race at 7,000 ft. and convinced the day´s adrenaline to finally chill out. I was out cold within 20 minutes and in and out of consciousness throughout the entire 6-hour drive back to Cusco.

Hour 50: Nearly full bus heading back to Lima. Fidgety seatmate.

Hour 72: Tuesday the 24th. Just rolling back into Lima. Looking to spend the night and finish some unfinished business I have with a ceviche and a Pisco sour.

Lima (Round 2)

While wandering around my last night in Lima looking for the perfect ceviche, came across a five star hotel. In front of the hotel were two gentlemen. An older guard gentleman and a younger, greeter gentleman. We made eye contact which opened the door for the whole "where are you from and what are you doing here" conversation. When I confessed to them my addiction to the local ceviche they asked me what else I had tried in Lima. When I had a hard time thinking of anything else they laughed and suggested that I try a traditional dish called anticuchos. The younger boy, we´ll call him Andres, explained that anticuchos were cuts of cow heart and a must-try before leaving Peru. I decided that Andres was right and accepted his invitation to join him after work to go get a plate of anticuchos.

Do NOT knock it ´til you try it!

So that is how I found myself on my last night in the country: sharing a portion of cow heart (grilled which was a pleasant surprise and served with french fries, bonus!) with a new friend, while telling stories about where we came from - all the while joking about how ridiculously unromantic it is to share a plate of grilled animal organs on a (very hypothetical) first date.

Hour 73: Last leg of the trip. Currently eating: leftover anticuchos. Current movie: the one where Vin Diesel shoots everyone but never seems to get hit himself.

*****

Once safely back in my apartment, I throw down my duffle bag relieved not to have to haul it around for another minute. My backpack, on the other hand, sits in the corner looking deflated and even hurt, seemingly wondering why the duffle bag is always included in on the fun. I would explain to him that he makes me too conspicuous; that there is no way I could travel under my other identities with him always peeking over my shoulder, but he would never understand. My hiking shoes seem to read my mind, and also feeling left out, sassily explain to me that lugging around the dufflebag instead of the backpack and pretending to be from the area is a lot like putting on one of those masks with the glasses, big nose, fluffy black brows and mustache**; I am not fooling anyone and I look silly trying. Maybe my shoes are right. But if I can keep people guessing, or if takes just a split-second longer to figure out what is behind the mask, I´m all for it.

* (To get) gringoed -verb (green-goed)

1. to be charged unfairly high prices of based on the fact that one hails from a different country and is assumed to be on vacation

2. to be taken advantage of

You paid how much for that shirt? Boy did you get gringoed.

** (see: Groucho mask)

Home Sweet Home

2011-01-25T18:31:00.001-08:00

Fact: It has been over 2 months since I last blogged.

Fact: Each year 56 to 100 million cats and 54 million dogs are born in the United States.*

The blog doesn’t seem like that big of a deal now, does it? Alright, I have a good excuse. I was so busy spending 3 fabulous weeks in the States over the holidays that writing really was not much of a priority. But lucky for you, I am back in Ecuador with nothing but taaahm (southern accent). So, as somebody very wise once said, “Let’s get it started, in here.”

Ah, the United States. Land of the Chipoltle burrito, The People’s Court, and Tivo. Home sweet home. Some friends and family were curious to see how I felt being back in the States for the first time in over a year. I have to admit I was pretty curious too. That said, I am not even going to use the phrase. You know the one: it starts with an “r” and rhymes with schreverse scrulture schrock. I won’t use it because I think that it is something that should be reserved for much more extreme cases than returning to the States after living in Ecuador for 18 months. Like, say I were to move to an island with only 12 inhabitants whose diet consisted of iced tea and baked potatoes and who only communicated through song. I could see how going home to the States after a stint with culture X could cause one to experience: “psychosomatic and psychological consequences of the readjustment process to the primary culture.” **

So no, I was not so overwhelmed with United States culture upon reentering the country that I retreated to a corner and refused all attention. That said, I did realize that I had developed a few habits that I found especially hard to break.

Mumbling in English

The nice thing about living in a country whose national language is different than your own is being able to spout off in your first language whenever somebody crosses you the wrong way or gets on your nerves. Take the following hypothetical situations for example.

Situation #1: Woman cuts me of in the market on our way to the last mango.

Me (In English): Oh, right. Real mature, lady.

Situation #2: Guy headed the wrong way on a one-way narrowly avoids clipping me with bike.

Me: Hey! Watch it, bucko!

I have found that mumbling in English in such situations does a couple of things for me. First, it lets the offending party know that I am irritated, without allowing them the opportunity to rebut or defend themselves. And second, it allows me to express myself in a way that even after almost two years here, I am still unable to do in Spanish. The best snide comment I can think of in response to situation one is something that would roughly translate to, “Hey!” and “Careful!” for situation two. I have tried to spice these up by following the comments with a fist shake or disgruntled glare, but have found that it doesn’t quite do the trick. Letting out my frustration in English is much better for mental health.

What is not so good for mental health is drawing attention to yourself because you become so accustomed to doing this that you continue to do it upon return to the States.

Situation #3: While patiently waiting for my luggage at baggage claim in Minneapolis, text messaging man nudges passed me and scoots his way between myself and the carousel.

Me: (under breath) No, don’t even worry about it. You’re clearly the only one who needs his bags anyway.

Man: (turns around*surprised look*)

Me: No, heh…what am I even doing here? *Looks around, pretends to check watch and retreats to other side of carousel*

Throwing the toilet paper in the trash can.

In Ecuador (and many other South American countries), toilet paper is not to be flushed down the toilet. If you ask people why this is, they will give you some long, drawn-out explanation about the plumbing system but I don’t buy it. My theory? Flushing the toilet paper down the toilet will cause it to self-destruct with you on top of it. Not only would this be a messy and painful situation, but somewhat embarrassing as well. That’s why it is in your best interests to just make a habit of throwing the TP in the trashcan that is conveniently located alongside the toilet.

The good thing is that these self-destructing toilets are only located in South America and on select islands in the Pacific. Since in the U.S. it is perfectly acceptable to flush the paper you would think that I would have had no problem returning to the bathroom habits I had before joining the Peace Corps. No such luck. I realized that this was no easy habit to break. Living on the verge of catastrophe for over a year had turned something routine like using the bathroom into an all-out internal struggle. It’s like when something really traumatic happens to you. Say, you go swimming with sharks and one bites you. Are you just going to jump back in the ocean try to make nice with those big fish again? Maybe. If you’re an idiot. “Just a second,” you say, “you are not making any sense. And you’ve never had a toilet explode under you anyway.” Maybe not in “real life” I haven’t, but I have in my imagination and let me tell you, it is not pretty.

(Not) driving.

Something else that proved to be quite habit forming was relying solely on public transportation. Not only do we not own cars or any kind of motorized vehicle here, we are simply not allowed to drive. Anything. Ever. So was I a tad nervous when on my second day home my sister tossed me her car keys and told me she would not be able to drive me to my hair appointment in Minneapolis? Yes. Yes, you could say that I was. But I caught the keys and told myself that it couldn’t be any more difficult than getting back on a bike. I mean, right? Note: Driving in downtown Minneapolis in the middle of winter for the first time in two years is not like getting back on a bike. Though maneuvering through the cities proved to be somewhat challenging, I think my time on the freeway was the biggest nightmare of all. I received honks and obscene gestures from the elderly and visually challenged and shot them terrified, wide-eyed looks in response as I thought about what kind of car I would be repaying my sister with once it was all said and done. Minnesota Nice was thrown out the window as it seemed that everyone on the road was at least two hours late to surgery. Here’s my defense:

a) it was snowing

b) the roads were slick

c) keeping your speed around 50mph (even on the freeway) is good for the engine

d) I was lost

e) my feelings were hurt

That said, I would like to offer my deepest apologies to anyone in the far right lane on I 94 between the hours of 10 am – 10 pm on December 9^th. Yes, I understood that speed limit was 70 and no, there was nothing wrong with my car.

Leaving home was bittersweet; saying goodbye to my family again was tough, but I was more than ready to get back to unlimited seafood, tropical weather, and TP in the trashcan. Today Avelina invited me over for lunch. I sat down at the table and she served me a big, steaming bowl of cow hoof soup.

Ah, Ecuador. Home sweet home.

* Animal testing statistics: buzzle.com
** Reverse culture shock: Wikipedia

Chuuuta

2010-11-21T18:16:00.000-08:00

“Chuta ” is a regional term used to express the acknowledgement that one a) is disappointed, b) has made a mistake, or c) neglected to do something. I have found that the length of time that you hold out the ooo (like snooze) sound directly correlates with one´s level of disappointment. For example, lets say someone is headed to get groceries, but halfway to the market realizes he/she has forgotten the grocery list. A simple chuta in this situation would do just fine. Now lets say that same person, now halfway home from shopping realizes that he/she has forgotten oh, say... a child at the market. A more prolonged chuuuuuta would be an appropriate reaction. I, for example have recently realized that it has been more than two months since the last time I blogged. On the chuta scale this would probably fall somewhere between the forgotten grocery list and the neglected child. Granted I am sure few people besides my mother have noticed how long it has been since I have written, the fact that you are still reading tells me that you are at least slightly interested in what has been up down here. That, or you’re just really bored. Either way, let me get you up to speed.

Nothing rings in your one-year in country celebration like an attempted coup. As I mentioned in a previous post, September was my training group’s mid-service conference. The conference itself was a pretty good time. There was a lot of time to catch up with volunteers, discuss projects, and brainstorm about ways to make our second year of service successful. Once the three-day conference had ended, many of us were instructed to hang out in Quito for an extra day or two for annual health checkups. So as we were kickin it in the hostel enjoying hot showers and cable TV, we got a call from the Peace Corps office saying that there had been some rioting in Quito and that we were not to leave the hostel for any reason. We flipped on the news to see somewhat of a situation developing miles down the road from us. It had been said that earlier that day the president, Rafael Correa, had passed legislation taking away police bonuses and making it significantly more difficult for them to become promoted within the force. So, the cops went on strike. No big deal right? I mean, people strike all the time. Well what made the issue a big deal is that when the police strike some pretty important responsibilities go unfulfilled. Like the security of the country, for example. The airports were closed, department stores were looted, and the president was held captive for the day in a police hospital where, while hanging out of the window, he made dramatic speeches challenging the cops to take him on. No president plus no cops equals raised safety concerns in a country whose two largest cities can be pretty sketch under completely normal circumstances. Not to mention that a coup, if successful would have meant that instead of packing up to head back to site, we would be packing up to head to the airport and back to the United States. The whole ordeal came to a head at the end of the day when the police and the military opened fire on each other. Five officers were killed and about fifty injured as a result. After a day of chaos, however, things just about went back to normal about as fast as they had gone sour. The military took charge of the nation’s security and Correa returned to his presidential palace. We were relieved to receive the news that we would be sent back to our sites early the next morning. Happy mid-service to us!

I also found a puppy sometime around the end of September. She and her brother were up for grabs outside of a school in a friend´s site. She was filthy and flea and tick infested and too adorable not to take home with me. Here is her profile:

Name: Viche Marie
Alias: Viche Maria
Age: Fourish months
Breed: Yes
Nicknames: Princess, Baby Love, Vichecita Mi Hijita Chiquitita
Likes: Dumpster diving, bike rides, the neighbor puppy
Dislikes: Baths, bedtime, leashes

In local news, the bridge that had been being built since I got to site last year is finally finished. It now connects my town with Bahía de Caráquez, the more developed city across the bay, and let me tell you, infrastructure is exciting. There was plenty of hoopla surrounding the completion of the project. The president came out, there were fireworks, as well as an all-night party on the beach. Ecuadorian tourists have been coming in from all over the country to walk the bridge and get a couple of pictures on it. Though this seemed a bit silly to me at first I tried to think of a bridge that I would be excited enough about to take a picture with. The Golden Gate Bridge came to mind which made me think of Full House. Which made me think of that episode when Michelle climbs up on the jungle gym at school to prove that she isn´t a baby after Danny puts her in an embarrassing hat and kisses her goodbye in front of everyone. Once she got up there though, she realized that she really was a baby and needed help down. I think they should have left her up there. The point is I think now I understand the hype. I would totally take a picture on the Golden Gate Bridge. The new bridge is the longest in the country (just over a mile) and connects the entire northern coast of Ecuador making about a two or three hour difference in travel time from before it was built. Here are a few pictures of the bridge festivities:

In just under three weeks I will land in Minneapolis and embark on a 21-day Minnesota vacation. It is hard to stay focused here having home in my sights for the first time in a year-and-a-half. Especially when certain people Skype you eating chocolate pudding saying that you can have some when you make it out to visit them. I mean really? Chocolate pudding? How am I supposed to focus? It’s all good though. For the next 17 days (not that there is a countdown or anything) I will keep my schedule as busy as possible in an attempt to keep my mind off of chocolate pudding and all of the other wonderful things I will consume and fabulous people I will see the beginning of next month. Won’t be long now!

