November 9: Jungle Fever

Brave toucans begging for Mega Queso Doritos
Monkeys and Mark
It's trying to eat a cookie I have in my hand

November 9, 2009

Location: TBS, Tiputini Biodiversity Station, Amazon, on the Tiputini River, off the Napo River, a tributary of the Amazon

Four AM is a painful time to get up for anything after going to bed three hours previously. I tried to sleep at 11 but couldn't with everything on my mind, so I stayed up for two more hours writing on the internet.

Our flight from Quito to Coco was delayed two hours because of bad weather in the Oriente. By the time it boarded at 7:40, I was incredibly grumpy.

When we landed, the door of the plane was a portal to an oven. No more cool, dry, mountain air. Coca is a bathroom after a shower. I could practically feel the hairs on my head sproinging skyward as I walked to the tiny, incredibly unusual excuse for an airport. It has been a long time since I've felt humidity so stifling. Not even Mississippi's August produces such a soup-thick atmosphere.

We took a short bus ride to the river, during which I managed to lose my KleanKanteen. Lovely. It cost almost as much as my snorkeling equipment.

The hotel near our dock housed a plethora of animals, most of which were running around at their will. A random tortoise got stuck under a grill and Nate had to rescue him. Peacocks and other birds walked in front of the hotel rooms like they owned them. A pair of toucans bounced over to inspect our shoe laces and untie them. One flew up to a railing and tried to steal my bag of MegaQueso! Doritos and, when he couldn't, took my whole wrist in his colorful beak and tried to draw me closer to him. Likewise, the monkeys have no fear whatsoever. They knew that if they knocked over our cold bottles of Pilsener that something good would spill out. I was taking a picture of monkey sitting on Shannon when one dropped from the ceiling right onto my shoulder and scampered right over my arms. We thought it was funny to feed them bits of mandarin orange until one pooped on Nate's shirt. It wasn't so funny after that.

The rest of the trip was trying. Two hours on a boat, two hours in a chiva (You don't know what a chiva is? Be thankful. They are a hybrid of a bus and a pickup truck and maybe the most uncomfortable mode of transportation I've ever experienced.), and another few hours on a boat. I've never loaded and unloaded luggage so much in my life.

At our half-way point, we had to go through a security check point before loading onto the chiva. I asked Juan, Narcissa's son, why, and he said that the land was owned by an oil company. The oil companies here make their own rules and treat those who cross it in whichever manner they please.It's slightly disconcerting to have a major corporation in charge of an ecological hotspot.

Tiputini Research center is a charming little place smack dab in the middle of Amazonian nowhere. It has a mess “hall” (a raised platform with a roof and tables, basically, with no enclosed sides), a bathroom, quite an impressive amount of tiny cabins, and a large building containing a library, classrooms, labs, and more permanent living quarters, all connected by slippery stone and wood steps through the jungle (which are probably highly irritating to those I won't name who decided to pack a massive suitcase filled with clothes they probably won't need in the entire 3 months we're hear--just saying). It is very charming. It would be more so, I think, if two enormous tarantulas didn't inhabit the outside wall of Jess, Jenny, Shannon, and my cabin. Cabin No. 1 is surprisingly comfy and functional, with a nice bathroom and a deck to put our shoes and wet clothes.

To escape the suffocating damp, we took a dip in the river. It is freezing and filthy and you can't see your hand three inches below the surface (Because it is a whitewater river and filled with nutrients and minerals. Aren't you proud of me, Dr. Melampy???), but it felt like the water of eternal youth after our hot, dusty trip. The swimming cove is tucked away from the main current of the river, but a small whirlpool spins you around in lazy circles if you float with it (in the horrid life vests we're forced to wear, I might add). So... swimming in the Amazon: check! One more off the bucket list.

On the way in, an audacious bee flew between my sandal and my foot as I was walking and delivered a lovely little sting on the soft insole of my right foot. Not even an hour in the jungle and the bugs are attacking me. I have a bad feeling about this place. There are too many bugs for my liking.

