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.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Elaboración de Miel de Caña, or Making Sugar Cane Honey
I set out this morning to a neighboring barrio (rural collection of houses with an elementary school) to find out how long I´ve committed myself to hiking to teach a new set of English classes. It took an hour and fifteen minutes, uphill. I admit the uphill was only one way, but all the same, I will be forced into shape.
As I arrived back in my barrio, legs aching and feeling the effects of the sun, my neighbor called me over and invited me to help out in some sort of project involving a pile of sugar cane and a machine. The engineer instinct took over and I hurried around the fence. It turned out my neighbors (many were filtering through to assist) were making sugar cane honey. The first phase, harvesting the sugar cane, happened elsewhere, as the caña is thin on the ground in my dry area. However, in the well irrigated places or valleys hugging rivers near me, the stuff grows well and I´m used to seeing it. Up close, it looks a bit like bamboo (see the pile to the right).
As I arrived back in my barrio, legs aching and feeling the effects of the sun, my neighbor called me over and invited me to help out in some sort of project involving a pile of sugar cane and a machine. The engineer instinct took over and I hurried around the fence. It turned out my neighbors (many were filtering through to assist) were making sugar cane honey. The first phase, harvesting the sugar cane, happened elsewhere, as the caña is thin on the ground in my dry area. However, in the well irrigated places or valleys hugging rivers near me, the stuff grows well and I´m used to seeing it. Up close, it looks a bit like bamboo (see the pile to the right). To make the honey, you cut the end at an angle, then feed through a mechanical press, slanty-end first. The press devours the caña, shooting dry-ish sticks out one end and lot
s of juice out the bottom. The juice at my neighbor´s poured into a 15 gallon kettle, from which it was seived into buckets and transported to the "stove," two concrete basins atop a leña (wood) fire (see picture at right). The juice was boiled down to a syrup, and then it´s ready. The miel de caña is sold throughout Ecuador as sweetner either in the honey form, or reduced further until it´s solid and called panela. Panela, when shaved, is the brownish sugar that Starbucks puts in the "natural" colored wrappers labelled cane sugar. Here, it´s the norm. Even the white sugar comes from sugar cane and is simply processed further (the smaller the pieces get, the whiter they appear – I think much of Michigan´s sugar comes from sugar beets and am not sure what color the sugar from these begins).
s of juice out the bottom. The juice at my neighbor´s poured into a 15 gallon kettle, from which it was seived into buckets and transported to the "stove," two concrete basins atop a leña (wood) fire (see picture at right). The juice was boiled down to a syrup, and then it´s ready. The miel de caña is sold throughout Ecuador as sweetner either in the honey form, or reduced further until it´s solid and called panela. Panela, when shaved, is the brownish sugar that Starbucks puts in the "natural" colored wrappers labelled cane sugar. Here, it´s the norm. Even the white sugar comes from sugar cane and is simply processed further (the smaller the pieces get, the whiter they appear – I think much of Michigan´s sugar comes from sugar beets and am not sure what color the sugar from these begins).
I got to feed the sugar cane into the press and have the picture to prove it! OSHA, I´m outside your jurisdiction and have no comment on the gear that may or may not have popped out of the press two times in thirty minutes.
After elaboración de miel de caña, I put in some quality hammock time with the gatita before setting out around two for the canton capital to help at a middle school English club. My camioneta initially only had one other woman in the back seat, and I rode in comfort for ten minutes. Then a woman got in with her one-year-old and seven-year-old. With five squished in the back seat, the comfort quotient took a big hit, and then the baby started crying. Even I could tell the kid was doing his "my tummy hurts" cry (he sounded a bit like the moaning I associate with hugging toilets) and sure enough, he projectile vomited all over his mother and the seat that was mine until the vomit claimed it. I spent the remaining 15 minutes of the trip clinging to the driver´s bench to avoid backsliding into the mess, head straining towards the only open window. I was pretty glad to get out of that truck.
English club was a blast – we drew floor plans of our houses and learned all the words to label the rooms and furniture in English. If you´ve ever seen my notebooks, napkins, or placemats, you know that this activity was right up my alley. Now I´m writing to all of you and will be back in miel de caña land in a few hours. All in all, a fantastically Peace Corps-ish day.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Attempted Coup!