Rodrigo, my bike, was stolen on Friday. Unlike the majority of the time when I lose things, I can’t really kick myself about this one. I had put the bike in my friend’s yard, closed the (lockless) gate and headed to work across the street. When I came back to get it about 4 hours later, the gate was open and Rodrigo was gone. I mean, it was broad daylight and there were people in the house, so whoever took the bike really flippin wanted it. I could not count how many times since I bought the bike last November people warned me that somebody was going to try and steal it. Without knowing it, I had even warned myself in a letter we were told to write to ourselves in training: “…and even though you are a year in don’t get too comfy with your $, camera, etc. because you know that’s when they get jacked.” I think my bike fell under etc. Rod and I had a great one-year run and all I have now are the memories of the places we saw and the time we spent together. So cue P.Diddy’s “I´ll be Missin You” and roll the picture montage of the good times. Here’s to you, Roddy.

Rodrigo Bike, November 2009 - November 2010

More Bizarre Foods

2010-09-19T16:40:00.000-07:00

I can not eat anything new without thinking about Andrew Zimmern. I mean, that time he ate bull testicles? Classic. Or what about the beating fish heart? So good. After seeing just about every episode of his show (pre-Peace Corps), there is no way I could turn down anything that I am offered here without feeling like a huge loser. I mean, how can you say no to a little grilled cow intestine when someone out there is eating maggot infested cheese? That’s right. You can’t.

Ecuadorians eat a fair share of rice. And when I say “fair share” I mean that here, rice is not the side dish. Small pieces of meat and little portions of salad take second and third place to steaming heaps of rice. With so much of their diet depending on rice, it’s no wonder that Ecuadorians have given the different states of cooked rice different names. As you probably know, arroz is the Spanish word for rice. Here in Ecuador, there is arroz, and then there is cocolón or pegado – the hard layer of overcooked rice that sticks to the sides of the pot. I know what you’re thinking: Yeah, overdone rice…real bizarre… And you’re right. Hard rice is not the most exotic of dishes. But what makes cocolón so strange to me is that where in the States we generally avoid whatever is left sticking to the side of the pan, many Ecuadorian prefer this part of the pot of rice to the soft, easily digested part. The colcolón is favored to the point that I have seen pre-dinnertime arguments break out between siblings over the last piece. It is favored to the point that when eating out, it would not be uncommon to hear someone order their meal with an extra slab of cocolón.

When I lived with a host family it took me awhile to understand why my host mother would serve me my dinner with a big chunk of overcooked rice. Did I do something wrong? I would ask myself. Is she angry with me? It didn’t take me long to realize, however, that I was being served the cocalón because as the “guest” I was being given what she considered to be the best portion of food. My mother too would always scrape herself out a large piece of hard rice. I marveled at how, despite all of her dental work, she never hesitated to work through those big pieces of tough rice. And after a couple months of always being served cocolón with my meal, I developed a taste for the overcooked part of the rice as well. I mean, it’s tasty and a great option for the modern individual who is craving rice, but on-the-go. My relationship with cocolón ended abruptly though, as I have discovered that eating it is also a great way to detect cavities. My friend Avelina swears that munching on overcooked chunks of rice twice a day does no damage to teeth, but I have to beg to differ. For the time being, I am laying off the cocolón. At least until my next dentist appointment.

If I eat something strange in site, it is usually prepared by Avelina. Avelina is a 54 year-old mother of four (in addition to two young grandchildren) and definitely one of my best friends in San Vicente. She usually keeps her meals simple – lots of soups, fried fish and plantains – but surprises me every once in awhile with something that I never expected to see on the menu. On this particular day, the surprise was in the soup.

“What’s in the soup?” I asked, leaning over the pot.

“We’re having mondongo soup, have you had it before?”

“Don’t think so, what’s modongo?” I asked, mispronouncing the word.

“Mondongo,” she corrected me, “is from the inside of the cow,” she explained motioning towards her stomach.

“Oh right. What part though?”

“The inside!”

I realized that either Avelina was being purposely vague for my sake or I just wasn’t meant to know what was in the soup of the day. I left the conversation there. Avelina moved the large piece of mystery innards from the pot to the cutting board and chopped it up in to bite-sized chunks. As she chopped, I speculated about where inside the cow the mondongo had been taken from. It was long and thick, pearl-colored, and almost cylindrical in shape which automatically made me think intestines. But I know the word for intestines, and it´s not mondongo…it´s tripa…which means tripe…I thought. Tripe is intestines…isn’t it? Dangit. Where is Wikipedia when I need it. I gave Avelina my best “can’t wait to dig in!” smile as she returned the chopped up pieces of mondongo to the pot.

Once lunch was ready all of the kids were called to the table and we said grace. While the rest of the family thanked God for the food in front of them, I said my own prayer asking God to please reveal to me what was in the soup. I squinted one eye open half-hoping to see a message written in salt or the name of the soup floating in the peas. No such luck. We all dug in. As usual when someone is a guest in an Ecuadorian’s home for a meal, I was given an extra healthy serving of mondongo in my soup. The consistency was chewy, kind of how I would imagine pencil erasers to be if boiled for awhile, and I was happy to discover that the mondongo itself didn’t have too much of a taste – it had basically just absorbed all of the flavours in the broth. Hallelujah. This was not going to be so bad.

Halfway through the soup, my cell phone rang. Seeing that it was a good PVC friend, I excused myself from the table. Maybe she knew what was in my soup.

“Hey.”

“Hey, what are you up to?”

“Lunch with Avelina.”

“Oh yeah? What are you guys having?”

“Caldo de mondongo. Do you have any idea what that is?”

*Long pause*

“Yeah…isn’t that cow rectum…?”

*Long pause*

“I mean I could be wrong,” she continued, “but, I’m pretty sure it’s the rectum. Don’t worry though, they wash it out really well with lemons and laundry detergent.”*

We hung up, I returned to the table and picked up my spoon. As I looked down at my soup the pieces of cow insides still floated around, but not innocently as they had been before. Now they bobbed up and down maliciously; laughing at my ignorance and reminding of all the good reasons to brush up on my animal anatomy in Spanish.

Avelina displying the mondongo for a picture.

There are some times though, when knowing all of the Spanish vocabulary in the world will not help you identify what you are about to eat. Sometimes, when you are out in a small town in Ecuador, without your dictionary, no Wikipedia or high school Spanish teacher in sight (What up, Ms. Fischer!), with a new, unrecognizable entrée in front of you, the only way to learn is to eat. The word rellena in Spanish can be translated to mean “filled” or “stuffed” in English. “Filled or stuffed with what?” you might ask. Great question.

It was another quiet afternoon at Avelina´s and I had shown up à la Eddie Haskell, just in time for lunch. Avelina told me that today for lunch we would be having rellena and rice. I snuck a peek at the frying pan to see what looked like some variation of sausage sizzling on the stove.

We sat down to eat and it took me about a third of a bite to realize that the sausage I had in front of me was a little different than what you’d find in your grocer’s freezer. The consistency was much grainier than I expected and pieces were falling out of the casing. The taste to me was a little bit of a cross between cooking oil and metal.** I tried really hard not to make the face that you make when you take a big sip of your Sprite thinking it’s water, but I must not have tried hard enough.

“You don’t like it?” Avelina looked concerned.

Busted.

“No, that’s not it. I’m just a little surprised. What is this again?”

“It’s rellena.”

“Right. Filled with what?”

Avelina explained to me as everyone else ate that rellena is made when the blood of a cow, pig etc. is chilled to the point of coagulation and then mixed with pieces of rice, plantain, and meat. The mixture is then used to fill sausage casings, fried, and served with rice.

I have to say that as usual, Avelina´s explanation made it a little more difficult for me to get lunch down. But by keeping in mind that there are few gestures ruder than not eating the food that is offered to you, I was just about able to finish it all. I helped with the dishes and headed to the internet to do some research.

I found that as strange of an idea as rellena seemed to me, the dish is not so bizarre to the rest of the world. Nearly every continent has some version of blood sausage, and of course in some cultures it is considered a delicacy (I feel like they can say this about anything though. I mean, who’s really going to know?).

Andrew Zimmern has a motto. At the end of every episode he signs off saying, “And remember, if it looks good, eat it!” I think that it’s a great motto and it obviously works for him. But in some cases (read: cow rectum soup, blood sausage, etc.) what is put in front of you is not always going to seem super appetizing. For those situations, I would like to leave you with a motto of my own that has yet to let me down:

“If it seems edible and you are decently acquainted with the person who prepared it, try to make conversation until somebody else takes the first bite, watch their reaction intently for at least fifteen seconds, and then politely get as much of it down as you can!”

*The mondongo can come anywhere from the stomach, all the way down to the end of the digestive tract. The possibilities!

**But don´t just take my word for it! Get out there and try it for yourself!

That was August?

2010-09-19T10:05:00.001-07:00

I need more Glee. I’m not going to tell you how fast I went through the first season or how many times I watched it, but I will say that some of my social life was sacrificed. After scouring Quito for a weekend about two months ago (ie: asking in three video stores, shrugging, and giving up), I had decided that this show would have to be one enjoyed post Peace Corps. Until a friend of mine returned from her vacation in the States with a brand new copy of season one. Glee does a perfect job of illustrating a philosophy I have believed in for over twenty-four years: any situation in life can be turned in to an opportunity to participate in organized song and dance. Not to say that the idea was basically mine but…I’m just sayin. I need more Glee.

That was August? (And half of September?) Fastest 31 days ever? Maybe last month just seemed to fly by because there was a lot going on. For me, August was a month of visitors. My college friend Angie and her boyfriend were first. Since they had planned on spending a long weekend checking out my site, I gave them the V.I.P. four-day tour of San Vicente (one that some would argue could be done in 45 minutes) and they (unnecessarily) expressed their gratitude by stocking my pantry with Wheat Thins and Doritos. Angie and Rick were my first visitors to come from the States, so it was great to see familiar faces and show them firsthand what my life has been like for the past year.

After Rick and Angie came Corey, a new PCV fresh out of training from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Due to some wacky miscommunication, Corey was stranded in San Vicente for the weekend. Lucky for her I still had the extra mattress from Angie and Rick´s visit. Lucky for me she had the new Carrie Underwood album on her ipod. When she let me listen to “Cowboy Casanova” more than 10 times straight without looking at me sideways, I knew that we would get along just fine.

And just when I thought that August would come to an end with a quiet weekend alone in the apartment, a couple of PCV friends called to say they were coming to the beach for the weekend. We had a good time cooking with a campfire outside my apartment, eating copious amounts of cake and guacamole (not together), and engaging in intense games of spoons. It was a full house, but we like it that way.

August was also cool because I decided that I would be heading home for a three-week visit in December. Am I setting myself up for failure by going straight from summer on the coast of Ecuador to winter in Minnesota? Possibly. Will it be worth it to eat Chipotle, watch bad reality TV with my sister, spend Christmas with the fam and meet my adorable niece for the first time? You betchya. Three months and counting!

A week ago I was biking home from after school when I saw a black fur ball on the side of the road. I stopped to see if the fur ball was alive. When I realized that it was I had no choice but to take it home and name it while I looked for a new home for it. It’s a kitten by the way. Viche (veech-ay) (also the name of my province’s favorite peanut-based seafood soup), and I spent 4 wonderful days together. She had a cozy bed, a homemade litter box, a luxurious dining room, and a personal gym. I was avidly looking for a nice home for her (ie: no little boys, male cats, or hungry dogs) and mentioned her to a PCV close by. She came over to check her out and the rest is history. I am happy to have found her a good home, and I am sure Viche (now Cleo) is happy to be living a life unimaginable to an Ecuadorian stray kitten. Here are a couple pics of our short time together:

August also marked our Omnibus’s one year in site. This means that we are now on our way downhill in respect to our service here in Ecuador. One year in site also means it’s time for our mid-service conference, where we will have the opportunity to catch up with each other, indulge in hot showers, discuss projects, fill cavities and deparasite among other things. Mid-service will take place at the end of this month in Quito and you can bet your bottom dollar that I will be on the hunt for season two of Glee (is it even out yet?).

Oh and I should probably clear something up in respect to my last post. After more than a handful of people asked me how things were going with my cockroach-killing neighbor, I realized that maybe I had made it sound like that interaction had the potential to go somewhere. My bad. While I found him to be handsome and smooth (oh so very smooth), I have no plans of adding any new names to the family Secret Santa hat. And if something were to change, I would be sure to let the necessary people know before blogging about it. ;)

How are things going work-wise? Not too bad. I continue to give sex-ed/HIV AIDS talks at the high school, self-esteem workshops at an elementary school, help out at the special needs school, and am hanging in there with the after school program. Basketball is going fine as well, but we haven’t practiced with a couple of the teams for about a month. I am having a hard time getting the school to lend me the key to the court where we were practicing (basically the new lady janitor has it out for me – I am longing for the days when the janitor was a guy) so we have decided to take a break for this month. I have, however, found an interested group of kids in the neighborhood where I live. We have been shooting around a couple of days a week. The best part about this group is that they practice…even when I’m not there. Which naturally makes me want to seek the paperwork to adopt each and every one of them. Here’s a pic of my new peeps!