November 3: Die de los Cuyes Muertos

My grandfather's cuy

The chola who worked for my grandfather preparing the cuyes.

Nate eating cuy
Tia Lala kissing the head, which she said has very tender meat


Date: November 3, 2009

Weather: Very breezy, the kind of weather my host mother says brings sickness

Cuy. Oh, cuy. In Ambato two years ago, I didn't mind eating the little rodent. It tasted like gamey barbecued meat and not much else. This time, sitting in my grandfather's kitchen that smelled slightly of chicken poo and wet dog, I was not able to eat much of it.

I don't know it if was the smell, or seeing the bloody corpses two days before, or the tiny paw with nails that was attached to my piece of meat, or simply the fact that I had seen the entire preparation and known the meat still had traces of hair. It was one of the more trying meals I've ever eaten. I could barely even bring myself to eat the mote or rice beside it because I was positive that the odor had penetrated the starch to alter their tastes. Nate scarfed his down and asked for seconds while his mom, Tia Lala, munched on the tiny strips of meat on a head.

I hate feeling like a gringa and I never would refuse the meal but I did push it around a bit and sneak some to Nate's plate. I love having him as my "primo" in Ecuador.

I was glad , though, when Mama Isa led Nate and I outside the house after lunch to look at the cuy in their little cages. They are a cash crop to many families in Ecuador, selling up to $20 in restaurants. My mom pointed to the surrounding houses in el Valle and told me, in a very disapproving voice, that most of them had guinea-pigs living inside the houses.

Two meals of the creatures have been more than enough for me. I tried it, but now I think I'm over it.

November 2: Dia de los Difuntos

Mama Isa y perrito

Nate
Cholos plowing Abuelito's field!

Outside the cemetery, selling candles, flowers, gua guas de pan, colada morada, and other wares for Dia de los Difuntos

Mama Isa's great grandmother's (?) grave

The cemetery

Niches for remains in the cemetery


Date: Sunday, November 2
Location: Cuenca
Weather: Bright and very lovely

Nate and I went to El Valle with our moms and Leslie to spend some time with my grandfather and his chickens. The front fields were being plowed by his workers with none other than a pair of oxen yoked together and pulling the type of plow I'd only seen in museums. My grandfather hunched his still tall, still imposing frame over his cane, looked every bit of Esteban Trueba, watched over with a critical eye to make sure the oxen were pulling fast enough and the farmhand was guiding them in a straight enough line.

A pair of puppies rough-housed with each other and Nate because they were flatly ignored and shooed away by my mother when they came to beg for scraps at the table. Apparently, she isn't an animal person.

The chola house worker was boiling six or so guinea pigs in a vat of water in the kitchen when we got there. Their matted fur and pointed, rodent faces made them resemble rats more than chubby little pets. Their noses were smashed in and bloodied from their sudden death, and they were soon plucked completely bald by the woman in the kitchen. My mother told me we'd eat them on Cuenca's independence day. Yummy.

Nate and I were dropped off by our cousins Christina and Leslie at the cemetery so we could take pictures and explore for our Day of the Dead projects at school. Venders sold us two cups of piping hot colada morada and two guaguas de pan for only $1.50. Colada morada is definitely one of my favorite traditional Ecuadorean foods I've had. The pineapple, blackberries, strawberries, and different spices make a sweet stew that's both filling and tasty. The guaguas are the only form of yuca I like and have a heart of guava inside. Delicious!

A mass was being held in the cemetery and Nate and I wandered around looking at the graves being cleaned, the mass of flowers filling the air with the cloying scent of funeral parlors, the old people in black and the young people in jeans looking for the closest exit, and my great-great grandmother's grave again with the candle barely melted away. Purple-flowering trees pressed against the levels of niches, stacked like morbid filing cabinets and decorated with tokens, memorials, flowers, and melted wax ghosts of candles. The top of the basin in which the cemetery is laid is lined with mausoleums, watching over the poorer graves as they probably did in life.

It's somber inside the cemetery with the mumble of Spanish prayers but the moment you step outside there are vendors selling the traditional foods, music, flowers, candles, cleaning supplies, everything you might need or want for a day to celebrate the dead.

