Two Years Later...

My Ecuador Girls

My roommates :)

Me and 3 of my best friends, all of whom I met on the trip

Sometimes I forget that I've been gone from Ecuador two full years, 730 days, approximately 17520 hours. But who's counting?

I was right: Ecuador burrows deep into your skin and wedges itself permanently in your soul. It has a piece of my heart and probably always will.

Two years later, I'm able to see the downfalls of the country: the unstable politics, its socioeconomic status, its need for social reform. But I also see its surreal beauty--always its beauty. It's still the most magical, wonderful, gut-wrenchingly beautiful place I've ever seen.

I was blessed with the opportunity to visit England and Ireland this year (no, the wunderlust hasn't subsided--I doubt if it ever will) but didn't find the connection I had with Ecuador. Was it amazing? Yes. Was it awe-inspiring? Yes. But it wasn't alive like Ecuador. It didn't breathe passion and mystery and raw splendor like Ecuador.

Sometimes, I think people become frustrated with my many references to Ecuador. Fortunately, I lived with three of my travel buddies last year and have remained close with many of my classmates from the Seminar, so there is never a shortage of people to muse about its draw.

Antonia is engaged to an Ecuadorian. Ashley and Katy are teaching in Spain. Nate is in Argentina. Emily is in Washington. Caitlin is in Georgia. Jenny is getting her PhD. Some of us are finishing degrees, some of us are in the real world, some of us are trying explore the wide world as much as possible. None of us are in the same place anymore. Sometimes that's sad to me. I remember the magical nights sleeping under the stars, or talking by candle light, or dancing to some reggaeton until the sun literally came up, or getting deliciously lost in some corner of Cuenca.

Wasn't it just yesterday that I took the house keys from around my neck and gave them back to Mama Isa? They lay on the table between us, my constant companions, a sure sign that this wasn't going to be my home for much longer.

Sometimes it feels like a dream, slipping away even though I desperately try to hold on to it as I wake up. There are so many things I miss Mama Isa and hot bread and... well, you know. Sometimes I want that back so bad it physically hurts, like my breath is being drawn from my chest. I dream about it--often in Spanish, though more and more in my dreams, I am often struggling to find the right words to speak with my host mom.

I was able to channel my energy into working at the Study Abroad office at school. That way I could talk about my experiences AND get paid! I pushed the Seminar in Ecuador '11 trip hard--marketing, speaking to potential students, talking to them in order prepare them for the wonder that is South America's gem. I sincerely hope they had an experience like our group did.

Things that this trip gave me:

-Self-Confidence and "Chillness":
I was very shy the first year of college. I didn't talk to many people. I wasn't involved in any extra-curricular activities. I did A+ work and saw that as my number 1 goal in life. I was highly anxious about getting that letter grade and developed an anxiety disorder. Ecuador was going to challenge me in ways I couldn't anticipate for. Traveling is always done by the skin of your teeth, to some extent. You'll never be able to prepare for it 100%. I realized that I didn't need to depend on my parents and my best friends at home to help me through tough times. I made decisions--and mistakes--entirely on my own and realized that I was actually capable of taking care of myself! I also took a B on my final Spanish grade, largely due to the last-minute trip to the coast. That was okay. Experiencing the country was a genuine learning experience, not the studying which would yield an A. My anxiety lessened drastically after the trip and I was able to tackle it! I'm more active in school, am far more outgoing, and am not afraid to try new things!

-A Broader Understanding of My Place in the World:
What do you know? I'm not the center of the universe! Americans aren't even the top of the food chain! I'm only a wee molecule of what makes the earth go around. Seeing people of all sorts of socioeconomic stratifications made me realize just how fortunate I was to have food on my plate, a roof over my head, and a great education. When I got back, Fair Trade became a passion so people in other countries weren't exploited for their resources and work.

-The Knowledge that I Can Rough It:
No electricity? No meat? No hot water? No car? No cell phone? No internet? I can deal with that! I'm a lot more capable than I ever thought! I loved living three months without first-world conveniences.

-Life-Long Friendships:
I lived with three of my best friends from the trip and saw many of the other people I'd gotten close with regularly. I won't speak to all of the trip participants for the rest of my life, but there were some real gems I know I want in my life forever.

-An Appreciation for My Family:
They supported me through this adventure, listened to me cry when I was homesick for a country I wasn't born in, and looked at ALL of my pictures (all 5,000 of them!).

"Familia"
(written a year after we returned)

"I never want to be without these people." Through a champagne-sparkled gaze, Ashley says what I feel.
Nate's in the center inventing dance moves to house music. Adam's in the corner taking pictures. Shannon's dancing like no one is watching. Natalie is taking a page from the "Peanuts" gang dance, shrugging her shoulders to the beat. Everyone is touching, sweating, teasing, laughing, being, loving.
Barely any of us are part of the same social cliques. Some of us are extraordinarily privileged and others are taking out loans as fast as possible. There are Biology majors, Sociology majors, Psychology majors, Spanish majors, English majors, Computer Science majors, graduates. There are Buddhists, Protestants, Atheists, Agnostics, Apathetics. There are timids, boisterouses, awkwards, barbies, comics, braves, sympathics. Nothing predicts what happens when we are together because it defies all logic.
Maybe it's because we were thrown into classes together every day for 4 months, or because we spent 3 months as aliens in a foreign country. Or because we spent 6 hours riding on buses through vomit-inducing mountain rides and 10 hour boat/chiva/canoe/bus trips and 10 hour flights and 8 kilometer hikes in misery together. Or because we got called "baby shampoo," "white b*tch," "sexy," "princessa," "bonita," every day.Or because we experienced panic attacks, screaming, crying, homesickness, anger, hope, happiness, frustration, joy, wonder, and love together. Or because we had dirty hair and 3-day-old sweat stains on our clothes. Or because we stared in wonder at the same world around us.

Or maybe just because we realized that nothing is so different that it could keep us from being a family.

Home: A Foreign Land

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land."

