The beginning and the end
I can´t believe it´s already over. It feels like my time here is still just beginning! Mainly, what I´m left with is a lot of questions: Am I going to lose my ability to speak Spanish? Will I be a different person when I arrive home? Will I like who I am? Will I be able to keep in touch with the people I know here? Too many questions.
Some things I miss about the US:
-my family!
-ice cream
-high speed internet in our house
-ice and drinks with ice in them
-drinkable tap water
Some things I will miss about Ecuador:
-my program friends
-my host family
-mountains, coast and rainforest
-10 cent ice creams
-fruit smoothies with every meal
-Salsa dancing
-Spanish
By no means an exhaustive list. I just feel like everything is going to be so different when I come back. But at least I have a week in the Galapagos to start the transition!
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
The country life
After nearly a month without writing, I have a shocking and moving story to share. It´s actually not mine, it belongs to an indigenous woman named Maria. We sat on a reed mat, me in jeans and a T-shirt, and she in a long skirt, embroidered shirt, and a many-stranded golden necklace. We spent nearly the entire day plucking kernals of corn off the cob by hand (and since it´s organic, a fair number of worms as well) as she shared her life story.
The youngest of five children, her father died before she was born. Soon after she was born, her mother went to work in the city, leaving her on the farm with two of her older siblings to care for the goats. They ate goat´s milk and toasted corn, and rarely could afford to buy anything else. Maria only went to school for one year, in part because she couldn´t stand the kids teasing her for being fatherless and wearing traditional indigenous clothing, and in part because she only spoke Quichua and the teachers only spoke Spanish.
When she was 15, Maria left home to work in Quito as a domestic servant. She cooked, cleaned, did laundry, and cared for the children, and for her work she was given a cup of water in the morning, soup for lunch, and a cup of water in the evening. After a year of this treatment, she began to work for an elderly woman with many health problems, who treated her like a daughter and taught her to speak Spanish. Unfortunatly, she had to leave to care for her older brother, who was dying of cancer. In the next few years, her three oldest siblings died of cancer, all before the age of 40. Maria is 38.
At 18, Maria didn´t understand how babies came about, and so she accidentally got pregnant. Two years later, she married the man. They were happy for about a year, and then he began to beat her. Off an on throughout the years, especially when he drank, he would beat her. He also had multiple affairs, and even had another entire house and family in another valley at one point. In Maria´s community, it´s a fairly common situation; both her sisters were hit by their husbands, and both of her brothers hit their wives. Of course, she is still with him, because it is better to have a bad husband than none at all, though she says the situation is better now that he doesn´t drink.
Maria lives on $200 a month, all earned by her abusive husband. He works in construction in a valley during the week, two of her oldest daughters are in college, and the 15 year old is already out of the house working as a domestic servant. The two youngest, ages 6 and 4, are in school, so she spends most of her days alone, caring for the farm. Alone, she does all the planting, harvesting, and caring for animals. In fact, her labor provides about half the food her family eats. The $200 is spent in the following manner: $80 a month on food, $50 on education for her two youngest children, and $20 on water, gas and electricity. The remaining $50 goes towards travel to and from the nearby towns, clothing, and health care.
As part of a community tourism program, I had the priviledge of staying with her and her family for three days, to experience a small part of her life and hear her story. She shared it all with a cheerful smile, taught us a few Quichua words, and then cooked us a delicious lunch.
The youngest of five children, her father died before she was born. Soon after she was born, her mother went to work in the city, leaving her on the farm with two of her older siblings to care for the goats. They ate goat´s milk and toasted corn, and rarely could afford to buy anything else. Maria only went to school for one year, in part because she couldn´t stand the kids teasing her for being fatherless and wearing traditional indigenous clothing, and in part because she only spoke Quichua and the teachers only spoke Spanish.