Sorry for the delay - life sin computadora has been a bit trying, and September was a busy month! Since posting last, I've attended a Reconnect Conference in Quito with my Omnibus, said goodbye to one COSing (regular end of Peace Corps service) and four ETing (leaving early) volunteers, attended my host cousin's quincenera (15th birthday party), spent a little over a week stuck in site on account of national police strikes and an attempted coup, got some good news on future work projects, and taken my first by-myself nightbus to Quito for a long weekend, from where I am writing this post.
I'm saving more details on the quincenera and work developments for another post, and will devote this one to the attempted coup. Last Thursday, September 30, Peace Corps sent out a message telling all volunteers to go on standfast, the first phase of our evacuation plan. Standfast entails pinpointing all volunteers' locations, then telling them to stay put until either consolidation in provincial capitals and possible evacuation, or an all-clear returning us to normal life. The standfast was enacted in anticipation of unrest likely to arise because of a planned national police strike.
I awoke Friday morning to the usual quiet laziness of my rural site, but shortly thereafter received a text from my mom asking "Did u hear about coup attempt? Is everything ok by u? Has pc said anything?" The text was the first I'd heard of the coup, and I had run out of saldo (phone minutes) the day before, so I couldn't call anyone to find out quickly. I was scheduled to help prepare the soil at one of my schools for a new garden, but decided to head into the town where I lived with my host family to buy saldo and hear the news (this sort of travel is allowed on Standfast - I have to go into town to buy food). The camioneta (pick-up truck) driver and high schooler with whom I shared a ride were discussing the coup and I learned that the national police force kidnapped Rafael Correa, the president of Ecuador, in a quasi-coup attempt on Thursday night (I'm unsure if the goal was to take over the government or just force Correa to repeal a new law they don't like). The kidnapping was short-lived and by my Friday morning camioneta ride, the military had already rescued him from the police kidnappers and the South American and international communities had expressed their support for the elected president.
Because of the coup, school across the country was cancelled, so my day was free and I spent time on the internet, then went over to my host parents' house and watched the news with my host mom. I really enjoyed talking with her about the coup. She was feeling shaken by the coup attempt, and not terribly proud of Ecuador, but I actually helped her feel better, pointing out that the coup's failure was probably a good sign for Ecuador - that the country was stable enough to withstand such an assault. She reflected on that and agreed, remembering the occasions in the not that distant past when Ecuadorian governments did not fare so well when faced with affronts to their power.
The country was placed under an "exceptional state" following the coup, meaning that the military took control of security throughout the country and retains it until tomorrow, Saturday, when the police force is scheduled to return to its normal duties. I'm not sure what the difference between an "exceptional state" and marshal law is - they seam awfully similar to me - but the official name for the state of affairs here has been the former. In Quito and Guayaquil the military was roving the streets picking up groups bigger than 2, at times, and there were a few gun fights and a big uptick in robberies. Out by me, life was unchanged except for a few more people from the ejercito (army) walking around, though there wasn't any obvious unrest for them to contain. Friends in Ciudad de Loja said all they heard of happening was a bank and mini-mart robbery. My province is super tranquilo, as they say in Spanish, and when it comes to political instability, I'm happy with things this way.
So, that was my experience with a coup attempt. Interesting in a far-away sense, but pretty unevently in my physical relm. Let's hope things remain calm!
I'm saving more details on the quincenera and work developments for another post, and will devote this one to the attempted coup. Last Thursday, September 30, Peace Corps sent out a message telling all volunteers to go on standfast, the first phase of our evacuation plan. Standfast entails pinpointing all volunteers' locations, then telling them to stay put until either consolidation in provincial capitals and possible evacuation, or an all-clear returning us to normal life. The standfast was enacted in anticipation of unrest likely to arise because of a planned national police strike.
I awoke Friday morning to the usual quiet laziness of my rural site, but shortly thereafter received a text from my mom asking "Did u hear about coup attempt? Is everything ok by u? Has pc said anything?" The text was the first I'd heard of the coup, and I had run out of saldo (phone minutes) the day before, so I couldn't call anyone to find out quickly. I was scheduled to help prepare the soil at one of my schools for a new garden, but decided to head into the town where I lived with my host family to buy saldo and hear the news (this sort of travel is allowed on Standfast - I have to go into town to buy food). The camioneta (pick-up truck) driver and high schooler with whom I shared a ride were discussing the coup and I learned that the national police force kidnapped Rafael Correa, the president of Ecuador, in a quasi-coup attempt on Thursday night (I'm unsure if the goal was to take over the government or just force Correa to repeal a new law they don't like). The kidnapping was short-lived and by my Friday morning camioneta ride, the military had already rescued him from the police kidnappers and the South American and international communities had expressed their support for the elected president.