-Gilbert K. Chesterson

The first time I saw many friends and family members after I had come back from my three months abroad in South America, they often said, "I bet you’re so glad to be back in America with all the things you didn’t have abroad.”

I looked them all right in the eye and said, "I disagree."

Yes, I missed my family—quite terribly. I missed my friends. I missed endless hot water and being clean all the time and eating peanut butter. But you know what? I know what I can live without and what I need to live. I need my family. I need the people who understand me best. I don't need electricity, hot water, indoor plumbing, a refrigerator full of food I don’t eat before its expiration date, a closet full of clothes I barely wear, twenty purses, and all the ridiculous excess of American culture that I didn’t think twice about before I left.

I just spent ten weeks traveling what felt like every last inch of Ecuador, a Colorado-sized country in the north-west corner of South America.
I saw shooting stars and the Southern Cross over our boat in the Galapagos. I swam with sea lions, sea turtles, and sharks, and was close enough to touch whales and feel their spray. I heard baby sea lions suckling and heard masked boobies calling for their mates. I touched sea cucumbers in their tidal pools, urchins on their rocks, and eagle rays as they slicked past my legs. I hiked up volcanoes, snorkeled in underwater caves, and walked across miles of pristine beaches.

I woke up every morning in our home city of Cuenca to see the Andes pink and misty and walked past them every day. I passed the same soldier every day on the street as Antonia (another student on the trip) and I recounted the previous night on our way downtown to the Spanish school. I followed my nose down the street every day during class break to find the freshest bread and buy it for 10 cents. I laughed with my host mother and was teased by my host uncle. I taught them English words (and the Italian command for "EAT!") and they taught me to speak Spanish less like a gringa, a white girl. I learned the importance of family by watching my host mother take care of her ailing grandmother and by seeing the love and sacrifice it takes to support each other. I saw the strength of women rise above a culture bogged down by machismo.
I had adventures every weekend with my friends, both American and Ecuadorian. I got into clubs for free because we came so often and we liked to smile. I danced salsa without self-consciousness and loved it. I ended up by the Tomebamba River for late-night conversations—deliriously happy.

I ate guinea pig and chicken foot soup and fruits I never dreamed could exist, with spikes and goo and seeds which looked like fish eggs. I discovered a taste for the national beer. I ate lunch for $1.50: soup, rice, dessert, juice, cilantro, and all. I discovered my limits.
I conquered my fear of heights from observation towers overlooking the Amazon jungle. I saw the same frogs that are in zoos in their natural habitat. I saw the scariest spiders in the world and refrained from smushing them. I hiked the jungle for hours a day and went back for more.

I bargained away my life in Otavalo and met the most talented and creative artists I've ever seen. I found gourds carved like owls, jade necklaces like leaves, feathers painted with volcanoes at night, shrunken heads, jewelry shaped like tortoises, silver filagree so fine I was afraid I'd break it, and bottomless bags in which to carry it all. I saw artistry as old as the hills and pagan rituals long practiced by even the Catholics themselves. I loved in that city.

I let myself remain an open book to twenty-six strangers. I found that with every secret I let unfold from my clenched fists, I was healed a little bit more. Instead of humiliation, I found support. I laughed until I cried and cried until someone fed me Nutella. I left twenty-six friends richer.

I climbed mountains. I saw nature at its purest. I met the kindest people who welcomed me into their home with open arms and called me their daughter. I felt more understanding of myself and my own culture than I ever have in the last twenty years. I experienced things I'll never be able to replicate in a million years. And that’s why I have to disagree that America has so much more to offer. I only found who I am only when I took the risk to leave it.

I think it turned out okay.

Wouldn’t you agree?

Clases de Espanol

Midterm presentations for Dia de los Difuntos (below), Miss Cuenca contest (above), etc.

Playing games in our Spanish class


Final presentations (in the addition that was build during our time there!)


Learning Spanish by using Chippendale playing cards: "El hombre tiene un grande...erm...brazo."

If you couldn't tell for my writing already, Spanish has been a serious challenge for me. I've always been so proficient at English my whole life, I thought that maybe I'd have the same knack for picking up Spanish. I mean, I didn't have too hard of a time with Latin (even if it is a dead language) and since Latin was the base for the Romance languages, I thought I'd be on the way to an A at Amauta!

Wrong.

It's the end of the semester and it's abundantly clear that I will not be receiving an A in Spanish. It's pretty clear I will be lucky to receive even a B. For me, Little Miss Goodie-Straight-A-Two-Shoes, that's a pretty depressing thought. But am I going into convulsions and conniptions over it? Am I having panic attacks and crying fits? Nope. I even went to the coast instead of studying harder for the final exam.

What in the world has come over me?

This trip has done many things for me, but one of them is definitely to mellow me out as far as grades go. An A is just an A. A B is just a B. Heck, as long as I don't fail outright, it really won't matter next year, let alone ten years from now. I really won't remember writing perfect grammatical sentences in response to Lagrimas de Angeles, potentially the most depressing book in the Spanish language (about street children who are drugged and essentially pimped out to sell gum and candy). I WILL remember sitting at the kitchen table with Mama Isa pointing to random things in the room and repeating the name in Spanish. I WILL remember getting lost once in a cab because I couldn't give directions well and never, ever making the same mistake twice. I WILL remember using Chippendale playing cards to compare men in Spanish. I WILL remember that you never, ever say "Estoy excitamente!" and think that you're saying you're looking forward to an event, or say "Tengo huevos" and think you're just saying you have eggs.

That's authentic education, isn't it?

Amauta is a cozy building that provides couches, computers, snacks, sanity, and even an over-nighter if necessary. Narcissa and Myra and the other teachers are so friendly, so helpful when we're lost and confused, so helpful with cultural connections and English when we're lost. Many a fun hour has been spent here (though the least fun were definitely my hours struggling with Spanish) and I will miss it to be sure.

I can now proudly say that I speak with great fluency...


Spanglish.

Despedida

Dancing!