October 31: Halloween in Latin America

Date: Saturday, October 31:

Weather: Freezing tonight!

A special mass was held for the upcoming holiday, Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Difuntos, tomorrow. Antonia, Ashley, and I accompanied my mom, aunt, and cousins to the church and played follow-the-leader for an hour or so. Catholic mass is generally a mimic game for Protestant Erika but in Spanish it is even more so.

After mass in the plaster-white church, we passed the street vendors selling fragrant meats, beggars asking for centavos, and packed ourselves into my cousin Diego's little car and zoomed to the cemetery. We stopped to get papas fritas and hot dogs cut up like octopi. We found my host mother's great grandmother's grave and placed on it yellow roses and a candle that refused to stay lit in the wind.

The entire cemetery sprawled over a hillside in the most magnificent sparkle of candlelight. By then it was filled with people. Families sat on their relatives' graves cleaning them off and battled the brisk breeze that never let up. My host family's plots were large cement graves protruding from the ground, but some of the bigger families had whole mausoleums dedicated to their name. Others had tiny niches ten feet off the ground which had to be accessed by ladders.

I was expecting something more climatic and exciting than the candle blowing out ten or so times, like the spirit of my great-great grandmother returning to eat the guaguas de pan and colada morada we didn't leave and didn't eat on the grave site as is tradition. The ways of old seem to be passing by the wayside.

The holiday is something totally foreign to us in the United States. We bury our dead and try our best to bury the hurt with them. Latin American culture remembers them every year, celebrates their life, and eats the most delicious food to remember them by. Guaguas de pan are literally "bread babies" made of sweet bread and filled with guava jelly, decorated with icing. They're about 5" long and in the shape of infants, supposedly to remember the children who have died. Colada morada (purple drink) is made of fruits stewed together to make a delicious hot or cold drink. They are both only made around the holiday and only in Ecuador.

October 25: Boracha

October 25, 2009

Weather: Incredibly sunny and clear, growing warmer by the day

On Friday, we all decided to celebrate the end of the week of Spanish and party. Walking from my house to meet at Wunderbar in my heels and nice jeans, I counted eight whistles and/or badly pronounced pick-up lines in English, one from a cop. Nothing makes me so happy as to hear the supposed protector of my ass whistling at it. This is why every single girl wears the equivalent of a burlap sack to school. It is definitely one of my biggest pet peeves about this city.

We had dinner at Aroma and it had everything we wanted it to be: silence, a friendly owner, and garlic in everything. We split a bottle of white wine with our chicken marsalas, then were asked by the owner if we'd like to have a shot on the house. He explained that the restaurant had just opened that week and thanked us for coming in. We talked with him a while until he brought out two shots of amaretto, then another set of free shots, this time of flaming anise. Both were delicious.

We then went to a club called Flor... or something. And began to dance, even though we crazy gringos were the only ones on the floor at 10:30 at night. I thought it was hilarious that the deejay was Shannon's boy toy and she was up dancing with him, despite his broken arm, that Ashley and Antonia were such good dancers, and that half the crowd were still wearing their Cuenca jerseys from the game earlier that night. Or maybe it was because I'd somehow gotten my hands on two Cuba Libres (my drinks of choice) and was having a hard time dancing without showing off ridiculous dance moves which threw me off balance and forced my friends to do impressive acrobatics to keep me from plummeting over backwards. I think it was then when I decided it was a bad idea to have those two free shots.

I remember everything, which is highly unfortunate, because the rest of the night was spent outside on the terrace in Antonia's lap trying to keep the world from spinning. I'd never had too much like that. I just overestimated what my body could handle.

Who said this wouldn't be an educational experience? I learned that I'm never drinking again.

Bah. Spanish.

October 27, 2009

Location: Cuenca

Weather: Moderately cloudy, cool

Nothing much seems to have happened in the last week. It's all been re-adjusting to city life and school with the other half of the group back with us.