And before I go, here are a few things I can never have enough of here, just in case you are super bored one afternoon and find forty or so dollars laying around that you can think of no use for:

- Flip flops (Old Navy)

- Markers

- New music

Thanks in advance!

Write!

Can I have your number? Can I have it?

2010-07-31T21:54:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: This blog post is based on observation of the men in San Vicente, Manabí, Ecuador and is in no way representative of the entire Ecuadorian male population.

Disclaimer: The above statement was made to be politically correct and not because the blogger believes it to be true.

If I could describe Ecuadorian men in one word it would be: opportunistic. I think the word opportunistic is most appropriate because of the Ecuadorian male’s unique way of taking any situation and turning it in to an opportunity to (in no particular order):

- strike up a conversation
- get your number, or
- ask for your hand in marriage.

The way men here approach women was a major culture shock issue for me. I found that there was no situation deemed inappropriate for flirting, even if you were not flirting back. I decided to write a manual, for those who may actually be seeking this type of attention, of some strategies I have found to be foolproof in terms of attracting male attention in this country.

How to Get an Ecuadorian Man to Hit on You*

1) Make eye contact, either purposefully or accidentally
2) Breathe

The great things about these strategies do not have to be used together; they are both equal in effectiveness meaning there will be no problem if you choose one or the other. And if you decide to use them simultaneously, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

For example, if I go to the store to buy avocados, it would not be unusual for a fellow (male) grocery shopper to say, “Hello! I see you like avocados. Can I have your number?” One time I was walking through the market when I made eye contact with an older male store owner. I smiled as I was passing by and he blurted out, “MARRY ME!! TAKE ME WITH YOU TO THE STATES!!” I just giggled and as I walked away his voice followed me around the corner: “I´LL PAY FOR EVERYTHIIIIIIING…!!”

Once the men in my site realized that I wasn’t about to marry anyone and that I would be more likely to follow a parade of lemmings off of a cliff than fall for the avocado line, they got more creative. I don’t know if they have just started to say this to me, or if they have been saying it all along and I just started to notice, but their new favorite pick-up line is, are you ready for this? “Don’t fall off of your bike!” This is usually followed by a seductive stare and an elbow jab to a nearby buddy.

I know what you’re thinking: “Eik, you’re hot and everything, and I know you just got those new braids, but, is there a particular reason (besides your bomb hair) that the men there are all ´bout it bout it´”? Yes. As you can probably imagine, many Ecuadorian men look at women from the U.S. and see green. Card, that is. Well, they think we are loaded too. But mostly, they look at the United States and see a plethora of opportunities in a booming economy and minimal chances of failure. Becoming romantically involved with a gringa is the first step toward that plane ticket. Well, that and they think we’re super hot.

About 8 weeks ago I had a cockroach trapped under a cup in my bathroom for a month. Stay with me; this is important to the rest of the story. If it would have showed up in any other room of my apartment I would have off´ed it in a second (ie: stand 4 or more ft. away and spray enough poison in its general direction to kill a medium-sized farm animal), but the raised entrance to my bathroom creates a pit much like the one in Gladiator. This turns a task as simple as killing an insect, lizard etc. in to something more like a fight to the death. So, I did what any other perfectly sane person would do: I named the cockroach Carlson and trapped it under a cup. I trapped the roach under a cup because it was too big to kill and I honestly thought that after a couple days it would give up and die. Silly me. If I had to choose one thing to share with you from this experience, one thing that you must never forget as long as you are on this earth, it would have to be this: cockroaches never die. When my PCV friend told me she was coming to visit me for the weekend I felt compelled to get rid of the cockroach for fear of having to explain why I was too much of a spaz to just kill it. I found a piece of cardboard, grabbed the glass and went to work.

Present Day:
Just playin this was like three weeks ago. So I am holding my little cockroach between a cup and a piece of cardboard. As I walked out of the door you could just feel roach’s nervous energy as its time in captivity was coming to an end. He looked at me with eyes that said both “thank-you” and “I’ll be back.” I walked about three blocks away from my apartment (thought about making it a mile, but that would have just been silly) to assure that when, not if, the cockroach decided to seek its revenge, it would have a hard time locating me. I set the cup on the ground and assumed a position that would remind you a lot of a relay sprinter waiting for a hand off. I had to release the cockroach and get the heck out of there. I lifted the cup and took off. I got about 3 strides away when I heard a male voice. “Whatchya got there?”

I thought about just pretending I hadn’t heard him and continuing to run home, but realized that to the untrained eye I was pushing thirteen on a crazy person scale to ten and I needed a chance to redeem myself. I coolly headed back to the site of the cockroach release and smiled at the man that was walking towards me. I was surprised to see the cockroach still in the exact spot that I had left it, clearly overwhelmed by its first taste of freedom.

“Oh this? Ha ha, its just a little cockroach that I found this morning.”

The man, tall, dark, and probably in his late 20´s, looked down at the still gigantic roach despite the fact that it hadn’t eaten in a month.

“You have to kill that you know.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, liking this guy already.

“That type of cockroach bites causing all of your skin to fall off.”

Ok, I’m sure that was a little dramatic, but any enemy of the cockroach is a friend of mine. The man extended his leg and smashed Carlson with the heel of his shoe. The irony of the last 4 minutes of the insect’s life made me think of Atlanis Morisette.

“So, where are you from?”

“The United States.”

“Really? That’s cool, where do you live?”

Oh, this guy was smooth. First he kills my cockroach (one of the best pick-up techniques I’ve seen to date) then he slips in the typical conversation starter. Usually, by the time I am this far into the conversation with an Ecuadorian man, a miniature Britney Spears appears on my left shoulder and starts to sing “womanizer” into my ear. But not this time. No, this guy was so good, Brtiney didn’t even see him coming. Before I knew it, we were in front of my house having a glass of water.

“Hey so, do you have a phone? Think I could get your number?”

I waited for Britney to tell him off, but she just looked at me, shrugged her shoulders and said, “well?”

A year ago I would have just looked at the ground, mumbled something about my phone only being for government use and backed away. But now I just sat there. Could he have my number…?

I snapped back to reality.

“Oh, well…my phone…uh…doesn’t really, work. Right now.”**

“Oh, alright. Well, maybe I’ll see you later then.”

“Sure.”

My friend started to walk away and I walked in to my house. Sure? Who the heck was I?

So, what’s the point? Why the long, drawn out story about cockroaches and your weird relationship with Britney Spears? The point is that although the men here have a method of picking up women that is, er...simple, it has a way of wearing on you. So Mom, don’t be too surprised if I come home with more than a nice tan and a recipe for fried fish.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

* Available in stores late August 2011

** Why don´t you just give out your number? The problem with giving your number to Ecuadorian men is that, unlike men in the States, they will call. And call. And then call again. So if you are going to give out your number, you better be sure it´s to somebody that you want to talk to.

President Correa

2010-07-31T21:49:00.000-07:00

San Vicente has a small airstrip that I noticed soon after I arrived to site. I also noticed that planes never used it. I think I went about 7 months before I actually saw a plane take off from that runway. One day, I jokingly asked one of my kid friends what the point of the airstrip was if planes hardly ever used it. The kid told me that the main purpose of the airstrip was not for average planes to come and go, but more so for the President to come and go. The thought of the President of Ecuador taking the time to come to San Vicente made me laugh at the time, but I guess when you are in charge of a country the size of Colorado, it’s not too difficult to make your rounds.

The other day I biked over to Nueva Esperanza, one of the nieghborhoods I work in, to open the after school program. Like I do everyday, I went to Carmen´s house, which is the woman that lives right across from the building, to get the keys to open up. Oddly, the front door and windows were shut. A young kid saw me standing there confused outside the door and yelled across the street that they were up the road.

“Where?” I asked, looking for something more specific.

“Up the road!” He repeated, confused as to whether or not I had heard him the first time.

Since these are pretty good directions by Ecuadorian standards (a country that feels things like “just a little bit further,” “over there,” and a double-lip point constitute as adequate directions) I picked up my bike and decided to go “up the road” to look for Carmen.

I rode about two blocks and as I turned the corner I saw what looked like half of San Vicente standing gathered on the road, eating sandwiches. I rode my bike into the crowd and tapped an older lady on the shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

“The President is coming.”

“The president of what?”

The older woman took a minute, probably deciding if a question that stupid merited a response, and said, “of the country…” in a tone that exclaimed, is this girl for real?

Interesting. Somehow I had missed the memo that the President would be paying us a visit. I glanced down at my black sweatpants that were now covered in dirt from the bike ride, and my somewhat clean t-shirt. I looked around at everyone else who was nicely groomed and dawning what seemed to be their Sunday best. The lady told me that the President, Rafeal Correa, was down the road having lunch. Perfect. I had time. I made a mental agenda for the afternoon:

1. Get sandwich
2. Change clothes
3. Get camera
4. See President

Once I had knocked items 1, 2, and 3, off of my list, I left my bike at home and started to walk back to where the action was. On my way back I passed the line of log cabin-style restaurants by the beach and noticed a decent crowd of people standing outside of one of them. I had my guy.

I strained to see passed the heavily-armed guards in front of the restaurant to see President Correa dining on shrimp and rice and drinking a Coke. When he had finished eating, he got into a minivan-like vehicle filled with his entourage, and drove down the road to where he would speak, with a crowd of Ecuadorians, some stray dogs, and one gringa following in the van’s exhaust.

President Correa has made history in Ecuador by being the first President in thirty years to be re-elected to serve a second term, which is especially notable in a country that has a history of political instability. His revamping of the constitution and openly socialist platform have made him controversial, but generally well-received by the people. San Vicente was no different as people closed shops and lined the streets with supportive signs to hear the President speak. Correa spent most of the time talking about the bridge that is being built to connect my town to Bahía de Caráquez, the bigger city across the bay. The bridge, when it is finished, will be the product of hundreds of thousands of dollars and about two years of work making it longest bridge in Ecuador. (November/December 2010 is the projected date for the bridge to be finished and I have to say I am looking forward to the prospect of riding my bike over the bay instead of always taking the (30 cent, one way!) motor boat. Its all about the Benjamins, baby.) He also took a few minutes to talk about basic infrastructure issues in San Vicente including the not-so-smooth roads and the lack of running water in the majority of households. His close ties with Cuba, Venezuela, and Bolivia (a country that Peace Corps was actually kicked out of a couple of years ago) have made him not the best of buddies with the United States. So I was surprised to hear him tell the people of San Vicente to take pride in whatever they had, keeping their yards manicured and houses well-kept, using the United States as an example.

Here are some pictures from Correa´s visit.

Year One.

2010-06-20T14:27:00.001-07:00

Two things before I start. I would like to wish a very happy 1^st birthday to my beautiful niece, Gianna. I know that the original plan was that we hit up the club for your 1^st, but I guess that will have to wait a bit. I love you and am always counting down the days until we can REALLY hang out. Do it up, baby girl!

Gianna whipping up some Bloody Marys

Also, I want to wish a very happy Father’s Day to one of the quirkiest men I know, and a definite source of my strange sense of humor. Thank you for your constant encouragement and support! Love you!

Before leaving for

Ecuador

, when I would tell people back home that I was joining the Peace Corps the conversation would go something like this:

“Cool, how long are you going to do that for?”

“Well, it’s a 27 month commitment.”

“Wait, as in two years?!”

“And… three months.”

“Hey… well, good luck with that…!”

At some times I would look ahead at the two-year commitment and not feel the least bit intimidated. I mean, I played the clarinet for three years in grade school. I was a teenager for seven. I was in college for four-and-a-half. How long could two years really be? But then there were times when I understood why people looked at me like I was a total nut case. Twenty-seven months? Four hundred and fifty-five days? Two years in a country that I knew next to nothing about, and was hardly ever featured on the news? Yeah, there were times when I felt that maybe I was in a little over my head. That maybe I should take the time to pursue something a little less threatening. Like, pizza delivery. Or babysitting.

On Thursday our training group celebrated one year in country. As much as I would like to throw in a, “it feels like only yesterday…” here, I’ll spare you that. I will say, however, that its funny how differently the Peace Corps time commitment appears when you are looking at it in anticipation as opposed to in retrospect. Now when I look ahead at my time in the PC, instead of feeling overwhelmed by the days ahead of me, I start to feel a sense of urgency. I only have just over a year to go and a lot of things to accomplish here in that period of time.

