I try to keep my blog posts upbeat, though admitedly, I occasionally do some whining. Unfortunately, the past couple of months in Ecuador have been a constant mental battle, and I´ve been losing. I´ve even found myself considering ¨decisiones drasticas,¨ as PCVs euphamistically call going home early. Work has been slow and tedious, and I´m disgusted with my own sloth and general lack of animation. I never realized how hard it would be to get going in the morning when the usual consequences of not (like losing a job, failing a class, and so on) are absent, but these consequences aren´t a part of Peace Corps life, and striving on without them is tough.
That said, I got a major motivation this afternoon from an unlikely source. An SUV picked me up on my way into town for English club and the driver and passengers turned out to be ingeñeros (engineers, though the term encompasses a much wider swath of professions than its English equivalent) driving from Piura, Peru, to Loja, Ecuador. They were a lively crew and blasted a collection of mostly English songs throughout the trip. The familiar "We´ll be singing, while we´re winning," opening line to Chumbawamba´s song came through the speakers and my heart lifted. Bobbing my head to the music, a welcome wave of optimism and determination swept over me, as I decided that, damn it PC, you´re never gonna get me down!
Beyond the mental challenges of PC, the States threw a serious curve ball my way a few weeks ago in the form of bad health news on my grandma. I don´t yet know what course of action will prove best there, but while I´m here, I´m determined to make the most of the experience and try to do some good in my little corner of Ecuador. And if you´re familiar with the rest of "I Get Knocked Down," don´t worry, my plan of attack involves neither whiskey drinks, vodka drinks, lager drinks, nor cider drinks!
The plan does involve a little rest and relaxation that will be happening Stateside over the Thanksgiving holiday. If you´ll be around the A2 T-Town area, hope to see you there!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Creepy Crawler
I was tidying my room recently, preparing for a visit from PC buddies over Halloween. I picked up my fallecido (dearly departed) computer and noticed something blackish-brown and furry lurking in the computer´s vacated spot.
Like the Michigander idiot that I am, my mind first concluded that a fake tarantula was in my closet. Next I wondered who could have left a fake tarantula in my closet, and where on Earth they had found such a realistic looking one. Finally, and startlingly, it dawned on me that I live in the tropics and, by golly, they have real tarantulas here! The monster in the closet (if not yet under the bed) was real! Mierda! Puta madre!
I stood doing nothing for a few moments,
carefully watching the beast to assure myself that it wasn´t about to scurry off. I fumbled about for my camera and got in as close as I dared to capture this very anti-Hallmark Moment. Picture secured (see right), I got out the flashlight for a better view. The harsh LED crank light didn´t make the critter look any friendlier, and while I remembered reading a blog about a tarantula catch and release undertaken by a PC couple in similar straits, I knew I needed backup.
Luckily, Silvia, the farm manager´s wife was outside reading a magazine. I approached her painfully conscious that a proper ecuatoriana would deal with the stupid thing on her own, but I had to admit to myself that I am not, nor do I anticipate approaching, proper ecuatoriana status.
Silvia came back with me to my room and watched on as I shone the flashlight into the closet depths once again. A few seconds of observation assured her that the gringa did, at least, know what a tarantula was, and said I should "matalo, no más" (kill it, of course). In a flash, she grabbed my machete, made a quick chop, brushed the creature onto my shovel, and deposited the remains outside. All that was left to do was find some papel higenico (toilet paper) to clean-up the small mess left by the machete action.
I thanked Silvia, confident that her assistance would be amply repaid in amusement. I also, and quite foolishly, inquired further about the general prevalence of tarantulas in the area, particularly preoccupied with worries of this fellow's friends or descendents sharing his home. Silvia recommended shaking out my clothes, then recounted a story about a child who was bit in the neck by a tarantula and died. If you think it odd that Silvia would relate this story at such a time, you need to meet more Ecuadorians. Of course, who knows if my species was even the same species (Silvia grew-up in Peru) and I am at least twice as big as Ecuadorian adults, but still, my skin still occasionally crawls at the memory of my furry visitor.
Like the Michigander idiot that I am, my mind first concluded that a fake tarantula was in my closet. Next I wondered who could have left a fake tarantula in my closet, and where on Earth they had found such a realistic looking one. Finally, and startlingly, it dawned on me that I live in the tropics and, by golly, they have real tarantulas here! The monster in the closet (if not yet under the bed) was real! Mierda! Puta madre!
I stood doing nothing for a few moments,
carefully watching the beast to assure myself that it wasn´t about to scurry off. I fumbled about for my camera and got in as close as I dared to capture this very anti-Hallmark Moment. Picture secured (see right), I got out the flashlight for a better view. The harsh LED crank light didn´t make the critter look any friendlier, and while I remembered reading a blog about a tarantula catch and release undertaken by a PC couple in similar straits, I knew I needed backup.Luckily, Silvia, the farm manager´s wife was outside reading a magazine. I approached her painfully conscious that a proper ecuatoriana would deal with the stupid thing on her own, but I had to admit to myself that I am not, nor do I anticipate approaching, proper ecuatoriana status.
Silvia came back with me to my room and watched on as I shone the flashlight into the closet depths once again. A few seconds of observation assured her that the gringa did, at least, know what a tarantula was, and said I should "matalo, no más" (kill it, of course). In a flash, she grabbed my machete, made a quick chop, brushed the creature onto my shovel, and deposited the remains outside. All that was left to do was find some papel higenico (toilet paper) to clean-up the small mess left by the machete action.
I thanked Silvia, confident that her assistance would be amply repaid in amusement. I also, and quite foolishly, inquired further about the general prevalence of tarantulas in the area, particularly preoccupied with worries of this fellow's friends or descendents sharing his home. Silvia recommended shaking out my clothes, then recounted a story about a child who was bit in the neck by a tarantula and died. If you think it odd that Silvia would relate this story at such a time, you need to meet more Ecuadorians. Of course, who knows if my species was even the same species (Silvia grew-up in Peru) and I am at least twice as big as Ecuadorian adults, but still, my skin still occasionally crawls at the memory of my furry visitor.
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