Because of the coup, school across the country was cancelled, so my day was free and I spent time on the internet, then went over to my host parents' house and watched the news with my host mom. I really enjoyed talking with her about the coup. She was feeling shaken by the coup attempt, and not terribly proud of Ecuador, but I actually helped her feel better, pointing out that the coup's failure was probably a good sign for Ecuador - that the country was stable enough to withstand such an assault. She reflected on that and agreed, remembering the occasions in the not that distant past when Ecuadorian governments did not fare so well when faced with affronts to their power.
The country was placed under an "exceptional state" following the coup, meaning that the military took control of security throughout the country and retains it until tomorrow, Saturday, when the police force is scheduled to return to its normal duties. I'm not sure what the difference between an "exceptional state" and marshal law is - they seam awfully similar to me - but the official name for the state of affairs here has been the former. In Quito and Guayaquil the military was roving the streets picking up groups bigger than 2, at times, and there were a few gun fights and a big uptick in robberies. Out by me, life was unchanged except for a few more people from the ejercito (army) walking around, though there wasn't any obvious unrest for them to contain. Friends in Ciudad de Loja said all they heard of happening was a bank and mini-mart robbery. My province is super tranquilo, as they say in Spanish, and when it comes to political instability, I'm happy with things this way.
So, that was my experience with a coup attempt. Interesting in a far-away sense, but pretty unevently in my physical relm. Let's hope things remain calm!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
A Quick Update
So, my very elderly computer kicked the bucket a little under two weeks ago. I lost my movie theater, picture editor and ability to pre-type blog posts. As a result, my posts may be a bit slighter and farther between until the computerlessness is resolved, but here´s a quick update on what´s up in la vida ecuatoriana:
My first two batches of personal compost are complete and a small but sturdy crop of green beans, tomatoes and a kidney bean plant that survived composting are coming along well. I´ll be transplanting a few of the tomatoes to the closest school garden tomorrow.
The school garden´s compost pile has been destroyed twice by rummaging chickens, forcing me to move it inside the garden walls. This is fine, except that now the land under the compost is no longer available for growing things.
I´ve started a World Wise Schools exchange with the Spanish teacher at my alma mater. Please feel sorry for the third year Spanish students of THS who are subjected to my atrocious attempt at writing in Spanish.
I´ve caught something that feels flu-ish, but as I´ve been vaccinated against everything under the sun, it must be a cold. My Peace Corps-issued mini-pharmacy is getting me through, and I´m pretty sure I´m on the mend already.
Next week I head up to Quito for a weeklong training/reconnect seminar with my omnibus. I´m looking forward to catching up with my fellow 7-months-in-Ecuadorers and getting some help on project planning.
I ordered a Kindle and am having it shipped via the Peace Corps Express, meaning it and it´s cell-phone network enabled internet connection should arrive next week when Liz gets back from wedding attending in los Estados Unidos. I´m pretty psyched by the prospect of internet on demand.
That´s all for now, but I´ll try to get some photos up somehow for the next post. Que les vaya bien!
My first two batches of personal compost are complete and a small but sturdy crop of green beans, tomatoes and a kidney bean plant that survived composting are coming along well. I´ll be transplanting a few of the tomatoes to the closest school garden tomorrow.
The school garden´s compost pile has been destroyed twice by rummaging chickens, forcing me to move it inside the garden walls. This is fine, except that now the land under the compost is no longer available for growing things.
I´ve started a World Wise Schools exchange with the Spanish teacher at my alma mater. Please feel sorry for the third year Spanish students of THS who are subjected to my atrocious attempt at writing in Spanish.
I´ve caught something that feels flu-ish, but as I´ve been vaccinated against everything under the sun, it must be a cold. My Peace Corps-issued mini-pharmacy is getting me through, and I´m pretty sure I´m on the mend already.
Next week I head up to Quito for a weeklong training/reconnect seminar with my omnibus. I´m looking forward to catching up with my fellow 7-months-in-Ecuadorers and getting some help on project planning.
I ordered a Kindle and am having it shipped via the Peace Corps Express, meaning it and it´s cell-phone network enabled internet connection should arrive next week when Liz gets back from wedding attending in los Estados Unidos. I´m pretty psyched by the prospect of internet on demand.