Playing games


Our Spanish class with Profesora Isabel


Me and Mama Isa

Amauta threw a goodbye party for us on one of our last days. All of the host parents, teachers, and students were invited to the countryside home (in El Valle) of Dr. Melampy's host family. The house is seriously gorgeous. I have never been to Dr. Melampy's host home in Cuenca proper but if this is what their "country" home looks like, I imagine it's pretty damn big. We had a big lunch and danced for a while with our host families and teachers.

A lot of families in Cuenca have maids. I don't mind not having one in my own home but I wonder how Mama Isa can clean the entire, massive place by herself. I help where I can but she always shoos me away after a little bit. This family probably has like 3 for each home.

It's bittersweet coming to the end of this amazing journey and the whole time there was this nagging twist in my stomach that makes me realize how torn I am. On one hand, the machismo and the rare but obvious anti-American sentiments are getting really old.

On the other hand, I am in love with this city and this country--head over heels, topsy-turvy, punch-drunk, irrevocably in love with it.

Maybe it's...

the flowers in colors that Crayola couldn't come up with,

the grime of a city that's alive which turns my snot black,

the blue-plum mountains cradling the city,

the taxis and buses and cars that whiz by and break-neck speed and make you play frogger--even when you've got the right of way to cross the street,

the four rivers that tuck in the narrow streets and Old World buildings,

the cobble-stone avenues,

the warm aroma of bread,

the stray dogs,

the now-familiar faces,

the peace of the walk Antonia and I share--often in solicitous silence--to school,

the way ketchup is pink and too sweet,

the way my host mother hugs me after a long day,

the way my host uncle teases me for developing a taste for the national beer,

the way everything shuts down for a soccer game,

the way Ecuadorians have no personal bubble and draw you in for an embrace and a kiss,

the rhythm of salsa and Pitbull that reverberate equally,

the rhythm of the city, buzzing, teeming, vibrating with life,

the clear mornings, the brief rain, the hot afternoons, and the Southern cross in the night sky,

the rice that is serve with everything,

the thrill of eating things you never quite know the origins of,

the way it doesn't even matter,

the fruits in shapes you didn't know could exist in nature,

the sound of the Tomebamba at night,

the way Cuencanas dress to the nines to run out to get a loaf of bread,

the blues, yellows, peaches, reds, oranges, and purples that defy America's ever-present beige decorating scheme,

the keys I hung around my neck for safe keeping that open the squeaky, stubborn, gate at 4 AM,

the car alarms that have fallen into a predictable song: honkhonkhonkhon, WEEoohWEEoohWEEooh, waaaaAAAHwaaaaHHHwaaaAHH, ER-ER-ER-ER, pyewpyewpyewpyew,

the way the hike to school uphill gets easier ever day,

the $1.50 I pay for almuerzo (lunch) and the 25 cent beer,

the things I probably won't remember tomorrow morning,

the ease with which I can give taxi drivers directions to where I want to go,

the undeniable value of family,

or maybe it's just the way it feels like home.

December 10: A Fairy Tale Plea to the Professors

Date: December 10, 2009

Weather: The same as it was fifteen minutes ago: I still want to be picnicking by the Tomebamba and enjoying the city

Once upon a time, there was a young American girl in a charming South American city. For months, she enjoyed wandering the cobblestone streets and buying the fresh bread that tickled her nose and made her want to bury herself in the piles of it in the panederias.

Her family in this charming little city was of the kindest, gentlest type. Her grandfather bought her ice cream on Sundays and her grandmother called the American her little baby and blessed her before she left every morning. Her mother brought her shoe shopping and peanut butter shopping and bought her delicious chocolate cakes every few days, and her uncle liked to tease her about her love of books and wine.

Every few weeks in the charming little village, the young American girl was whisked from her home, and taken a hundred miles away, where she inspected lichens and talked with crazy, burned-out hippies. She dearly loved this adventurous lifestyle, where she saw the most incredible things she'd every seen.

However, this fairytale has a dilemma, as every decent fairytale is expected to have. The young American girl was being forced by the wicked princes of the land she was visiting to write a book about her adventures by the last day of her journey. The young girl despaired for days. While she would have written about her adventures with the utmost willingness at another time, she was far more concerned with living the adventures at hand and resented deeply being locked away in a tower to finish the book. Her heart ached to be with her family, to eat more bread, to have more adventures. That wretched book prevented her from doing that.

She knew that the book would be wonderful, that it made sense to write it, that the princes would be extremely pleased if she finished it on time. Yet... the rivers and the cobblestone streets called to her. So she decided to do one thing—her only option. She decided to forgo the book and have her own adventures and enjoy life as it came to her.

The princes were dismayed and very upset. But then, in a wink and a flash, a benevolent shaman came to them with a magical potion which showed them the error of their ways until they begged the young American girl for forgiveness for hampering her education and her experiences in the charming land. She accepted their apologies, had wonderful adventures, and went back to her country fulfilled by experience and filled with bread.

And she lived happily ever after.

December 10: Exploring the city a few more times

Date: December 10, 2009

Weather: Sunny, lovely, the perfect weather for walking through the city and enjoying it

My mother loves her job. She's a math professor at a local college and loves it. I'm forever finding scribbled math equations on napkins and scraps of paper, not to mention the piles of notebooks filled with them.

The problem with her job is that, while trying to pay for the three-story house, she's forced to pay 20% in taxes. She feels secure in her job but hate that so much is being taken from her paycheck.

The school receives Correa's little “gifts,” the cheap books that don't prepare the students well enough for her class. Also, she just got her Master's degree on Friday and isn't receiving much of a benefit from it.

December 9: A heart-to-heart with Mama Isa

December 9, 2009

Location: Cuenca

Weather: Nice

It took me over a month to figure out where my host dad has been. One day, the day after Trevor and my 9 month anniversary, I came home from a telephone cabina sobbing my eyes out on Antonia's shoulder, who had the job of explaining to my mother why I was at my wit's end and unable to keep it together.

“Don't cry,” my mom told me. “Men aren't worth it. Don't cry.”