We have got our after school program up and running. I have to use the word “program” very loosely still as so far it consists of about 10 kids, one of the women from the foundation, her 15-year-old daughter and I. Basically, the kids come after school Monday through Thursday to get help with their homework. This is cool for a couple of reasons. 1) It gives the kids a somewhat relaxed environment to get their work done where they have the opportunity to ask any question they may have. 2) It gives them incentive to work hard as there are rewards for improved grades, and 3) it gives me a safe environment to brush up on my sixth grade math skills without anyone raising an eyebrow. (“No, what do you think least common denominator means?”) This is exactly the kind of thing I have wanted to get into for awhile; I was just kind of waiting on a little more support from my foundation. Eventually I would like to not just offer homework help, but make it a place for activities (movies, sports, art projects, etc.), workshops, and games. I also would like to start the same program in another neighborhood that I have been working in.

I decided to start a youth group. I have gotten to know pretty well a good group of young people through the basketball league and asked them one day if they would be interested in forming a youth group. One of their mothers offered to help and so last week we held our first meeting. All the first meeting consisted of was me asking questions (Why do people form youth groups? Why do you want to be a part of a youth group? What kinds of things do youth groups do?), followed by a lot of blank stares and the sound of snapping bubble gum, followed by me shooting disapproving looks at the mother as she attempted to answer all of the questions. So we have a ways to go. I would really like to get the kids involved in some community service projects, give charlas, and maybe take them on some short field trips. Baby steps.

I have started to give HIV Aids workshops again to the high school aged kids at the school that I work at. Believe it or not, this topic is a lot less awkward to talk about with kids you’ve known for 10 months rather than 2 weeks. When I finish up at this school I will be rotating to the other two high schools in town. I talk to the younger kids about self-esteem and decision making. We discuss simple things like what goals are and how some of the choices that they make now can affect their goals and opportunities in the future. Similar to the high schools, I want to make it to the other grade schools in San Vicente focusing on one school at a time.

We are still playing basketball and working on creating an adolescent Ecuadorian version of the Harlem Globetrotters. The other day seven-year-old, little four-foot-nothing Andrés, who couldn’t even catch a basketball a few months ago, let alone shoot one, made a basket during practice. All of the kids cheered and he ran down the court, fist in the air, convinced he had just lead his team to a buzzer-beating victory. Shoot, he just about convinced me too. We have consolidated the three teams into two for numbers purposes which has made things a lot easier for me. Our next game is Saturday, July 3^rd at 4 p.m. I will guarantee anyone travelling internationally to see the game free admission and at least 45 minutes of a form of basketball that I can assure you have never seen before.

I feel good about my first year here. Work is starting to concentrate itself, I feel good about my Spanish, and every once in awhile I can almost trick the Ecuadorians into thinking I am not foreign. (Though my clothes and taste in music always tend to bring them back to reality.) Its hard to believe how quickly time is passing. It seems like just yesterday (sorry, I had to) that my little host sister, Rubi, was swinging that baby piglet by its hind legs and cracking up as it fell on its face. I think I have settled comfortably into Ecuadorian life and am excited to see what the next year has to throw at me. I of course miss home and all of you everyday and am looking anxiously forward to some of your visits. Cuídense and keep me updated about EVERYTHING! Besos!

El Duende

2010-05-20T17:12:00.000-07:00

Ok, so take a grown man that is the size of a small child. Give him pointy ears and paint a permanent menacing scowl on his face. Now, remove every nice bone from his body and give him an unsettling appetite for livestock. Before you finish, turn his feet around a full 180 degrees and make him just a tad faster than Marion Jones in her prime. What you have created is the “duende,” one of the most feared mythological creatures in Ecuadorian folk culture.

I hear every culture kind of has one. One friend tried to explain the Ecuadorian duende to me by comparing him with our leprechaun. (Or Ireland’s. Whatever). This came as a shock to me because Lucky Charms had given me the impression that leprechauns were nothing but charming creatures with a healthy sense of humor. Sure the Lucky Charms man has been known to pull a prank or two, but if every morning you woke up to discover that someone had taken off with your breakfast, how would you react? No, I do not think the duende can be accurately compared to the leprechaun. The duende has been known to be far more ill-behaved than any silly leprechaun. In fact, based on the stories that I´ve heard, the duende makes the leprechaun look like Mother Teresa.

No matter who I try to talk to about the duende, everyone has a story. Whether it be their own personal account of an encounter with the duende, or an event experienced by a family member or friend, stories about the duende are as much a part of small town culture as Michael Jordan is a part of athletic history. A neighbor told me that the duende was responsible for the deaths of two pigs and a cow on his cousin’s farm last summer. Someone told me that if you have a tendency to hang your feet or arms over the side of the bed at night, the duende will knock them back on top of the bed. My friend Moisés recounted a time when he went to a cabin for the weekend, and the duende sat in the window and watched him sleep for most of the night. Moisés attempted to wake up one of his cabin mates to point out the intruder, only to realize that the duende was nowhere to be seen. Did I mention that this guy is fast?

To me, the oddest physical trait about the duende is not the permanent scowl on his face, or his elf-like ears, rather his cheetah-esque speed despite the fact that his feet are turned completely in the other direction (not pictured). Then again, I guess that’s how you can tell whether you are dealing with the duende, or just a quick, angsty teen with pointy ears.

I also hear that the duende has a decent track record with the ladies. Not being much for looks, he has had to resort to throwing enchanted perfume-covered rocks in the direction of beautiful women – ie: big eyes and long hair – causing them to fall in love with him. I heard this from an eight-year-old. Like I said, almost everybody has something to say about the duende.

“The duende starts houses on fire.”

“The duende steals valuable keepsakes and hides them.”

“The duende eats farm animals.”

“The duende shuts off the T.V. when I am watching and should be doing my homework.” (Nobody can completely dedicate their life to evil I guess.)

I would probably never share this fact with an Ecuadorian but just between you and I, I like to imagine what it would be like if I were to have a run-in with the duende. Maybe this makes me naïve, but I think I would take a whole different approach to dealing with Mr. Mischief.

I would hear his little feet sprinting around outside my front door and whip it open before he had a chance to knock. There I would catch him with a perfumed rock in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other.

“Now you listen HERE, Mr. Duende…I rolled my eyes when I heard that you accompanied Moisés on his camping trip. I laughed when I heard that you shut the T.V. off on little Mario, and I looked the other way when I heard that you were hiding things again. But this is taking it a little too far even for you, don’t you think? Why don’t you come with me to have a talk with the boys at the station.” (I reserve the right to replace that last sentence with whichever dramatic movie line I feel appropriate at the moment.)

Extremely caught off guard, the duende would take a second to contemplate whether or not he still had time to throw the perfumed love rock in my direction when he would notice I was prepared with a perfumed rock of my own. (Sans the love spell, but he won´t know that.) He would shoot one last “this isn’t over” look my way and take off leaving only a few rose petals and a cloud of dust in his wake. San Vicente would never hear from said duende again.

So do I believe in this duende guy? Of course my first instinct is to scoff and say “absolutely not,” but I have found myself proofreading every word of this blog out loud except for the parts were I have written the word “duende.” I mean, is this like Candyman or Bloody Mary? In the midst of all of these stories, nobody has explained to me what exactly it is that causes a duende to strike. (Except for neglecting your homework, of course.) So before I laugh about this whole thing I will probably wait until I’m not alone in my apartment at midnight listening to only crickets and the screaming baby next door. Yeah, probably best to wait until morning.

Hoops

2010-04-11T16:31:00.001-07:00

So about 3 months ago when school let out I decided it would be a good idea to start a youth basketball league here in San Vicente. “Why?” You ask. “What’s the point, Eik?” Well, San Vicente is really lacking any type of organized, competitive sport for young people. Organized team sports facilitate teamwork, patience, problem-solving, and responsibility, among other things. These are life skills that some of us may take for granted, but are not really focused on here in Ecuador. Let me paint a clearer picture.

Scenario: Basketball practice. Child A refuses to pass Child B the ball.

What should go down: Child B waits for current play to be completed, and approaches Child A with a tap on the shoulder. “Hey man, I was open, why didn’t you pass me the ball?”

What really goes down: Child B interrupts current play by shoving Child A in the back. “****pass me the**** ball **** ****!?” Child A drops basketball. Fist fight ensues.

Dramatic? Yes. Realistic? Absolutely. So not only are we working on learning the game of basketball, but more so on working in a team and improving our communication skills. Looking at the big picture, helping 40 children in a small town off of the coast of Ecuador to become more effective communicators and team players may not seem that significant. That’s why I choose to look at the small picture. I have the opportunity to assist young people with skills that will make them more successful members of society. I think Peace Corps and development work is more about the small picture anyways. What do you think?

During the first week of practice I was positive I was in that Disney movie. You know the one: Coach comes in from out of town and agrees to take over a team of children who are a little “rough around the edges.” First practice consists of flying balls, shouting matches, and the occasional tear. I think the only thing that kept me from throwing in the towel in the beginning was the fact that the movie ends with my team winning the state championship. I mean, that’s how it always ends, right? Ok, I wasn’t focused so much on a state championship as A: there are no states, and B: there is no championship, as I was focused on my goal of beginning competitions by the time school was back in session. We started at the very beginning as most of the children had no idea basketball even had rules. We learned that basketball is not the same thing as American football, that there is no goalie, and that kicking the ball (and/or each other) is not allowed.

There were a few obstacles that arose in the process of getting the league off of the ground. The biggest one was getting support from the community. Don’t get me wrong, Mom and Dad were all about little Paco having something to do in the afternoon, but when it came down to them coming to a practice or two to help me regulate a group of their neighborhood children, they were somehow always “busy.” (See future blog post about the difference between the North American and South American concept of “busy.”) I did find, however, two guys who were willing to give me a hand. One agreed to ref, and the other agreed to take over a team during tournaments. They are both enthusiastic about working with youth in the community and understand the game of basketball. So as far as sustainability goes, we are getting there.

The other obstacle I found was getting court time to practice. There are three teams from three different neighborhoods and each neighborhood has one basketball court that doubles as an indoor soccer facility. Every afternoon, young men (between 18 and 26 years of age) go to the courts to play pickup games of indoor soccer. The schedules of these matches just seem to always conflict with the times that I and the children have available to practice.

What should go down: I approach 25+ Ecuadorian men and explain the situation. We chuckle about our miscommunication and work out a schedule that makes everyone happy.

What really goes down: I attempt to talk to guy that I have deemed “the group leader.” He ignores me. I try to talk to the group collectively. They play around me. I finally get their attention and ask if there is any way that the kids can practice right now. The laugh and continue match. I go and get the old guy across the street. He tries to yell in the weakest old voice that you have ever heard for the men to give us the court. More laughter followed by the occasional obscene gesture. Repeat.

Communication has gotten better between the two groups but we still tend to but heads every once in awhile. (Imagine me, old guy, and a group of seven 10-year-olds standing the middle of the boys´ soccer match.)

Team San Vicente - Centro

Our first tournament was yesterday and I have to say I think it was pretty successful. We had about 12 parents attend (12 more than I expected), and about 30 kids who participated. There is no score board or game clock so we just play first team to 10 baskets wins, and half-time is when one of the team reaches 5 baskets. The kids were really into competing against/beating the other neighborhoods (wait, was the point of this to facilitate community, or to create a rivalry? Hmm…*shrugs shoulders*) and seemed to genuinely enjoy themselves. My future goals for the basketball program include the following:

1) Play tournament at the beginning of each month for the next 3 months.
2) Get Mom and Dad to come.
3) Charge an entrance fee of 25 to 50 cents to the last two tournaments.
4) Play for a championship.
5) Take winning team an hour-and-a-half north (with tourney $) to play the team of another Peace Corps Volunteer.
6) Win the state championship.

April

2010-04-11T16:27:00.000-07:00

First and foremost I would like to give a big shout out to my (sister’s) girl Lisa “Leese” Anderson. She recently sent me a top 10 list of reasons why living the Peace Corps life for 2 years is worth it. It really made my day and is a near cure for those “what the flip am I doing here?!” moments. She has had my back ever since the Mariah Carey on cassette tape days, and just recently celebrated a (can I say which one?) birthday. What up, Leese!

The other day I was walking with a group of children explaining to them that April 1st was known as April Fools Day in the United States. As I began to explain to them how people celebrate the holiday, one little girl cut me off.

“I know, I know! Here that day is called ´the day of the innocent.´”
“Oh, really?” I asked, waiting for more information.
“Yeah! Its when you go up to a friend and play a trick on them like saying, ´hey, I saw your mom with some other guy last night.´”

After standing there trying not to laugh for about a minute, I politely explained to the girl that that joke may be a tad too hurtful for April Fools Day, and suggested she try tying a friends shoes together, or some butter on the doorknob.