That´s all for now, but I´ll try to get some photos up somehow for the next post. Que les vaya bien!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
PC Rage, Closeness, Openness
Peace Corps can, at times, feel like an emotional roller coaster worthy of top billing at Cedar Point. The highs are really high, and the lows can be crushing. As most PCVs do, I live in what still feels like a new and dramatically foreign culture and must figure out how to cope largely on my own, at least in geographic terms. In response to the pressures of PCV life, I’m prone to fits of rage and extreme openness, and, at least among those I see, other volunteers are too.
Rage
It comes on suddenly, and then lashes out. I’ll be going about my day, not particularly perturbed by the more irritating parts of my host culture, then all of a sudden, one too many men hisses at me and the caged rage tiger breaks free. I instantly despise the crudeness, pettiness or injustice of some action and I have to find an outlet for my irritation. I’ve taken up voicing the obscenities I desperately want to say, but refrain from translating them. A beauty of the cultural divide is that as long as I pronounce things properly and quickly (which is pretty much guaranteed in an outburst), nobody but me is any the wiser, and I feel immensely better.
I fell back on this coping mechanism during a recent encounter with the bus system. I was attempting to return home after a day trip to Loja last weekend in the mess of the Virgen del Cisne (virgin on the swan) pilgrimage. Swarms of devotees had come in from all over Ecuador to accompany the Virgen on her annual journey from El Cisne to Loja, and while they pour money into the local economy (yea!), they make travelling a nightmare (boo!). The Loja bus terminal bore a striking resemblance to O’Hare on the Friday before Christmas when Denver’s closed down by a snowstorm. My bus was delayed by more than an hour, but did eventually leave.
However, for reasons that did not appear to satisfy my fellow passengers, and which I couldn’t quite understand, our chofer (driver) pulled over about 30 minutes after leaving Loja, sat doing nothing for another 20, then announced that we were returning to Loja. I was proud of my initial staidness, patiently resigned to the absurdities of Virgen del Cisne time as the bus went back down the mountain. But, as we pulled back into the terminal, and the chofer had no explanation for what we should do, I remembered that the next bus wasn’t for 3 hours and was likely already full, the rage rose up inside and I joined the other passengers sharing their displeasure with the driver. I said my piece in English, though, so while I felt just as self-righteous and justified as my fellow complainers, the driver was no worse for the wear.
A fellow Lojana volunteer shared the story of a rage-fueled fit she threw because a mini-mart wouldn’t let her take the small tote bag she carries as a purse into the store, though streams of women carrying purses that doubled as bowling ball bags flowed through. As she described it, the fact that her bag wasn’t "stylish" enough for the bag-checker’s purse standards was what set her off. She lost it after her explanation that her tote was small and contained the wallet she would need to pay fell on deaf ears. Her Spanish flew immediately out the window as she through the sort of indignant tantrum usually reserved for the exclusive use of middle-aged women at Black Friday sales in Wal-Mart. She felt comfortable sharing this bout of poor behavior with me because: A) she was sure I’d behaved similarly poorly in similar encounters with Peace Corps Rage, and B) PCVs tend to tell each other anything and everything, which brings me to my second topic….
Openness and Closeness
I know some alarmingly intimate facts about my fellow PCVs. I can give a fairly detailed report on the diarrhea bouts of the Loja cluster, have seen scars from hideous puss-producing allergic reactions, and know that the average time between volunteers’ showers hovers around 48 hours for those in warm climates and 96 hours for those in the cold. Why do I know this? Because volunteers share so openly. Since this openness is so widespread, I suspect it’s related to coping with life abroad, but whatever causes it, it has some wonderful consequences.
Firstly, since bizarre illnesses are a probable reality, it’s actually nice to know what to expect in the puss and poo department. Secondly, volunteers are eager to share more personal info of the emotional variety, along with bodily functions. I’m amazed by how well I know those volunteers I get to see with some regularity. I know all about their past experiences and future plans, frustrations and triumphs here in Ecuador, and a lot about their extended families. In fact, with the possible exception of whining about Peace Corps policies, our favorite conversation topic is our families – what they’re like, what they’re up to back in the States, etc.. Sadly, I know we talk about them because we miss them (me too! I miss you guys!), and realize we’ve elected to miss two years of time we could had spent near them, but with all the joyfully shared information, it’s easy to get to know people. I value the knowledge I’m gaining about Ecuador and its culture, but I also love getting to know the eclectic and charming group of Americans who also said, “Sure, I’ll live and work in Ecuador for two years!”