The next day, she asked me if I was better and pulled out a pile of photo albums to show me her past. She showed me her husband who has been gone for six months and who won't return her phone calls or talk to her in over two months. They were only married for six years and had several unsuccessful pregnancies. No wonder she seems like she's dying to become a mother. Her husband is off cavorting around the Oriente while she is stuck at home paying bills and worrying about making ends meet in their enormous house.

It's unfair to my mother to be stuck in the position of having to stay faithful and keep the house running simply because she has a womb. She told me that her husband is stupid and they can't get a divorce (thank you, Catholicism), but she can't do what she wants, either. Gender injustice strikes hardest in marriages, I think. It isn't the catcalls on the streets or the expectation that women are the ones who must cook, clean, and take care of everyone. It's in the marriages held together only by a piece of paper and the disapproving eye of the church.

My mom has to work, take care of her mother, watch her nephew every day, and be a proper woman. She has none of the freedom of a married woman but all of the responsibilities, despite Vincente's absence.

“What do I do with all of his clothes?” She asked, showing me the closets full of suits and shoes and hats.

“Burn it,” I told her.

She laughed and agreed that it was a brilliant idea. “Men are stupid. With the exceptions of Manuel.”

December 1: Foreign Familiarity

The views Antonia and I see on our walk to school every morning

December 1, 2009

Location: My room, Cuenca, 6:20 PM

Weather: Now, it's clouding over and getting dark because the sun will set within a half-hour, but today has been beautiful: sun, blue sky, 80s. It may be the first day of December, but I couldn't ask for a more perfect day.

I hate that we're leaving in a week and a half. Every time I walk through the city, I am reminded just how much I'm in love with it. Instead of going home for lunch, Natalie, Katy, Sara, Mark, Brittany, Kara, and I went to a vegetarian place near El Centro. After Carlos' wife's incredible meals, I've begun to like the idea of vegetarian meals. (It's far better than the dry, tough, sad excuse for steaks they serve here.) It was the only place in the city where I've seen pesto and real spaghetti, and it was absolutely stunning, for only $2.50, too.

Afterward, Kara, Britt, Natalie, and I wandered toward the San Francisco market in search of pirated DVDs and more gifts for our family. On the way back, I stopped and got Mama Isa a bright, cheery sunflower to cheer her up after such a hard week. It was $1, about twice as much as I paid for a bouquet a few weeks ago, but worth it. I walked back to school with Kara, swinging it as we walked.

A cart full of rosy mangoes and another of enormous, glowing strawberries were wheeled past us. We passed an old woman silently carrying a tray piled high with the whipped icing they're so fond of here, decorated with sprinkles and a few pieces of fruit, the sugar cones it's served in jutting from the creamy peaks. A man selling herbal medicines offered his services to us near the Old Cathedral, but we've already seen him around plenty of times. We know where to get a cleansing if we want it.

“If you could, would you live here?” Kara asked.

“Without a doubt,” I answered.

Of course the power shortages aren't convenient, and the current political situation leaves something to be desired, but I've fallen head over heels for this place, even more than I thought I would. I never imagined the hustle and bustle of the city could be so comforting or cheerful. The sounds of the car alarms and sirens barely register anymore because I hear them so much. Even the buses belching black clouds don't bother me any longer. I'm too busy looking at the old buildings, trying to peak through their open doors into the quiet sanctuaries of the courtyards inside of them, drooling over the scent of hot bread from the panaderias, listening to the chatter in Spanish, most of which I can understand now.

My walk to school in the cool mornings shows me the tiny children in their sharp uniforms being walked to school by their parents. Sometimes, the fathers carry their little girls on their shoulders, which makes Antonia and I shoot sidelong smiles at each other, remembering a time when it was us who were taking in a bird's eye's view of the world. On Calle Larga, always after we pass Calle Jerves and the dilapidated church covered with blue-striped tarps (the one that remind me of the Banana in Pajamas) so as not to have chunks of building fall on passersby, we cross paths with a tall officer. His branch of the military is unknown to me, but his blue shirt, navy jacket and pants, tilted black beret, and Rhett Butler mustache suggests that he's better than the police—or at least I believe he's better. He never speaks to us, but he must recognize the gringas he's passed every day for the last two months. He never makes kissing sounds (even when Antonia is wearing the dress that makes cars slow down and old men whistle), catcalls, or even gives a once-over. After I saw him stop to shake hands with a little girl yesterday, I've decided he's a class above the type of officer that stops, whistles, and harasses gringa girls from his police cruiser.

We pass a gap in the buildings around that block and see the mountains in all their glory. The morning mountains are misty and grey-green, not quite awake yet, but when we come home from school, they're blazing with the sun, green as can be. Evening is my favorite, when the entire range reflects the orange sunset and pink clouds have begun settling over them. An hour later, they're sparkling with lights and barely recognizable against the sky. Flat Ohio holds nothing on those mountains.

The familiarity in this city is perhaps my favorite part. The lady at the panaderia on Hermano Miguel and Sucre, one block away from school, knows that when Kyle, Adam, and I come in, we want hot bread. She points to the hottest before we even have to ask. The lady at the chocolate and fruit stand in the mall knows Jessica by name. The man selling Movistar minutes in his cabina at the top of the stairs on Calle Larga knows I'm studying Spanish here and knows I want $6 worth of cell phone minutes every time I come in. Adam gets the same cab driver into the city more often than not, and they strike up conversations together. Antonia and Ashley knows the people at the cell phone store where Marco still works. It's the same place Diego, Adam's host brother, brought me to after my phone was stolen, where I got a used phone for $30 instead of $50. I know Antonia has gotten the same deal from Marco, plus free repairs. Adrien at Zo lets us in either for free or for less than the cover charge because he likes dancing with Ashley, Lizzie, and I. It's quite often that we get free drinks out of the deal as well. We all know the scruffy little dog who has slept outside a clothing store since the first day. I can guarantee that I don't even frequent a place often enough to have the cashier recognize me, let alone cut me a break or know my name. The benefit of familiarity is more than a monetary one for me; it's feeling like this is really home, like I really belong here. I'm not just a gringa and a tourista.