Hey! I´m back! So much for blogging monthly, huh? My bad. I think that one of the problems is that everyday things get less entertaining and more normal to me. Seeing three human beings on one bike no longer causes me to double take. Men hiss, and I smile and respond with a “why, good morning!” When I walk into my friend’s mom’s house and she is ironing topless, I open the fridge and look for something to drink. Answering and/or avoiding questions about my personal life and whether or not I will marry an Ecuadorian and start a family soon no longer make me cringe (that much). After 10 months, I think it is safe to say that the most intense phase of culture shock may be officially over. Pass. The. Courvoisier.

Heres whats been up.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, two women from France have come to San Vicente for 4 months to work for the same foundation that I work for. They are working toward a degree in Non-Profit Organization fundraising which is just what the foundation could use right now (among other things). I have worked closely with them which has helped me to keep busy as well as feel like I have an actual role within the foundation.

Our first attempt at raising money was by hosting movie and bingo Friday nights for the children. We put on a movie, Toy Story, The Incredibles etc. and then would play a few games of bingo afterward. The kids could play as many games of bingo as they wanted for 25 cents and the prizes included (pirated) DVDs and toys/games that friends and family had sent me from the states. In addition to teaching children how to gamble, the movie and bingo nights helped us to get the word out about the foundation and the kind of programs it has to offer.

Our second attempt at fundraising was in the form of a laptop computer raffle. We had 1,000 tickets printed out and sold each one for a dollar. We ended up raising about 500 dollars for the foundation, which means a small portion will go to the kids’ basketball program. (Hollaaaaaa.)

Ok, lets talk about something interesting. Lets talk about a conversation I had with the coconut juice man. So there is this man that sells coconut juice in Bahía. (Side note: if you have never had fresh coconut juice, I suggest you change that immediately.) We have always been friendly in passing, but I have never stopped to have a conversation with him. He had questions about where I was from and what I was doing in Ecuador. Before I move on to the rest of our conversation I would like to explain that an Ecuadorian’s biological clock ticks a lot more quickly than someone’s from the United States. By the time most Ecuadorians are out of high school (sometimes sooner) they are usually ready to settle down and start a family. It is for this reason that Ecuadorians find it hard to believe that at the ripe old age of 24, I am not only single, but have no children.

“So, how many children do you have?”
“Zero.”
“Wait, how many?”

Confused stare.

I love it when they ask this question twice as if to refresh my memory of the group of children I have neglected somewhere. “Wow, you’re right! I actually have 9! Geez, I better get home!”

“None, I don’t have any children.”
“Hmm…why not?”
“I don’t know. Yeah…I’m not quite ready for kids.”
“Well, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”

Judgemental stare.

“Humans were made to reproduce young. You should find someone and start having children soon.”
“Well where I come from people wait until their late 20´s to have children all the time. In fact, my sister ju…”

*Moves on to next customer.*

I would say that I have this conversation at least 1.5 times a day. It seems like 5 out of 10 conversations with Ecuadorians involve some combination of the following frequently asked questions:

1) Are you married?
2) How many kids to you have?
3) Have you fallen in love with an Ecuadorian yet?
4) If you did fall in love with an Ecuadorian you would stay, right?

I think this is one of those cultural things that used to bother me, but I really don’t even notice anymore. I have just come to understand that our 24, is an Ecuadorian’s 42. Now, I could have this conversation in my sleep. And as a matter of fact, I think I have.

What else. I can’t believe it is already April. April means a few things. First, it means that in just two short months my Omnibus and I will celebrate one year in Ecuador. It means that the rainy season is coming to an end, but not without one last hurrah. April on the coast of Ecuador means that the crickets come back for one last attempt at completely ruining your life. I thought I had completely cricket-proofed my house, but have come to realize that there is no such thing. The good news is that due to my stellar house-sealing skills, when the crickets get in now, they are usually missing a limb or two. The bad news is that A: they can still chirp, and B: they can still fly. Plus, I think the three month battle between the crickets and I has served them a lot more than me as they have become much better hiders. Thank you, Lindsey Stratton, for the 3M foam earplugs.

Whoa, that was all over the place. Its all I´ve got for now. Eat a chipoltle chicken fajita burrito (light on the rice) in my name.

Carnaval

2010-02-18T17:56:00.000-08:00

Once a year Latin Americans set aside four days to celebrate one of the most bizarre yet completely necessary holidays I have ever experienced. Carnaval (not to be confused with a carnival, there are no Ferris Wheels or petting zoos) gives the whole family the opportunity to get outside, hit up the beach, and more importantly, throw buckets of water on any target moving slowly enough to get hit. The holiday lasts for four days and consists of eggs, Silly String, foam, dye, and Super Soakers. School and work are cancelled as loved ones, acquaintances, and even complete strangers take advantage of the opportunity to cover each other in whatever Carnaval-appropriate substance they can get their hands on. Hitting someone with one of the above substances during Carnaval is fittingly called, "playing" and during these four days you can either play, or you can get played.

I think that Carnaval is fantastic for a variety of reasons; the most important being that it gives you the opportunity to chuck a water balloon at anybody within the range of your throwing arm. In Carnaval there are no "off limits," "timeouts," or "olly olly oxen frees." If you are breathing you are fair game and will before long be hit with something that is more than likely difficult to remove from clothing. I think it’s a great concept. Is that the little boy that keeps stealing mangoes off of your tree? Crack an egg on his head. He probably won’t stop stealing the mangoes, but you will feel somewhat better about the situation. Is your boss constantly hassling you about showing up late for work? Late is a matter of perspective. Explain this to him by pelting him with a water balloon. Since its Carnaval he’ll have no choice but to laugh about it. The old woman next door keeps on pestering you about keeping your donkey out of her vegetable garden. You say: "Hey! Sorry about that!" You mean: "My donkey and I will see YOU at Carnaval." Did that baby look at you sideways...?

The holiday started on Saturday, and by Monday afternoon I had had enough playing for awhile. I decided to buy some chicken and spend a quiet, dry afternoon alone in my apartment. I went and got the chicken and a 3 liter bottle of my favorite Sunny-D-like drink and started to head home on my bike. Town was full of traffic because of the holiday and consequently the road back to my house was pretty backed-up. I took advantage of being on the bike by weaving around traffic when I was hit with a bucket of water. I looked up to see two little boys in the bed of the truck next to me laughing hysterically. Dripping wet, my first concern was the chicken. I was about to open the bag to make sure it hadn´t gotten wet when I was hit by a second bucket of water. I looked up at the boys who were now rolling with laughter in the back of truck. That’s the thing about Carnaval, even though everybody knows what to expect, hitting someone carrying chicken on their bike with a bucket of water never gets less funny. In fact, it gets funnier.

The fun, however, does not end when the sun goes down. At night towns turn into huge dance parties with people celebrating the holiday in the streets until dawn (or so I’ve heard). There are live bands, food, booze and dancing to be enjoyed while not completely letting your guard down because there is still the chance that some child out past his bedtime may take advantage by spraying you with Silly String. Everything goes. Someone once decided though, that four days of this craziness is enough. Though the holiday technically continues through Tuesday night, by Monday night things are pretty much winding down. I personally wasn’t ready for the party to end but I guess the rest of the country was so I had to go with it. I am already preparing for next year as the mental image of the two little boys in the back of the truck has been burned into my memory. I already have the water ballons, camouflage, and Silly String that I need for my revenge. Now if I could just get my hands on a truck...

There are some other things I would like to talk about:

• Kid’s hoops start this Saturday. You know that old lame plastic basketball collecting dust in your garage? The children of Ecuador and I want it. Deflate and send this way por favor. Each basketball sent is good for a voucher AND with only 247 vouchers you are eligible for a free trip to Ecuador! (a little something I am trying out)

• My 24th birthday was great. I was in Quito and some sweet PCV friends took me out for dinner and drinks. Thanks for all the bday love!

• Two girls from France have come to San Vicente for 4 months to work for the foundation and earn their masters in NGO fundraising. It’s a sweet deal because what we want to do really compliment each other. They are helping me get the ball rolling with a lot of projects and I am really excited about the work that we will do together while they are here.

• My friend Tatiana (12) and I applied for a scholarship to help cover her school supplies etc. for the coming school year and got one! Score!

• It has been brought to my attention that I have been miscounting the months the entire time that I have been here. I realized this when I texted "happy 9 month anniversary!" to a friend and she texted back that we had only been here for 8. Whatever. Time is all perspective, right?

• I have completely cricket-proofed my house and haven’t seen one in here for about 2 weeks now. I appreciate all of the thoughts and prayers.

• Two weeks ago I fell in a gutter and scraped my leg. I have made a full recovery.

• There have been no new pics lately because my camera drowned on New Years. Not to worry because Mom and Dad have come to the rescue once again. New pics coming soon!

• I can not get enough love from home. Thanks for thinking about me and stay in touch!

BUGS.

2010-01-19T11:21:00.003-08:00

Check out my Christmas video! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPeTm9yS8oo

Two thousand and six was the year I saw my first cockroach. Sure I had heard of them. And sure, I had seen them in movies about New York City apartments and abandoned houses in the South, but I had never actually seen one in person. I was sitting in the Miami airport, reading a book, waiting for them to start boarding my overnight flight to Argentina to study abroad. I was already a ball of nerves when I looked in the flower pot next to me and noticed I wasn’t the only one reading my book. A cockroach, about two inches long and brownish-maroon in color sat on the edge of the flower pot and tried to read over my shoulder. It was even grosser than I had imagined. Grosser than in the movies. Its long wings indicated to me that this creature could fly, and probably would attack me if I was impolite or made any sudden moves. I slowly shut my book, gave the cockroach a courteous smile, and moved about 10 seats away. Later, I saw it scurry down the side of the flowerpot onto the floor, probably headed to disturb some other unsuspecting traveler from the Northern Midwest. As I sat there and wondered how many cockroaches would cross my path in Argentina, I decided that this particular insect and I would never get along. That we were natural born enemies. If I saw one, I would have to avoid it, and if it go too close, I would have to kill it. If I was at a party, and a cockroach walked into the room, one of us would have to leave the party. It was unfortunate, but that was how it was going to have to be. Forever.

******

No cricket should be as large as the crickets that live here. Their heads are half the size of a human pinky and bodies are so large you can hear them scamper along as they conduct their business. Business? Yes, business. Crickets, you see, have very exhausting daily schedules. First, they have to try to get into your house. Since they can’t just open the front door, they have to search for whatever little opening, crack or space that they can find. Once they get in, they have the daunting task of looking for a good place to hide. The ones that are not picky will settle for the first hiding spot available to them, like the inside of a shoe, or the underside of a kitchen table. The really snooty crickets, however, laugh under their breath as they run past the ones who went straight for the footwear. These crickets prefer to enjoy the finer things in life and will take their time as they seek out suitcases, cardboard boxes, and clothes hampers. As the crickets settle into their comfortable new digs, you’d think they would take time to relax and enjoy a much deserved nap. Quite the contrary, because once the crickets feel comfortable with their hiding spot, it is required that they begin to eat anything and everything within their little arms´ length. Cardboard, paper, and clothes are a cricket’s supper of choice, but this doesn’t mean that they won’t take the time to chow down on the inside of a suitcase or a good pencil eraser when available. Finally, after a long day of trespassing, searching, hiding, and eating, a well-brought-up cricket must dedicate his night to chirping, only to wait for dawn and do it all over again.

******

I almost didn’t take my apartment because when the landlord was showing it to me and we got to the bathroom, I saw two dead cockroaches laying face-up in the shower. Everybody knows that this is not an insect accustomed to living far from home, so I knew it was only a matter of time before I ran into the deceased cockroaches’ family and friends. But when it came down to it, I needed a place to live. After moving in, I would see a cockroach every once in awhile. Though it always shook me up, it was nothing that I couldn’t handle. That all changed on the day before New Years. A couple of PC friends and I were in my apartment packing, getting ready to head to a town down the road for a New Year’s Eve party, when up my bedroom wall scampered the most horrible looking cockroach I have ever seen before in my life. It was three-fourths the length of the palm of my hand with a shell (Or wings? Whatever.) that was much thicker than that of the average cockroach. It was a grayish-white color as opposed to the normal reddish hue that cockroaches have. You could hear it´s little feet make contact with the wall as it ran, and as if that weren’t enough it had little hairs all over its body. I mean, if a dinosaur and a cockroach were to mate, this guy is what would result. My body went into shock at the sight of it, so I was lucky to have my friends there with me. “SHOE!!!” One of my friends demanded with an outstretched hand. But I couldn’t move. “GET. ME. A. SHOOOOOOOOE!!!” I snapped out of it and reached for my closest shoe. My friend smacked the cockroach about 16 times before it stopped coming back to life. The three of us exchanged dazed glances, knowing that we had just survived something big.