Rage
It comes on suddenly, and then lashes out. I’ll be going about my day, not particularly perturbed by the more irritating parts of my host culture, then all of a sudden, one too many men hisses at me and the caged rage tiger breaks free. I instantly despise the crudeness, pettiness or injustice of some action and I have to find an outlet for my irritation. I’ve taken up voicing the obscenities I desperately want to say, but refrain from translating them. A beauty of the cultural divide is that as long as I pronounce things properly and quickly (which is pretty much guaranteed in an outburst), nobody but me is any the wiser, and I feel immensely better.
I fell back on this coping mechanism during a recent encounter with the bus system. I was attempting to return home after a day trip to Loja last weekend in the mess of the Virgen del Cisne (virgin on the swan) pilgrimage. Swarms of devotees had come in from all over Ecuador to accompany the Virgen on her annual journey from El Cisne to Loja, and while they pour money into the local economy (yea!), they make travelling a nightmare (boo!). The Loja bus terminal bore a striking resemblance to O’Hare on the Friday before Christmas when Denver’s closed down by a snowstorm. My bus was delayed by more than an hour, but did eventually leave.
However, for reasons that did not appear to satisfy my fellow passengers, and which I couldn’t quite understand, our chofer (driver) pulled over about 30 minutes after leaving Loja, sat doing nothing for another 20, then announced that we were returning to Loja. I was proud of my initial staidness, patiently resigned to the absurdities of Virgen del Cisne time as the bus went back down the mountain. But, as we pulled back into the terminal, and the chofer had no explanation for what we should do, I remembered that the next bus wasn’t for 3 hours and was likely already full, the rage rose up inside and I joined the other passengers sharing their displeasure with the driver. I said my piece in English, though, so while I felt just as self-righteous and justified as my fellow complainers, the driver was no worse for the wear.
A fellow Lojana volunteer shared the story of a rage-fueled fit she threw because a mini-mart wouldn’t let her take the small tote bag she carries as a purse into the store, though streams of women carrying purses that doubled as bowling ball bags flowed through. As she described it, the fact that her bag wasn’t "stylish" enough for the bag-checker’s purse standards was what set her off. She lost it after her explanation that her tote was small and contained the wallet she would need to pay fell on deaf ears. Her Spanish flew immediately out the window as she through the sort of indignant tantrum usually reserved for the exclusive use of middle-aged women at Black Friday sales in Wal-Mart. She felt comfortable sharing this bout of poor behavior with me because: A) she was sure I’d behaved similarly poorly in similar encounters with Peace Corps Rage, and B) PCVs tend to tell each other anything and everything, which brings me to my second topic….
Openness and Closeness
I know some alarmingly intimate facts about my fellow PCVs. I can give a fairly detailed report on the diarrhea bouts of the Loja cluster, have seen scars from hideous puss-producing allergic reactions, and know that the average time between volunteers’ showers hovers around 48 hours for those in warm climates and 96 hours for those in the cold. Why do I know this? Because volunteers share so openly. Since this openness is so widespread, I suspect it’s related to coping with life abroad, but whatever causes it, it has some wonderful consequences.
Firstly, since bizarre illnesses are a probable reality, it’s actually nice to know what to expect in the puss and poo department. Secondly, volunteers are eager to share more personal info of the emotional variety, along with bodily functions. I’m amazed by how well I know those volunteers I get to see with some regularity. I know all about their past experiences and future plans, frustrations and triumphs here in Ecuador, and a lot about their extended families. In fact, with the possible exception of whining about Peace Corps policies, our favorite conversation topic is our families – what they’re like, what they’re up to back in the States, etc.. Sadly, I know we talk about them because we miss them (me too! I miss you guys!), and realize we’ve elected to miss two years of time we could had spent near them, but with all the joyfully shared information, it’s easy to get to know people. I value the knowledge I’m gaining about Ecuador and its culture, but I also love getting to know the eclectic and charming group of Americans who also said, “Sure, I’ll live and work in Ecuador for two years!”
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Miscellaneous Moments
It seems I’ve had a string of goofy, amusing, “I’m not in Kansas anymore” moments of late, so this post is devoted to regaling you with my tales, but first, a quick update on the nuts and bolts of my Peace Corps existence. Last Saturday I said goodbye to my second host family and moved to my host aunt and uncle’s finca (farm, in this case, sheep farm) out in the campo, about a 15 minute walk from the Centro. I should be living here until I close Peace Corps service in 2012 and am starting in earnest with agriculture projects, beginning with a compost pile by the all-set-to-go community garden. Now, on to the stories!