A tiny, wrinkled Ecuadorian man asked me for directions today while I was waiting for Antonia at her gate. I gladly pointed him in the right direction of his house number and he thanked me and went on his way.

That's familiarity.

December 6-8: Murphy's Law

December 6, 2009

Location: The road between Cuenca and Guayaquil, on the way to Montanita

Weather: Clear, hot, sunny, bound to get hotter as we near the coast

I hate this road. It's impossible to sleep on (as our 2AM trip to the Coast can attest) and it's nearly impossibly to write on. Hell, it's nearly impossible to remain at a 90 degree angle. The twists and turns and bumps and sudden stops and the truck currently hurtling toward us head on insure that I'm awake and at the very peak of anxiety. Fortunately, we'll be at the beach in three hours at the very most and there will be no stress whatsoever. Drs. Melampy and Martin, I know your papers are due on Friday. But... I'm going to remember the excitement of seeing one of Ecuador's most popular beaches more than sitting in my room all day typing, stressing, and studying. I think for the first time in my life, I am putting academics second. My GPA doesn't matter as much as the experience. I think that's been one of the most valuable lessons that this trip has taught me: to forget about a 4.0 and just enjoy being here. The things I'll regret most in twenty years are the things I didn't do—not the 4.0.

With five days left in Cuenca (and this hellish drive AGAIN at the end of that time), I am really getting nervous about leaving. My family is family here. They're more of my family than my those who never call and the thirty or so great-somethings I only see at family reunions. Mama Isa gets a kick out of being called “Mama” for the first time in her life—something I know she craves, just from the way she is magnetized to babies and children—and something her jerk of a husband never gave her the chance to become. Tio Manuel dotes on me and teases me and buys me my favorite white wine to go with our dinners and giant fabric hats shaped like mugs of Pilsener. Abuelito asks for me and buys me ice cream on Sundays. Abuelita suffering from Alzheimer's and blindness, is very endearing on her lucid days. “Erikita! Mi guagua!” She says, grinning from ear to ear when I kiss her good morning. Some days I sit on her bed and listen as she warns me of thieves and asks for the fifth time that day when I will be returning to Ecuador. Too soon, I always tell her. The other night, on one of her forgetful evenings, she asked to come dancing and drinking with me. She always blesses me before I leave the house. My maternal grandfather rarely says I love you when I say it to him and these people, with whom I've spent two and a half months, show and say loving things. I am going to miss them so incredibly much. I feel at home here, where I am white and speaking a different language, than I do in most places in the States.

As much as I love this country, I am not blind to its problems. The political issues are obvious, but my experience at the discotheque Velvet made me aware of just how corrupt it can be. Every country can be, everywhere has crime, every population has a percentage of people who should never have been born.

Velvet opened two months ago and is all the rage because of the novelty of a new club and the Plastics who go there. Word was that it was the place to go on Friday, so we went. We thought $6 was a bit steep, so when I struck up a conversation with a man outside who turned out to be the owner, I pushed up my chichis and told him how it was our last week in Ecuador and how we were only poor college students. He let us in for $5. He showed me a card with my name on it that was meant for Adam and I, on which was listed all the things we had to pay for: entrance fee, drinks, food, etc. At the end of the night, we were to pay before leaving. On the surface, the system looks a bit classier because there isn't a lot of cash floating around. It is, in truth, a way to make easy money. Lose the card? $250 fine. Rip it up? Hell to pay.

My feet were hurting and I wanted to get up early to do homework, so Adam and I went to pay. As I was adding up the bill at the counter, I couldn't believe what I saw. Three Coronas were true. One shot of Jose Cuervo was true. One pack of cigarettes was true. But three Cosmopolitans?

“No es verdad,” I told the worker in confusion, pointing at the marks on the paper. “Tuve solo uno.”

“No es mi problema,” he snapped.

I went down the list, explaining how it was all true except for the Cosmos. Talk to the bartenders, he told me. So I did. I found the bartender who had made me my single Cosmo and showed him the marks. “If I had three,” I told him, “I would be on the floor covered in vomit. You did not serve me three drinks.”

“No es mi problema,” he told me snootily.

Adam's drunken rage didn't help. He told the bartender we wouldn't be paying for something we didn't buy and ripped the card up into four pieces. That's when the bouncer showed up with the owner. I shoved Adam out of the way before a fight broke out and went to explain the situation.

“Who ripped up the card?” He demanded in English.

I told him it wasn't important, but he asked repeatedly. I explained the situation, I showed him the marks on the card, I told him as calmly as I could that three Cosmos would mean a passed out gringa on his club floor.

“Maybe your boyfriend drank them. It's not my problem,” he said, leading me to pay. Of course. Because my ex-marine friend really enjoys drinking sugary, pink, girly drinks. The owner didn't think that was so ridiculous. On the way there, I resigned myself to paying $15 in Cosmos instead of $5, and handed him two $10 bills. He handed them and the card to the cashier.

“Your bill comes to $40,” he told me, hand out. I gave him a twenty and went to leave when he stopped me. “$40—not $20.”

I stared at him. “I gave you $20 before in tens and I just gave you another $20. I paid you.”

“You're crazy. You never gave me any money before this. Did I hand him any money? No. See? You owe me $20 more. Just because you're American doesn't mean you can leave without paying. You come here and you don't respect me because I'm from Ecuador and you're from America.”

I think that's when my tears stopped and the hyperventilating started. The cops were going to be called. The owner thought Americans were crooked and rich and had no respect for the people and country I'd grown to love. I don't remember much besides seeing Lizzie in between the black spots in my vision and hearing her and Megan's mom, Diana, trying to calm me down over the roaring in my ears. After what seemed like an entire night, the owner, freaked out beyond belief, told me he'd forgive me the $20 and let Adam go.

“He has to go,” he said smoothly, “but you can stay if you want. I want you to stay.”