******

I got home from reconnect at 6 o’clock in the morning. I was looking forward to getting a few more hours of sleep because the overnight bus is no Sleep Number Bed. I was a little wary walking into the house after a week away, knowing that I was probably going to have to play exterminator for a few minutes before getting back to sleep. I stuck my keys in the door and cracked it open slowly, scanning the kitchen for anything that scattered. “She’s back!” I imagined the insects warning each other as they ran for cover. But to my surprise I didn’t see anything. No, it was what I heard that concerned me. When crickets are outside, the sound of their chirping is kind of like elevator music; a faint, background sound that you hear but don’t pay much attention to. When crickets are inside, their chirping is more like a Hillary Duff CD blaring in your ear. It’s something that must be destroyed. The sound of dozens of singing crickets immediately took over my brain. I dropped my luggage, grabbed my broom, and began searching my apartment for the source(s) of the chirping. I slowly moved a cardboard box that was leaning up against a wall in my kitchen to find about 6 crickets huddled together looking up at me. One jumped. I jumped. I looked at the 5 other cardboard moving boxes I had in the kitchen and did the math. Six crickets times 5 boxes equals…way too many ******* crickets. Disgusted, I opened my bedroom door to check out the damage in there. The chirping intensified. One cricket who had taken refuge behind the door quickly hopped to safety. *Expletive.* Though at this point I just wanted to sit down in a corner, hold my knees, and hum while rocking back and forth, I knew I had to check out the bathroom. Hesitant, I cracked open the door and flipped on the light, clutching my broom. The blue tile of my bathroom floor was now more of a dark brown. It looked like a cricket war zone. Little legs and head and arms were scattered, covering 60 percent of the floor. Wondering how all of these crickets got in, I looked up at the two bathroom windows that are about 15 feet from the ground. Two crickets were wedged between the tiny crack between the screen and the wall, gearing up to take the suicide plunge to the bathroom floor. Upon seeing me, the 25 or so crickets that were lucky enough to have survived the fall, now climbed over and around their dead friends’ appendages heading for the far corner of the bathroom, creating a pile of crickets about 3 inches high. Noticeably fatter, Sarge (see Christmas video) looked up at me with his most honest, “I did the best that I could” face as I slammed the bathroom door shut, closed my eyes and leaned up against it. “This is NOT happening.” I tried to convince myself. “It sure is!” The crickets sang back.

******

When I tell Ecuadorians that I hate cockroaches they just kind of chuckle and say, “Why? They won’t do anything to you.” As if there is no good reason to hate a cockroach. I am always prepared though, as I can think of plenty of good reasons why I hate them. Allow me to share a few with you. 1) I hate them because they are clumsy. I can’t count on two hands how many times I have seen a cockroach on its back, struggling unsuccessfully to flip back over to its feet. I mean, how stupid can you be? 2) I hate them because they are flat. The flatness of a cockroach makes it that much more disgusting. Plus, it makes them difficult to kill with other flat items such as flip flops and frying pans. This is why I prefer to kill my cockroaches with my North Face women´s Hedgehog GTX XCR hiking shoes. The grip on the bottom of this particular shoe not only provides reliable traction while climbing mountains, but an effective means of killing cockroaches as well. Get yours today! 3) I hate them because they are gross. Fact: cockroaches have been gross since the beginning of time. Check out a book, search the internet, ask your grandparents. They will all tell you the same thing: cockroaches have always been and always will be gross.

******

Not knowing where to start, I began to pace between my bedroom and kitchen. There was no way I was going to be able to do this by myself. Should I get a neighbor? Get a hold of Peace Corps? Call 911? After a few moments of panic, I decided it was now or never. I took a deep breath and with the broom, started to slide the cardboard boxes from the kitchen out the front door. Crickets had taken over at least one side of each box, and they were not happy about being discovered. Once I got the boxes outside, I held the broom over my head with both hands and began to swing at the boxes PGA style. Scared crickets fled from the boxes and headed away from the house. I swung again. And again. I couldn’t stop. When all of the crickets were gone and the boxes nearly destroyed, I continued to beat them just in case there were any crickets that were thinking about hanging around and hitching a ride back into the house. My next-door neighbor came out of his house to greet me.

“Good morning!”

Not wanting to explain the situation for fear of breaking out into tears and looking like the crazy foreign girl that can´t handle a few insects, I removed my assassin scowl and replaced it with my friendly next-door neighbor smile.

“Good morning!”

“What are you doing?” My neighbor asked glancing at the boxes and my death grip on the broom.

“Oh, haha. Just getting rid of some crickets!” I tried to play it cool.

“Haha, yeah. Its that time of the year again, isn’t it?” My neighbor made small talk.

“I guess so!” I smiled so hard that my face hurt.

After talking with a fellow PCV on the phone, I decided to take on my bedroom before the crickets ate holes in all of my clothes. I entered quietly, readied the broom, and began to flip over my suitcases, backpacks, and books. With a battle cry that reminded me of Mel Gibson in Braveheart, I swung the broom frantically, concentrating on killing on cricket at a time.

Hey there, nature buffs! Here are some interesting facts about crickets:

1) The can fly.

2) The know how to play dead.

3) They tend to jump towards you when being attacked.

4) They can jump with one leg.

5) They know how to play dead.

The crickets jumped on my bed, climbed up the walls, and hurried into and out of suitcases. I slipped into a semi-coherent state, swinging my broom instinctively, destroying every cricket in my path, until only one lonely, wounded cricket remained in my bedroom.

I lifted the broom over my head, took aim, and smacked the cricket so hard my apartment echoed. I jumped about a foot off of the ground when I felt something cold hit the base of my ankle. I looked down to see cricket guts (I’ll spare you the color.) stuck to my leg. Not okay. I cringed thinking about the crickets still in the bathroom. I was going to need backup.

I heard a male voice and peeked out my front door to see where it was coming from. My landlord’s brother, Patricio, was working on the pipes outside of my house. I brainstormed ways that I could trick him into killing all of the crickets in my bathroom.

“Good morning!” I said, putting the friendly neighbor smile back on.

“Hey! How are you? Haven’t see you in awhile!”

“Yeah, I’ve been out of town.”

“Oh really? How was that?” Patricio asked, making small talk.

“Oh well you know, it was good, except now I have these crickets in my house.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.”

“There are A LOT in my bathroom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why don’t you come take a look?”

I lead my neighbor into my house, back to the bathroom, and opened the door. He stepped inside to assess the situation.

“Well it looks like they are mostly dea…”

“KILL THEEEEEM!!!!!” I shouted before he could finish his sentence.

Startled, my neighbor grabbed the broom from my hands and began to step on and smash crickets. As much as I wanted to help with the killing, I decided to be his eyes instead. I stood on the other side of the door and pointing and shouting every time I saw a cricket move. When Patricio picked up my garbage can to get the crickets hiding underneath, Sarge bolted out, frightened.

“Do you want me to kill that?” He asked raising the broom.

“NO!” I grabbed the broom to stop him. “Leave the lizard!”

Three days have passed now and it seems that crickets are still materializing in my apartment. Last night, one snuggled into bed with me. It’s going to be a long winter.

What are yoooou doing?

2010-01-19T10:48:00.000-08:00

Hey guys. Well, I’ve really been meaning to write more frequently, but the truth is with the holidays, reconnect (week-long PC conference held 6 months into service), and work, I have been keeping myself decently busy. It seems like a lot of the people I’ve talked to from home have been curious as to what I’ve been up to now that I’ve been in site for just about 6 months. “Really? Already?” Yup. And the 6 month mark at site means 8 months in Ecuador for Omnibus 102 (my training group). REP.RE.SENT. So, lets cut to the chase. I like to call this post: “What are Yoooou Doing?” (If you have absolutely no interest in what I’m doing, see next blog post.)

Something weird happened when I got to Ecuador - I became an English teacher. Its strange because I don’t recall ever studying education. Or English at that. It seems that my United States citizenship alone is enough to make me a qualified English teacher in Ecuador. When I try to explain to Ecuadorians that I really have no experience teaching, they just smile and show me to the classroom. I sometimes like to think about how cool my service would be if this worked with other professions as well. Like law, for example. All I would do is say that I’m from the U.S. and somebody would quickly hand me a briefcase and a power suit and shove me into the courtroom. Or acting. Once it got out that I was born in the States, Ecuadorian directors would line up at my apartment door, waving scripts in their hands. So far though, it only works with teaching English. So, three days a week I teach. I teach English in about 10 classes at 3 different schools and all of my students are children ages 12 and under. The sweet thing about that is that I can just prepare one lesson for the week and use it on all 10 classes. The not-so-sweet part about it is that 10 classes > 250 students and there is no way I can keep track of them all. So when little Pepé sees me on the street and starts to wave frantically to get my attention yelling, “HELLO MS. YENNIFER!!” (My name is no longer Jennifer, but Yennifer, with a “Y”) instead of racking my brain trying to remember his name, and what grade, class, and school he belongs to, I just yell, “Hey! Good to see ya! Did you get started on the homework? Great, see you in class!” Eventually I will learn their names, but the generic, one-size-fits-all greeting will have to do until then.

Teaching has been fun, but the PC youth and families program encourages us to teach English as part of secondary, not primary projects, so that we can dedicate the majority of our time to jobs involving youth life skills, prevention, and awareness. So while it has been a good way to work my way into the community (little Pepé introduces me to his parents, who invite me to dinner, where I meet the rest of the family, etc., etc.) I want to try to get away from it by next school year.

Ok, so that’s three days a week. The other two weekdays I have been working at the special needs school. To say I was overwhelmed when I first stated spending time at the special needs school would be an understatement. I had no idea what to do with a classroom full of students ages 5 to about 33 with varying types of special needs. I tried to use one of the curriculums that Peace Corps had provided us with - which wasn’t for special needs but rather young people in general - to find that a “25” minute activity would take us an hour and a half. I tried coming up with my own activities, but ran out sometime around week two. I even tried singing songs I learned at Spanish camp, but apparently rocking out to songs about farm animals when you are 17 isn’t as cool as it used to be. Even though I wanted to throw in the towel at times because I felt like I was wasting everybody’s time, the teachers encouraged me to stay. Now when I go to the school I give one or two activities (art projects, running games, mini workshops, songs about zoo animals… hey, that’s my bread and butter) and for the rest of the time I just hang out in the classrooms while the teachers give their lessons and fill in where I can. Unlike teaching English, working at this school is something I plan on carrying over to the next school year.

Lots of kids work in Ecuador. We are talking kids with jobs. Twelve-year-old girls frying empanadas all day on the street and adolescent boys with sacks full of water and juice to sell on buses barely phase me anymore. It should, but it’s so common to see that it takes me a second to remind myself that the U.S. and Ecuador are different in this aspect. Because the kids who work really don’t have the opportunity to go to school, there is a program (and I use the word “program” very loosely) in San Vicente that allows child workers in the area to study after normal school hours. A few months ago my counterpart asked me to start working with these kids. I agreed thinking it would be fun to get involved in the closest thing that we have to an after school program. I agreed, of course, not taking the time to consider that these kids, having little or no formal education and possibly difficult home lives, had the potential to be somewhat misbehaved. The first time I walked into the class of about 20 kids their teacher was giving them a math lesson. The children sat at two person desks, and while some of them were distracted by side conversations, the majority of them were copying down the lesson. I had brought an icebreaker and fun activity to do with the kids and started to take it out as the other teacher wrapped up. She introduced me to the class and asked if it would be alright if she stepped out of the room.

“Good afternoon,” I started. “My name is Jennifer.”
“WHAT?” A teenage boy shouted from the back of the room.
Giggles.
“Jennifer.” I repeated. “I’m from the United States, here with the Peace Cor…”
“WHERE?” The same boy cut me off, cupped his ear and squinted as if he was straining to hear me.
Snickers started to break out in the class.
“Does anyone know anyone in the United States?” I tried to maintain control.
“I do!” A young girl in the front row waved her hand in the air.
“Really?”
“No.” She replied.
Laughter erupted in the classroom.
I started to sweat and looked out the door nervously to see if the other teacher was close by. No luck. The kids sniffed out my discomfort like drug dogs and class was over before it started. Objects began to fly across the room. Kids got up out of their seats and began to run, shout, laugh, and enjoy themselves as if I were invisible. Have you ever seen Sister Act II? (If not, think Michelle Pheifer in Dangerous Minds.) Well it was kind of like the scene when Whoopi first walks into the music class to find a room full of airborne spitballs and overturned desks. Minus Lauryn Hill and the cool freestyle rap music of course. After standing there for about 10 minutes feeling like an idiot, I packed up my stuff and left.