It's wonderful to have mi prima, Antonia, walk with me to school every day. My Aunt Olga lives on Paseo de los Canaris, the next street from me, so it's perfect. Walking takes about 20 minutes. It would take much less but a wicked hill on my street, Cacique Chaparra, knocks the breath out of me. I can feel myself adjusting to the altitude. This week I'm not nearly as out of breath at the top of it. The other challenge is simply crossing roads. I know I've discussed that in the past. I never get sick of walking by the incredible mountains in the historic district.

School is the same, mas o menos. Sometimes, I just want to cry in class—and then I do. I've never broken down quite so much in public as I have in that class. Just the fact that Jess, Kara, and Brittany have all had literally years of Spanish under their belt leaves Shannon, Megan, Angela, and I to stare at each other in white confusion at the jumble of syllables mumbled from the others.

Today, our professor sent us down the street to a building that used to be a convent, which is now a museum (where my cousin Letty works, who is, by the way, the only black I've seen in Cuenca so far) to interview the curator for our Day of the Dead projects. Mine is comparing how other South American countries celebrate compared to Ecuador. In the poorest Spanish she'd probably even heard, I muttered a shockingly simple question, and she answered—after I'd repeated it a few times in different orders.

The few words I did understand helped me piece together what I thought she was talking about, which was later confirmed by Brittany. The curator, a striking woman, was dressed monochromatically in all dark brown and had constrained her black hair into a solitary knot above her pointed brows. Her deep raspy voice explained to us how Ecuadorians use herbs to keep away bad spirits, how they believe the spirits of the dead would watch over them, and how the graves were visited and cleaned every year. I thought she vaguely resembled a bruja.

Return from the Galapagos

Journal #15

October 21, 2009

Location: 45 minutes north of Peru, on the road from Manchala to Cuenca

Weather: Cloudy, pleasant

The last two days off the boat have been very sad and very difficult. The sound of waves and glorious sun of the Galapagos is replaced with blaring car horns and gray skies of the coast. The week of the Galapagos was one of the happiest weeks of my life. New experiences occurred every day in such rapid succession I hardly know where to begin to describe them. I laughed more than I have in months and months until my stomach hurt and tears were streaming down my face. I am a firm believer that the sun was the cause of my happiness. I was warm, in my bathing suit for 75% of the trip, and toasted to perfection on the top of the boat. Needless to say, saying goodbye to the crew of the Golondrina was difficult.

A quick breakfast was followed by packing. None of my clothes were totally dry. Everything is caked in salt and sand, all sticky with sea water and sweat. I've never been so dirty all the time. It was lovely. Despite the fact that I missed having my hair clean and straight, I didn't mind letting it dry in the sun and the wind until it was a lion's mane around my head. I was too busy enjoying the stunning scenery to really mind. Now, two days later, I'm sure my clothes are perfumed with mildew and unrecognizable. Now, I care. I'm grumpy. I want clean underwear, dang it.

Machala was a bit of a disappointment. The filth and unorganized layout of the city was especially noticeable after clean Quito and homey Cuenca. Machala made me want to wash myself in bleach.

The banana plantation we visited today was interesting. I dislike bananas to begin with, but, since Machala is the banana capital of the country, and I can appreciate the process. The bunches of bananas are wrapped and separated to avoid bruising and damaging. Why? Because we Americans won't buy bruised bananas. It seems so silly when you see the piles of green bananas lying in wait to be shipped off to factories where they'll be smashed and put into other foods instead of being sold in grocery stores, simply because of a tiny mark.

The bananas are cut from their large stems, which are nearly as tall as I am, then washed, cut into the perfect bunches you see in the store, stickered, packaged, and shipped off to Beuhler's, where my mother likes to buy them green and crunchy.

The shrimp farm was what really surprised me. I am not such what I was expecting, but the large, square ponds were not it. The pools are emptied every few weeks after the shrimp have been fished out with nets. The pools we visited were scheduled to be fished that night, so we got to see the live shrimp, pulled straight from the water. They're nearly as long as my hand, and look like the most ridiculous, alien-like creatures with their bulging eyes and grey exoskeleton.