I stared at his fat, bald head blankly. This was the same man who had tried to dance with me and I had denied him because I had a boyfriend. It made a lot more sense, all of a sudden. I was still shaking and unable to breathe from the panic attack, but I managed to give him the most scathing look I've been known to posses and tell him that I would never want to stay and that I would spread the word about what happened to all the other gringoes club owners want so much to have in their clubs.

It wasn't until the next day that I found out that almost every single person in our group (20 people all together) had been overcharged, whether they were Ecuadoreans or gringoes. My cousin Leslie told us later that the club has already acquired the dubious honor of being known for screwing people over. A journalist we met at Amauta and later at Zo said he would write a scathing review of the club in the magazine he published for gringoes in Ecuador. Whether he will or not, I don't know, but I made no bones about spreading the word to everyone we met.

I told Adrian, the owner of Zo, about it last night and he said the same thing. It was not the first time he'd heard of something like that happening at Velvet. Adrien runs a good club. It may not be white and swanky and packed with Plastics, but he is honest and fair and gives me free drinks instead of charging me for extras. He pats my cheek and kisses it like I'm a naïve little girl but respects me, still treating me with as much fairness as he ever did.

“I'll miss you,” he told me when I hugged him goodbye. “Come back to my club the day you return to Ecuador.”

So guess who's getting a good online review at all the travel websites?

December 8, 2009
Loction: On the road back from Montanita
Weather: Crummy, cold, rainy

This is what we expected from Montanita:


This is what we got at Montanita:


Making the best of it with my lovely ladies:


Ashley was NOT pleased to have things with eyes in her soup

Antonia didn't mind

Pilsener <3
How many men does it take to change a tire? Four. Three to give advice and watch and one to actually change it.

Our happy bunch:



You know Murphy's Law? It says that everything that can and will go wrong at the worst possible time will indeed go wrong. That's what happened with the side trip that we planned for our last free weekend in Ecuador.

We had some extra money to spend on the trip so Dr. Martin, Dr. Melampy, Adam, Lauren, Sara, Ashley, Antonia, and I decided to go to the coast to spend a few days relaxing before the paper writing frenzy began. What could be better? The sun, the surf, relaxation, a few Pilseners, a nice tan to make everyone jealous when we return bronzed in the middle of December...

That SO didn't happen... None of it.

We should have turned around and gone back when our taxi busted a tire only a half hour outside Cuenca. We all got out to walk around in the sun while the three men looked on and offered suggestions to the taxi driver about the proper way to change a tire. How many men does it take to change a tire? Four, apparently. The girls just stood back and laughed.

I got some reading done for Martin's final paper on The House of the Spirits. It now looks like a very well-loved book. The pages have gotten damp and dog-eared, passages have been underlined and starred, and the spine is creased in multiple places. Generally, I take very good care of my books to the point of making them look like they've never been opened. But this book is incredible and looks like I've spent as much time with it as I have.

We got to the coast and it immediately began raining. It rains often in Ecuador, especially in the morning or early afternoon. Then it generally clears up and it's beautiful and sunny in the evening. No big deal, we thought, we'll wait until it passes.

It never did. Not Saturday, not Sunday. It poured.

The hostel was pretty cool looking, with a hot tub, a pool, and a big cabin overlooking the beach a couple miles away. The hostel owner was an ex-hippie who rambled on about his spiritual journey. "Knowledge is 'no ledge,' man!" He told us. He praised iowaska, or ayahuasca which means "spirit vine" in Quechua, one of the most powerful hallucinogenic drugs known to mankind. It's often used by shamans in rituals where some say that the visions will heal you from any "demons" you may have. He even had some on hand. No, thank you. That's what Zoloft is for.

[Later: Here's an interesting National Geographic article I found on it. Click on the blue, underlined letters to read it.]

The next day, Adam, Antonia, Ashley, and I decided to hike down to the beach and hope the sun cleared up the clouds. We slid down the muddy hillside, trying to avoid cow patties and getting our shoes soaked and muddied beyond all belief, and walked in the rain several miles until we got to the beach. We ate a crab and seafood chowder lunch with some massive bottles of Pilsener to make the day a little bit better. We were wet, freezing, and displeased that it was still raining and misting heavily. Sometimes life is just so ridiculous you have to laugh at yourself.

We made it into the town of Montanita, famous for its surfing community and its young, hippie crowd. Indeed, it lived up to its standards.

At that point, we were so worn out, we got a taxi back to the hostel and soaked in the hot tub for the rest of the evening. Then, we found an unexpected visitor: Sir Palmetto Bug and his merry band of roaches. Ashley dueled Sir Palmetto Bug but he skittered away to fight another day.

Gross. I don't think I've ever been so happy to leave a place.

Pros:
-ocean view room
-$15 out of pocket for the whole trip
-the beach
-the hot tub
-$2 crab lunch
-a small, intimate group
-finding the 200th bird for the Bio list

Cons:
-a hotel owner whose brain cells have obviously been burned away bit by bit (“Knowledge is having 'no ledge,' get it? Ha ha!”)
-rain
-muddy feet from sliding down the path to the beach
-battles with Sir Palmetto Bug and his Merry Band of Buggies who inhabited our rooms
-getting screwed over by a street artisan who tricked us (and by "us" I mean "Adam") into buying nothing

I think I'm ready to go home now.

November 25: This is not a damn train

On a stop in the mountains

Katy and Caitlin

This is a bus on tracks. Pooey.


November 25, 2009
Location: The damn "train"
Weather: Cool, cloudy and sunny

I am not pleased. Rarely am I disappointed on these trips but it's unanimous: we are not pleased. We're on a bus running on a train track. This is not the quaint, old-timey bus we were expecting. This is a bus running along the mostly-boring country side with a very loud, obnoxious guide shouting at us through her microphone and trying to get us to sing. I have slept for most of the trip.

We had been told that this train was one that people used to ride on top of to see the sides. "Used to" is the key verbiage, here. Apparently a couple dumb tourists sat too high when the train was going under a bridge and--whing!--were decapitated. Now, that's prohibited. Now, they've adapted the train to be a one-car bus on wheels.