The next few classes I asked the teacher to stay in the classroom with me hoping that it would help keep the kids under control, but soon realized that the kids are just as poorly behaved for her as they are for me. Little by little though, the kids and I started to develop a mutual respect and I was finally able to get through a class. Now, we work on reading, writing, art, and football and basketball when they have too much energy. There have been no miracles though. Its seems like every class involves some degree of flying objects, foul language, and obscene gestures. Yeah, and the kids are pretty bad too. :)

So besides teaching I have begun to work towards starting a youth basketball league in town. So far I have only been working with a couple of neighborhoods two times a week, but I want to work toward making it open to any child up to middle school age. This is going to be a big task, and I definitely won’t be able to do it alone, so I am hoping that I will be able to count on parents, older siblings, and teachers to help me out. If I can get this rolling I would like to first start a summer league for the kids and use that as a springboard into youth groups and after school activities during the coming school year.

Like I have mentioned a few times, the school year is coming to an end this side of the equator. This Friday is the last day of classes for most schools in the county and we won’t start up again until the end of April. So just as I am starting to find a rhythm and some consistency in my routine, the beginning of “summer” vacation will be a lot like starting all over again. I have committed to working with the main office for social services in San Vicente by giving adult English classes a hour a day, three time a week. The adults will be a nice change of pace for me and even though we will do the same songs, games, and competitions that I did with the kids, this time around it will be a lot more entertaining for me. That along with starting a summer hoops league should keep me reasonably occupied, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have time to read good books, listen to new music, and watch full seasons of good T.V. series from the States. Addys on your right!

Food Poisoning

2009-12-13T11:56:00.000-08:00

Food poisoning is something that as a PCV you just kind of expect to encounter sooner or later. The change in diet alone can be enough to make a person sick, not to mention that once in awhile the veggies could use a little more washing and sometimes that boiled chicken hasn’t been boiled quite long enough. I got sick for the first time within 48 hours of arriving in the country, but besides that and a couple isolated incidents during training, I had been reasonably healthy for the past 4 months. That was until I shared this fact with one of my Ecuadorian friends and made the foolish mistake of not knocking on wood. I soon found myself laying in a strange bed, surrounding by Ecuadorians, throwing up what seemed to be everything I had eaten in the past year.

**12 hours earlier**

It was Sunday afternoon and my friend, Paola, and I were making are usual trip to the market to buy groceries to make lunch. Even on the hottest of days, Ecuadorians love them some soup. We were buying chicken, cilantro, rice, carrots, potatoes, and onion to make an Ecuadorian version of chicken and rice soup. Since the soup takes awhile to make, I picked up some mini-mangoes to eat while we were waiting. We ate lunch with Paola’s entire family and then the two of us went our separate ways for the rest of the afternoon. I went to the internet café to get my Facebook and Skype fix, and Paola went to run a few errands.

Later that evening, Paola called me up to see if I wanted to meet her for batidos, which are a 50 cent delicious cross between a milkshake and a smoothie, and number 4 on my top 5 list of things I love about Ecuador. I answered her with an enthusiastic “yes,” when I realized that my stomach was not sharing my excitement. A little worried at first, I blew it off thinking that my stomach would change its bad attitude once it actually saw the batidos. When we go to the batido stand, however, my stomach’s attitude only got worse.

“What kind do you want?” Paola asked me.

“Um…I don’t think I’m going to get one.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not feeling the best.”

“A batido will make you feel better.” She joked.

“I think I need to lay down.”

Paola ordered an Oreo flavored batido, which is usually my favorite. Now looking at it I saw something that was no more desirable than a plastic cup full of seaweed. I scolded my stomach for being so rude.

Since Paola’s house was only a block away, she insisted that I go there to lay down. At this point I was feeling so uncomfortable I couldn’t even politely decline twice, with the intention to accept on the third offer. You know, the thing we do in the States when somebody offers to pick up the bill for lunch.

“Its on me.”

“No way!”

“Come on, let me get the bill.”

“I don’t think so, buddy!”

“Really its no big deal.”

“Well, if you insist…”

I got to Paola’s house, laid down, and assumed the fetal position. I began to mentally list everything I had consumed that day. Yogurt and granola for breakfast, 2 juice boxes, chicken and rice soup, and 3 mini-mangoes. The soup was more than likely my culprit. I asked for a bucket. Lunch’s chicken soup made it’s first appearance.

There are few things more uncomfortable than throwing up. I would say that breaking a bone, losing a limb, and getting electrocuted are among those few things. What made this episode even more uncomfortable for me was the fact that I knew the whole neighborhood could hear me. Literally. It wasn’t long until a few neighbors stopped by to see what all of the commotion was about.

“What’s wrong with you?”

For some strange reason I was not in the mood to answer questions.

“She’s sick.” Paola answered for me.

“Well, what did you eat?”

I would rather not think about what I ate right now, thank you.

“Granola, yogurt, soup…” Whether it was the soup that had upset my stomach or not, my brain had already labeled it guilty and collaborated with the rest of my body to get rid of it. Consequently, just mentioning what I had eaten for lunch was enough to start “chicken and rice soup” round two. The neighbor’s didn’t excuse themselves or look away, but rather politely waited for me to finish so that I could answer their question.

“So what did you eat again?”

Get out.

“Mangoes.”

“Mangoes!? Well there you go!” Said the woman from next door. “It was the mangoes!”

It seemed weird to me that the mangoes would get blamed over the soup.

The other two neighbors nodded their heads in agreement and then as if all they had come to do was solve the case of ´What Made the Gringa Sick,´ they told me to feel better, and left.

The across the street neighbors were next. A young woman and her two little boys. The woman had a pill of some sort in her hand.

“Hey Jennifer,” she spoke quietly as if I were sleeping and she needed to wake me up. “what did you eat today?”

DON´T make me think about the soup.

“Mangoes.”

She nodded her head knowingly.

“Here,” she handed me the pill in her hand. “this will make you feel better.”

Excuse me ma’am, are you a doctor?

“Thank you.” I took the pill from her. The thought of taking it upset my stomach. More chicken and rice soup.

The two children held on to their mother’s hands and stared at me without blinking. I muttered something in English. One of the boys let go of his mom’s hand and ran out of the house. I imagined that he was probably informing the neighborhood that not only was the gringa sick, but now she was speaking in tongues as well. The mother and her other child wished me well and left.

My friend told me that I needed to drink some tea and offered to make me some. The absolute last thing I wanted to do at this point was smell tea let alone actually put some of it in my stomach. I refused the tea as politely as I could, but she insisted and left the room.

Shortly after Paola left, her mother came into the room. She was walking fast as if she were a busy doctor making an urgent house call. She also had something in her hand.

“I heard you were sick.” Word was spreading quickly. “What did you eat?”

I put the saddest look on my face that I could come up with and just shook my head as if to say ‘I’m really too sick to answer that question, you can stand there and feel sorry for me, but no questions please.’ Paola’s mother didn’t wait for an answer. She flipped me onto my back and lifted my shirt up. Before I had a chance to protest, she opened a jar of something that smelled exactly like Vick’s VapoRub and began to rub it all over my stomach. “Its menthol,” she explained, “this will make you stop vomiting.” I forced a smile. “I’ll check on you in an hour.” She said as she screwed the lid back on the jar and walked out the door.

I laid there next to a bucket of chicken and rice soup, shirt halfway up, reeking of Vick’s. I was wondering who would come next, and what remedy they would offer, when Paola returned with my tea.

“Absolutely not.” My stomach said.

I agreed.

“I can’t drink that.”

“Come on, just drink a little, you will feel better.”

“No.”

I didn’t want to be rude, but I just couldn’t help it. I had been throwing up for about 4 hours now and felt like I was almost done. That tea was going to make it start all over again. My friend looked hurt. I thought about how she had walked all the way over to her mother’s house to use the stove because she didn’t own one herself. She had walked over there, made a cup of tea just for me, and now I was refusing to drink it. I took the tea from her hand and lifted it to my mouth. The smell made me nauseous. I looked at Paola who’s face encouraged me to “just take a sip.” I took a sip. My stomach was not happy, but did not reject the tea right away. A half-hour probably passed before I got the entire cup of tea down, and about 15 more minutes passed before the entire cup of tea came back up. I was frustrated. I thought about how if I was sick back home my mom would offer me Saltine crackers and a Sprite. If I didn’t want to take them right away it would be fine, and people would not watch me puke. I missed that. But then I thought about how my friend had given up her bed to me without a second thought. I thought about how everyone wanted to help however they could (granted I’m sure they were enjoying the show), whether it was by making me some tea, giving me a mysterious pill, covering me in an Ecuadorian version of Vick’s, or taking their best shot at a diagnosis. I thanked my friend for the tea (she didn’t see me throw it up) and tried to go to sleep. I thought about how I would never again a) brag about being healthy, and b) forget to knock on wood if I did.

I have finally moved into my new apartment, and its very nice to have my own space. My host mother and I didn´t really see eye-to-eye on the whole moving out thing, and haven´t really talked since. I plan on bringing a Christmas present over to her as a peace offering, so wish me luck with that. I will put up pictures of my new place soon.

I would like to thank everyone who participated in the "What Kind of Poop is It?!" competition. (And by everyone, I mean my brother and my dad) After a lot of careful consideration, I would like to announce my brother, Scott, and my dad (who guessed lizard and moth larvae, respectively) as the winners. The two of them will receive the afore mentioned all expense paid trip to Ecuador (restrictions apply) as well as my unconditional love and affection. Thanks for playing!

Lessons Continued

2009-11-16T09:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

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.)
- Saran Wrap
- Veggie Wash
- Flip flops
- Tank tops
- Easy Mac
- 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

2009-09-28T10:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-11T18:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-24T17:40:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-07-25T14:44:00.000-07:00

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!!

Lessons

2009-07-12T15:40:00.000-07:00

Image1: My host mother eyeing up some woman´s sheep
Image2: My host mother and our new sheep

There is no better way to learn what is or is not acceptable in a culture than by observing an older member of that culture for a period of time. On Saturday, my host mother invited me to join her on a trip to the market in Otavalo. I thought it would be a great opportunity to pick up some “cultural pointers,” if you will. In the short 4 or 5 hours we spent together, I learned 4 important lessons for survival in Ecuadorian culture.

Lesson one: Respect.

Respect for elders is a custom in Ecuadorian culture that can be seen and heard pretty much anywhere you go. On the bus on the way to Otavalo my host mother and I were sitting in the front two seats on the left side of the bus, with me closest to the aisle. The closer we got the market, the more the bus began to fill up. Finally, when we were about 15 minutes away, the bus filled up completely. At the next stop, a very elderly woman decked out in a traditional indigenous skirt, top, and jewelry, slowly made her way up the stairs. She passed by our row of seats but seeing that there was nowhere to sit, returned to the front of the bus. I began to get up to give my seat to the old woman when my mother gently pulled me back down and motioned that I move closer to her seat. At the same time, the elderly woman sat down on my armrest and faced the aisle. She then leaned back to use my shoulder as her backrest. My mind wandered back to one of our previous culture classes when the PC warned us that our personal space would be invaded. The woman situated herself and scooted her way back until she was comfortably supporting all of her weight on my body. I turned and attempted to accommodate the woman while trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. I glanced over at my mother who was now watching the view out the window as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I did my best to act the same way despite the 80 year-old stranger who was practically in my lap.

Lesson two: Run.

In Ecuador, and many other South American countries at that, the concept of pedestrian right-of-way does not exist. This became very evident every time we attempted to cross the street and a car was headed our way. Rather than waiting for the car to pass or expecting it to slow down for us, my 45 year-old host mother would break into a dead sprint to beat the car across the street and avoid getting run over. I followed suit. When I explained to her that in the U.S. if someone is walking in the street the car has to slow down or stop she just laughed. “Hahaha, not here! If you are in the way, the car will honk to let you know. And if you still don’t move quickly enough, you are going to have problems.” I laughed too even though I found that fact more disturbing than funny. Ironically, I got a lesson in pedestrian safety soon after our conversation when walking in the street at the market. I was admittedly being a liiiiiittle too touristy (taking pictures and not really paying attention to what was going on around me) when a taxi cab honked and sped by about 6 inches from my left foot. At the same moment, my host mother grabbed my right arm and yanked me towards the sidewalk. I just stood there with a dumb/shocked look on my face.

“Umm…he almost hit me.”

“Yes, he did,” she laughed. “But he did honk.”

Lesson three: Haggle.

Once we had walked around for a bit at the market, my host mother decided that she really wanted to look for a sheep to buy and bring home. I found this interesting since we had come on the bus. I didn’t really understand how we would get a sheep home, but smiled and said, “well lets look for one then!” Like an answer to my mother’s prayers, a younger-looking indigenous woman walked by with a sheep on a leash within minutes (first picture). The following conversation ensued:

“Wow, what a beautiful sheep you have there!”

“Yes, it is a very nice sheep, female.”

“I see. I have been looking for a sheep and that one looks very nice, how much?”

“Thirty dollars.”