A toad lives in my inodoro (toilet). He (or she, how do you tell?) has been spotted hopping off the rim as the light went on twice, and surprised me once in a more, er… alarming manner.
The Caserita (farm manager's wife) at my new place is 17-years-old, married and expecting a baby in September. I’m not sure which one of us was more amazed by the answer each gave to the question “cuantos años tienes?" (how old are you).
I tried out the pool at my new place for the first time Friday morning after hiking. As I sunned myself poolside after a dip, I had a hard time believing I was a Peace Corps volunteer. Then I went to do my laundry (by hand – a long and tedious event) and mixed my compost pile and was once again confident that I was, indeed, an agriculture volunteer.
Making compost requires chopping up hierba (plants/organic material), and for this, the tool of choice is the machete. I stopped in at a host cousin’s ferretería (hardware store) on Wednesday and explained what I needed. I was told that a small machete would serve my purposes best, and was assured that I could indeed travel on the bus back home in the company of my machete, as long as I didn’t assault anyone. The machete and I, therefore, boarded the bus without incident, road home, and I felt like a badass. I’ve had an absurd urge to swashbuckle ever since. I might have gotten a bit carried away staging the photo to the right.
About a week ago I found myself seated, once again, on a little plastic stool at my favorite lunch stall in the market, awaiting my pechuga ampanada (breaded and fried chicken breast served with rice, salad and an avocado slice – que rico!). A tiny, adorable Ecuadorian girl smiled at me shyly a few times before getting up the courage to speak to the scary, freakishly tall gringa. When she finally got up the nerve, she asked me if I was from the circus.
I’m a Peace Corps volunteer, which, until I became one, always made me think of rustic-sorts fetching water from distant wells to cook over pit fires in mud huts. Rather than a mud hut, I have a swimming pool and live in a charming adobe house complete with hammock (see photo) and kitchen equipped with an oven (there goes my campo stove…), fridge and running water. I could sort-of claim to be roughing it since I have to go outside to reach the bathroom, and the shower doesn’t have hot water, but since the mid-day temperature here is always in the upper 80s, the cold water is not really a hardship.
A toad lives in my inodoro (toilet). He (or she, how do you tell?) has been spotted hopping off the rim as the light went on twice, and surprised me once in a more, er… alarming manner.
I imagine most of you already know this, but if, perchance, a few do not, I am not what anyone would call an animal person. I’ve never done well with animals more exotic than dogs, and have had a number of embarrassing incidents here in Ecuador because of lingering wariness towards cows, pigs, bees and campo dogs. However, I spent this past Friday morning walking up and down my camino (dirt road) collecting poo from these very animals in a little plastic baggie. Moreover, as poo is an important ingredient in compost, bocashi and bioles, I’ll be continuing my poo-treks for the duration of my Peace Corps service.
The sheep at my new life down-on-the-farm were originally all of the non-wooly variety. However, one of the breeding males died and was replaced with a new, wooly guy. Now the herd is full of wooly and non-wooly hybrids. You’d think that such mixes would have slightly more puffy “fur” than a non-wooly sheep, but less than a traditional wool producer. Instead, the mix produces sheep with bodies that are only partially wooly. They all look like someone got bored halfway through sheering them.
My landlords warned me about a bug that lays eggs on uncovered dishes and causes some sort of incurable disease. Now I obsessively close and cover everything in my kitchen. My fruit bowl, drying wrack and cutting board are all wearing towel clothes.
The Caserita (farm manager's wife) at my new place is 17-years-old, married and expecting a baby in September. I’m not sure which one of us was more amazed by the answer each gave to the question “cuantos años tienes?" (how old are you).
I tried out the pool at my new place for the first time Friday morning after hiking. As I sunned myself poolside after a dip, I had a hard time believing I was a Peace Corps volunteer. Then I went to do my laundry (by hand – a long and tedious event) and mixed my compost pile and was once again confident that I was, indeed, an agriculture volunteer.
Making compost requires chopping up hierba (plants/organic material), and for this, the tool of choice is the machete. I stopped in at a host cousin’s ferretería (hardware store) on Wednesday and explained what I needed. I was told that a small machete would serve my purposes best, and was assured that I could indeed travel on the bus back home in the company of my machete, as long as I didn’t assault anyone. The machete and I, therefore, boarded the bus without incident, road home, and I felt like a badass. I’ve had an absurd urge to swashbuckle ever since. I might have gotten a bit carried away staging the photo to the right.
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