I'd rather be climbing chimborazo at 20,000 feet.

Fortunately we've had a very pretty stop at a mountain pass that makes it look as if we're miles away from civilization (we are, I suppose...) but we've made the best of it!

November 24: It's the Climb- Chimborazo

Antonia and Ashley dancing to reggaeton :)

Huddling for warmth at the shelter below

Striking the Dr. Melampy pose--in Dr. Melampy's hat :)

Antonia

This is how we all felt

Como te llama? Or alpaca? not sure.


November 24, 2009
Location: Riobamba
Weather: Cold, cloudy

Just like every place is more and more amazing each new place, the hikes are getting progressively harder and longer, though also easier as I get into better shape. By far, by far today's hike was the hardest.

Mount Chimborazo is an extinct volcano that towers about all other peaks on earth. How? No, it's not the highest mountain above sea level in the world, but it is the closes peak to the sun. It reaches 20,565.0 ft! It's the tallest mountain in Ecuador. According to the ever-reliable source of Wikipedia (though this is a well-known fact), "its location along the equatorial bulge makes its summit the farthest point on the Earth's surface from its center" and therefore closest to the sun. Now, we didn't hike all that far. Emily, Paul, Lizzie, and Dr. Martin are going to tomorrow but it cost extra money and I have never been more exhausted physically in my life.

We began on a lower slope of the mountain, where we saw llamas, or alpacas, I don't know. It begins to look sparsely populated with vegetation at that level. The paramo is grassy with drought-resistant plants and very few animals.

It's cold--so cold we bundled into layers of pajama pants and field pants, sweaters, gloves, hats, and parkas. Snow was piled in places at higher levels.

We made it to about 16,000 feet above sea level. At that point, there is a little hut in which you can rest and stay the night if you want to brave the next 4,000 feet. There is relatively little elevation but it is very, very strenuous to walk. The air is so thin, you move only a few steps and feel your lungs burning for air. The normal breaths that you take don't seem to be enough, even though your body is telling you that it should be enough in normal situations. It's rewarding to say that you have made a pretty good hike at 16,000 feet (the highest I've ever been) but I'm beat.

At the top, I asked Dr. Melampy if I could borrow his hat for a photo op. He's always standing with one leg propped up on a rock, or on a step, like he's Captain Morgan. I have teased him about it but I was curious how he would take me blatantly imitating him today. I really, really like the guy. He has been so helpful and kind to me on this trip, even though I thought at first that he was a gruff fellow. As it turns out, he has a dry sense of humor and laughed at me when I struck his pose (see the photo above). I like him very much indeed. :)

The little cabins were perfect for hot tea and hot strawberry soup after we completed our hike. Some of our group even had to forgo the hike altogether because of altitude sickness. Again, I'm thankful that I am never afflicted with that. I'm terribly out of shape in general but my body has responded well to the changes I'm thrust upon it on this trip.

Tomorrow, we set off by train to Riobamba again. We've heard that there were some changes to the train so we shall see...

November 23: Riobamba, Take II

Demolishing Ruffles Cebolla y Crema

Riobamba
A beautiful morning glory


November 23, 2009
Location: Hotel in Riobamba
Weather: Cloudy, cool

I've been here before. I didn't spend so much time here in 2007 but I did see it. It's odd being familiar with a place abroad...

Riobamba is a few hours south of Quito, about two hours north of Cuenca. When I first came to Ecuador, the very first morning in Quito, I was talking with a man in the elevator about the Mount Tungarahua area.

"Ahh... near Banos, the Land of the Flowers and the Gateway to the Jungle!" He exclaimed. "It is lovely."

And so it is. Both visits to the Riobamba/ Banos area have been pretty cool.

The hotel we're staying at is amazingly modern-looking. Our room is in an odd location: right off of a banquet hall. It makes the renters of the hall crazy when we have to get in and out of our room but they'll deal with it. It's the hotel's fault anyway. Our room is two floors, a big open room at the bottom with two beds, and two beds upstairs with a bathroom. Jessica, Antonia, Ashley and I shared the room and spent last night jamming out to reggaeton and techno and spilling Manzana Zhumir all over the place (see the video). Jessica managed to break her bead but we put it back together okay. :) They are a great group of girls. I have so much fun with a lot of people on this trip.

At first, I was really nervous that I was setting out on this trip without knowing anyone else at all going. Now I see that there was nothing to worry about at all. I am making friends that will last a lifetime.

We hiked through the waterfall and mountains of Riobamba and enjoyed the myriad of flowers and plants. I had a lot of flashbacks to the church youth group's mission trip and all the fun we'd had on the same route.

I got to see a lot more of the waterfalls here and was just as amazed at the power as I stood by and got soaked. As with much of this trip, normally I would hate being soaked, my hair frizzy and damp, but this was all part of the experience of Ecuador. No one who was there cared what I looked like because they all looked the same and they were all just as thrilled to be there, being dirty and unkempt. (Well...most of them.)

Banos was full of taffy and pigeons and it a nice break from the hiking. The taffy makers stretched huge ropes of taffy from pegs on the wall, looping it around again and again.

Now, a few Cuba Libres later, I'm ready for bed. More hiking tomorrow!

November 22: Otavalo, the Land of Eternal Bartering

The view from my hotel window
The Shaman
The gourd carver and his wares
The traditional back-strap weaver
Overlooking the marketplace in Otavalo

November 22, 2009
Location: Otavalo, on the bus back to Quito
Weather: Lovely

Every place we go, I think that it couldn't quite get better and ever time we get to a new place, I'm amazed at how different, exciting, and beautiful it is!

Otavalo is a bustling city. We got here the other evening and wandered throughout the city in the last few hours of the evening before it got dark. The Andes surround this city, like they do in Cuenca and it makes me feel at home in their shade. It's so clean and clear in the mountains, it only makes me more sure that I'm a mountain girl at heart.