“Thirty? Oh, that is too much. I only have 25.” My mother looked over at me.

At this point I realized that I was also a part of the price negotiation. I did my best to help my mother.

“Yeah, 30 is a lot,” I said. “Twenty-five sounds fair.”

“Twenty-five? No. This sheep has been raised well, she is worth no less than 30.”

“Well, I will not have enough money to take the bus home, I will only pay 25.” My mother wouldn’t budge.

“Sorry, I cannot sell this sheep for that little.”

“Ok, then I will keep looking.” My mother said as she motioned for me to keep walking.

We had walked about two blocks and I had completely forgotten about the sheep when the woman somehow found us in a crowd of hundreds of people.

“Thirty.” She said.

“Twenty-five.” Said my mother.

“Fine.” Said the woman realizing that my mother was not going to pay a penny more.

She handed the sheep over to my mother (second picture) who handed it to me as she dug out her money.

Once the woman had left I asked how we would get our new sheep home.

“On the bus!” My mother laughed.

“Of course!” I said.

I will save that one for a different blog.

Lesson 4: Fib.

Once we had our new sheep in tow, we decided to do a little more shopping. We were headed for a yarn stand when a woman approached us to inquire about our sheep.

“Are you selling that sheep?”

“No, I just bought it.”

“I see. How much did you buy it for?”

“Twenty-seven.”

More people began to gather around and ask about our sheep. I realized that the amount we paid for it increased with each person that approached us. By the time we were ready to leave, the twenty-five dollar sheep had more than doubled in price and people were still interested in buying it. When I asked my mother why she wouldn´t just take the 50 bucks and buy two sheep, she said that the one we had was exactly what she was looking for and she wouldn´t sell it even if she were offered a hundred dollars. I then asked her what the point of telling people she bought it for more than she did was. She bluntly explained to me that it was none of thier business how much she paid for the sheep.

On another note, this Thursday is the day we find out where we will me moving for two years. They make a pretty big deal about our site assignments and everybody is understandably anxious. I would reveal where I hope to be sent but I don´t want to jinx it (yes, I still believe in jinx). Anyways, cross your fingers/pray/think about me or whatever you do this week. I will update as soon as I know where I am headed. Love!!

Bizarre Foods

2009-07-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

In the three weeks I had leading up to coming to Ecuador I found myself watching a lot of the Travel Channel. Specifically, Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern. For those of you who are not familiar with the show, Andrew Zimmern, a native Minnesotan (represent!), travels all over the world in search of the most unusual edible things he can find. Often, when dinner time rolls around, and a steaming plate of something new and unrecognizable is placed in front of me, my stomach begs me to politely decline and sprint for the emergency Ritz crackers I have hidden in my top dresser drawer. But before I can even reach for the plate my brain takes over and asks my stomach, “hey, what would Andrew Zimmern do?” While all of this is going on, the rest of the family quietly begins to eat their meal. And while trying not to stare, they watch me out of the corner of their eyes as I smile and take the first bite.

Most of the time, its not the taste of the food that turns me off, it’s the thought of exactly what I’m eating. I found this to be especially true the night I got home from training and my host mother was making sheep stew.
“What are you cooking?”
“Sheep.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, have you tried it before?”
“No, never.”
“Don’t worry, I’m making it into a stew.”
I smiled at her and walked to my room to put my stuff away. My brain and stomach began to argue.
“No way. No. Way.”
“Dude, its just sheep. Its like lamb.”
“Whatever, we pet those sheep today. I’m not eating it.”
“Oh come on, what would Andrew Zimmern do?”
My stomach had no rebuttal.
I walked into the kitchen and took my place at the table. With a fork, I stabbed a chunk of sheep, lifted it to my mouth, quickly chewed and swallowed. I was surprised at how much: A) I enjoyed it and B) It tasted like beef. Conversation that night surrounded the death of Michael Jackson as the children asked me whether or not I knew him personally and Angel tried to convince Rubi that his ghost now haunted Northern Ecuador.

The next day, our very pregnant cow, Emilia*, finally gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. That night I got home and saw Carmen, my host mother, stirring a pot of a thick yellow substance.
“Whats that?” I asked.
“Calostro.” She replied.
“Hmm…whats calostro?”
“Well you know how that cow had her baby, right?”
I did not like where this was going.
“Yeah?”
“Ok, well calstro is what comes out after the baby, but before the milk.”
I had heard enough, but she continued.
“It is very special for us because we can only have it when a cow gives birth.”
She had to add that didn’t she? She asked me if I would try it.
“Oh, of course!” I replied.
Damnit. I don’t even drink milk, let alone baby birth substances. I sat down and my host mother handed me a large, steaming cup of calostro. I started to panic. I thought of Andrew Zimmern’s closing monologue and how he ended every episode with, “…and remember, if it looks good, eat it!” This, however, did NOT look good. Andrew couldn’t even help me now. I grabbed a spoon and scooped up some calostro. Everybody else dug in. I just sat there.
“You don’t have t eat it if you don’t want.”
“No, no, its just really hot.” I lied.
I ate the spoonful. It was sweet and warm and curdley and thick all at the same time. I got two more bites down before I had to throw in the towel. Once everyone had finished eating, I snuck outside and offered the rest of my calostro to the dogs, who happily accepted.

Whenever we eat something new, I usually take the time to watch everybody else’s mannerisms and then try to follow suit. The night we had salmon was the first time an entire fried fish had been placed in front of me - ever. Skin, eyeballs, little fins, everything. I was unsure where to start so I tried to eat my salad and nonchalantly watch Angel across the table to see what to do with the fish. He, very skillfully, opened the fish with his fork and pulled the meat from its spine and little ribs. I began to do the same. Soon only the salmon head was left on my plate. I looked around the table and noticed that everybody else was well on their way to finishing their salmon heads, eyeballs and all. I looked at my salmon head. It looked at me. I looked over at Rubi, who had finished hers and was now eyeing my plate. I stabbed the head with my fork and thought about its little brain, eyes, and teeth. I couldn’t do it. Rubi, however, had a taste for salmon heads and seemed to be patiently waiting for me to offer her mine. I moved it to her plate and she happily chowed down. I was satisfied not to have to resort to the dogs.

Other “bizarre” foods I have eaten so far include: cow intestines, guinea pig, and cow stomach. I have only been here for a little over two weeks now so you (and I) can imagine the possibilities.

p.s. To this day I am not exactly sure what calostro is. Feel free to share if you do.

*Names have been changed.

Week One.

2009-06-22T14:50:00.000-07:00

First and foremost I would like to welcome my new baby niece - Gianna Rasikah Reese Draine, born June 20th, 2009, - into the world. Even though she came six days early I had a feeling that I should get touch with home while everything was going down. I am sad that I can’t be there but ecstatic that she is healthy and all is well. Congratulations to my sister and her husband, I can‘t wait to see the pictures. Heather, thank God that’s over.

It is 5:50 in the morning and I am awake because this is the time the rooster outside my bedroom door has decided to get up. I politely asked him to go back to bed or at least keep it down until 7 to no avail.

My host mother will leave in just a few minutes to walk up the sierra in order to go milk the cows. I would join her, but my legs and back are still pretty sore from yesterday’s trip up to the cows. Yesterday was my first day here with the host family, and so it was a very long one. I was resting in my bed for about an hour in the afternoon until I heard two of the children making noise outside my bedroom door. I went outside and asked them what they were doing. When my host brother, Angel, told me that they were headed “to the cows” I thought it would be a good opportunity to go check out some of this cow milking business. I looked at the cows right next to the house and wondered why the kids were acting like they were about to backpack across Europe when they were going to milk some cows that were literally about fifteen feet away. But, I shrugged my shoulders and followed them down the driveway. About 3 minutes into the walk and after passing the cows that I had assumed were ours, I looked at Angel and asked him again where we were going. He gave me a “what’s with this chick’s short-term memory” look and patiently responded, “to the cows.”
“Those cows?” I asked, pointing back to the cows by the house.
“Those aren’t our cows!” He laughed.
“Ok, where are your cows then?”
Angel pointed about two miles up the sierra to some slow-moving black dots.
I swallowed hard.
“All the way up there?” I asked, straining to see these alleged cows.
“Yup.”
“How long does it take to get up there?”
“Only about 40 minutes.”
Now, I will have you know that despite what many of you may think, I am not so lazy that I can’t handle a 40 minute walk. But already being at about 10,000ish feet, I can feel the altitude just standing still. I quickly realized that this 40 minute trek even higher up the sierra would be no walk in the park. Seemingly reading my mind Angel asked if I still wanted to go. “Oh of course!” I responded and simultaneously said a little prayer.

So far, all is good. We arrived in Miami, FL last Tuesday to begin what the Peace Corps calls “staging.” In a conference room at the hotel we finally met everyone face-to-face. There are about 45 of us. After some brief introductions, we sat and listened to some not-so-brief safety, security and travel instructions. Five hours to be exact. At about 7 o’clock they let us go find food and see a little bit of Miami.
By 3:40 the next afternoon we were in the plane trying to entertain ourselves for the four hour fight to Quito, Ecuador. When the pilot announced that we were about 125 miles away, he suggested we open our windows and get some pictures of the view while landing in Quito. Its hard to describe how cool it was, but I’ll try. (Wheat, you know what I’m talking about.) The whole city is built on dozens of mountains and in between valleys. There are houses of all colors and little villages scattered all over, some that seem to be built all the way up the sierras to the clouds. Sarah, the Volunteer next to me, looked at me and asked if I could believe that we would live here for the next two years. I think that was when it finally sunk in for the first time. I was very excited when the plane finally touched down and thought it would be appropriate to start the slow-clap. Successful.

Once we got to the hostel in Quito, they informed us that we would not be staying there for the 4 nights that we had anticipated, but that we would be leaving for out training site in Cayambe the next afternoon. In Cayambe, everyone stayed together at a compound that PC rents out for two nights. My roommate was a 22 year-old named Stephanie from Miami. She spends a lot of time by the water and consequently calls me “dude” and “bro” on a regular basis. After a lot of sitting, listening, paperwork, immunizations, and receiving our cell phones, it was finally time to meet our host families.

The city of Cayambe is divided into about 20 different communities. The PC split us up into about 7 or 8 different groups based on language ability, and then assigned each group and one facilitator to a different community to live in for the duration of training. Soon after the meeting I was in the back of a truck with Carla (my host mother), Rubi, (host sister), the rest of my group, and their host families, driving up the sierra to Paquiestancia, the community that we were assigned to.

When I got to the house, I met Miguel, my host father, Marta, my fifteen year-old host sister, and Angel, 13 (see cow story). Along with Rubi, who is 6, and eleven year-old Flor, who I would meet later, there are six people: a mother, father, and four children. After I set my stuff down Rubi insisted on showing me the farm. It is pretty small (I would guess about one acre) but they have chickens, pigs, cats, dogs, guinea pigs (they eat those here), and cows (note: two miles up the mountain).

The accent is a little more difficult than I had anticipated, and I though I have few problems when they are talking to me directly, I find myself straining to understand when the speak amongst each other. The six year-old is by far the hardest for me to understand. After showing me the farm she turned to look at me and asked something in Spanish. I didn’t get it and asked her to repeat what she had said. After a couple more rounds of this I gave up and just told her to show me what she was talking about. I followed her over to the piglets where she picked one up by the hind legs and to my horror began spinning it around as fast as she could. She then set the piglet on the ground and laughed hysterically as it stumbled and struggled to regain its balance. As we walked away, I looked at the pig and mouthed a silent “sorry” as I technically had given her permission to do that.

Nobody in my community looks like me (it is very indigenous) and consequently I am stared at for an uncomfortably long time wherever I go. Though there are Africans in Ecuador the vast majority of them live on the Northwestern coast in a province called Esmeraldas. I didn’t realize how few Black people they see around here until my host sister Flor told me that I looked just like Tyra Banks.

After retuning from watching Angel milk the cows and Rubi terrorize them, we had a dinner of soup with milk, peas, noodles, potatoes, lettuce, and corn. Then the kids asked me if I wanted to join them in watching Fear Factor. Thinking it would be some Ecuadorian version of the show I was surprised to see Joe Rogan and all American contestants with their voices dubbed over into Spanish. The kids huddled around me and each other as if we were watching a horror movie.

Anyways, so far, so good. There is a lot to get used to and my stomach is slowly adapting to the change in diet, but other than that I think that this place and family will be a good fit for me during training. I am excited to see more of Ecuador. I think of everybody back home a lot and pray that all is well. Take care and stay in touch!

P.S. My blogs will not all be this long.
P.P.S. Let me know if you would like my cell number. I can not call internationally with it, but I can send texts to the U.S. though it is pretty spendy. I guarantee calling me here will not be cheap either.
P.P.S. I will post my address as soon as I know it, but I can not receive anything over 2kgs for the first few months of training.