Jessica's and my room overlooks the mountains and it has running, hot water! :D It's lovely.

We went to find a discoteca but were relatively unsuccessful, since the only one we found was shut down by the police in 5 minutes. So we went back and had Zhumir and coke at the hotel.

Yesterday, we spent a full day shopping. Bartering is a big part of the culture in Ecuador. It's rude to just pay the price that a vendor tells you at first. Both parties enjoy bartering back and forth, trying to get a good deal on a scarf, or a bag, or a piece of artwork. It's an art form, it seems. You can't counter bargain too high or you'll be ripped off. You can't counter bargain too low or you'll offend the artisan. You have to hit the sweet spot where both vendor and purchaser feel like they got the better end of the deal and that takes some time to figure out--and some good Spanish. By the end of the day, I was a whiz!

I wanted to buy a turquoise purse for my mom but it was too high at $12 (I know, right? That's high here). I counter bargained a reasonable amount of $7, but the vendor refused. I knew it was still too high, so I walked away. A minute later, the vendor had found me and said that she would let me buy the bag for $9. I told her $8 and she accepted. See, I want to give the vendors a fair wage. This stuff is actually worth a lot more because it's often home weaved, sewn, and created. But the initial price is generally jacked up higher than normal because I look like a rich gringa. Walking away shows that I'm disinterested by the price and the vendor knows that by letting me walk away, she's losing out on a sell at the end of the day. At the end, everyone winds up happy.

At the end of the day, we went to see a weaver of incredible textiles, whose work sells for up to $700 per blanket. That is a LOT of money in Ecuador. He weaves in the traditional manner, with a loom that loops around his back and a shuttle that is passed manually across his lap. It's a very time consuming process, one which not many Ecuadorians value any longer. Most chose the quick and easy route to weave Otavalo's famous alpaca and wool textiles but the ones that are really worth something are hand-woven.

One of the most fascinating cultural experiences so far was a shamanic cleansing ritual that Narcissa brought a small group of us to see. Adam volunteered to be cleansed. It involved him stripping down to his underwear, being rubbed with candles, eggs, and oil, having aguardiente spat all over him by the shaman, hit with stinging nettles, and finally, having fire breathed over his entire body. This is an odd mixture of Catholic and animist rituals, formed by the Ecuadorian culture to appease both sides, I think. The shaman's house was filled with magic crystals, spears, virgin Mary statues, holy water, and trinkets of all shapes and sizes. He wore a feather headdress to perform the ritual and uttered in a guttural, mumbled Spanish. It was both terrifying and incredible to see. Whether it did anything or not has yet to be seen. This ritual has been filmed for travel shows repeatedly because the shaman is one of the only ones who still does it in a traditional manner. I have had so many once-in-a-lifetime experiences on this trip, it has paid for itself over and over and over again in value.

Things I bought in the market:
-Scarves shot through with silver and gold thread
-Alpaca scarves for friends
-A silver filigree ring
-Filigree earrings for friends
-Jade necklace
-A hand-painted oil on hide painting for my parents
-A hammock for my parents
-A woven purse for my mom
-An "I love Boobies" shirt for my brother (Boobies as in the bird, not the body part)
-An Amazonia shirt for my mom
-2 painted feathers for my grandparents
-Hand-made stationary for family friends
-Carved gourds made into owl Christmas ornaments for work friends and family
-A massive woven bag to carry it all back in

Total cost of everyone's Christmas presents: about $100-$125. Yeah. Believe it.

Spending the day in a lively city: Priceless

November 20: Staying with the "Terrorists" of Junin

November 20
Location: On the road from Junin to Otavalo
Weather: Overcast

The community of Junin was declared by the U.S. a community of "eco-terrorists" because they fought back against the Ascendant Copper Canadian mining company, burned down their camp, rounded them up, and kicked them out.

We just spent the last few days with them and they were nothing but gracious.

It's an interesting predicament... How do you label a group who has taken drastic measures to protect what is theirs? From what it sounds like, they tried to peacefully remove the company, which was backed by a paramilitary group, but was not successful. This was also documented in the same documentary Carlos was in, "The Curse of Copper."

These people are strong. They have bounced back and begun an eco-tourism "hotel" (a massive tree house-looking building) and hikes. They're still struggling to make money this way but they're kicking butt.

The building looks like it's made from bamboo with an open first floor for group meals and a couple rooms, a second floor with rooms, and an open third floor with hammocks. A few people stayed on the roof but I was lucky enough to get a room with Emily, Lizzie, and Ashley. I like to switch up my roommates every now and then to keep everyone from getting sick of each other. It's been working so far! I keep away from the really high maintenance people and bond with new ones every trip!

The food is a little lacking here... mostly rice and bits of vegetables and rice with roles and juice. I pound it down like I'll never see food again AND dig into my secret stash of energy bars and still feel hungry. Someone who shall remain nameless had the gall to send their plate back to the kitchen when we were served spaghetti with a pinkish ketchup-y sauce on top. They wanted it with butter. I thought I was going to slap them across the room for being so rude. You eat what you can here. You can't be picky and it's SO RUDE to do that. I was really upset about that. Another case of the ugly, spoiled American abroad. These people are doing their very best here. Admittedly, Junin wasn't my favorite place, but it was still a great experience, for which I am thankful.

The hike we participated in was very, very long and steep. Some of the group (about 1/3) had to stay back because of altitude sickness. I've been lucky to have escaped motion and altitude sickness altogether here. The hike was led by a group of guides ranging from age 14 to over 60. Wow! We saw where the Ascendant Copper camp was and ate popcorn sitting around one of the remaining buildings. We saw a massive group of waterfalls (Cascada Velo de Novia, Bride of the Girlfriend Waterfall, literally) and bathed in them. Ice cold water be damned, it was refreshing after a strenuous hike. We goofed around and played in the water until we were cold and wanted to head back.

Again, there are so many new plants and insects around every corner, it's hard to imagine the ecological diversity that is here. It's beautiful. So, so beautiful. How could precious metals even come close to the worth of this land?