When she was 15, Maria left home to work in Quito as a domestic servant. She cooked, cleaned, did laundry, and cared for the children, and for her work she was given a cup of water in the morning, soup for lunch, and a cup of water in the evening. After a year of this treatment, she began to work for an elderly woman with many health problems, who treated her like a daughter and taught her to speak Spanish. Unfortunatly, she had to leave to care for her older brother, who was dying of cancer. In the next few years, her three oldest siblings died of cancer, all before the age of 40. Maria is 38.
At 18, Maria didn´t understand how babies came about, and so she accidentally got pregnant. Two years later, she married the man. They were happy for about a year, and then he began to beat her. Off an on throughout the years, especially when he drank, he would beat her. He also had multiple affairs, and even had another entire house and family in another valley at one point. In Maria´s community, it´s a fairly common situation; both her sisters were hit by their husbands, and both of her brothers hit their wives. Of course, she is still with him, because it is better to have a bad husband than none at all, though she says the situation is better now that he doesn´t drink.
Maria lives on $200 a month, all earned by her abusive husband. He works in construction in a valley during the week, two of her oldest daughters are in college, and the 15 year old is already out of the house working as a domestic servant. The two youngest, ages 6 and 4, are in school, so she spends most of her days alone, caring for the farm. Alone, she does all the planting, harvesting, and caring for animals. In fact, her labor provides about half the food her family eats. The $200 is spent in the following manner: $80 a month on food, $50 on education for her two youngest children, and $20 on water, gas and electricity. The remaining $50 goes towards travel to and from the nearby towns, clothing, and health care.
As part of a community tourism program, I had the priviledge of staying with her and her family for three days, to experience a small part of her life and hear her story. She shared it all with a cheerful smile, taught us a few Quichua words, and then cooked us a delicious lunch.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Words and Expressions
Chuta—shoot! Whoa! Or Uh-oh! Also very similar to a bad word I accidentally shouted out in a restaurant
Podría encontrar 10 patas al gato—literally, he/ she could find ten paws on a cat, means he/ she is a pessimist
No me jodas—don´t bother me; My brother and his friends taught me to say this. According to them, it´s only the f-bomb in Spain, but based on the way they laughed when I said it, I´m still pretty sure it´s not particularly nice
Luchito—a nickname for Luís
Lluchito—naked
Grifo—faucet
Grifa—stoned
Yankis—dollars
Iony—(Yawn-y) Americans, comes from the shirts that say I (heart) NY
Huacala-gross
Puchi-also gross, more in the sense of "dirty" though
Podría encontrar 10 patas al gato—literally, he/ she could find ten paws on a cat, means he/ she is a pessimist
No me jodas—don´t bother me; My brother and his friends taught me to say this. According to them, it´s only the f-bomb in Spain, but based on the way they laughed when I said it, I´m still pretty sure it´s not particularly nice
Luchito—a nickname for Luís
Lluchito—naked
Grifo—faucet
Grifa—stoned
Yankis—dollars
Iony—(Yawn-y) Americans, comes from the shirts that say I (heart) NY
Huacala-gross
Puchi-also gross, more in the sense of "dirty" though
Things to call people
1.Significant other or beloved family member
-Mi cielo- my sky
-Mi riena- my queen
-Mi vida- my life
-Preciosa- precious (please use Gollum voice)
-Querida- My dear, beloved
They don´t use many foods as pet names like we do in the U.S (ie honey, sweet pea, sugar, muffins--ick)
2.Young people
-Mi hijita- pronounced “mihita”, my little daughter or much younger female friend
-Nena- an affectionate way of saying niña, or little girl
-Guagua- baby
3.Others
-Verde- creepy, as in “There were a lot of creepy old men in that Salsoteca”
-Mandarina- hen-pecked husband. Why I know this, I have no idea.
-Mi cielo- my sky
-Mi riena- my queen
-Mi vida- my life
-Preciosa- precious (please use Gollum voice)
-Querida- My dear, beloved
They don´t use many foods as pet names like we do in the U.S (ie honey, sweet pea, sugar, muffins--ick)
2.Young people
-Mi hijita- pronounced “mihita”, my little daughter or much younger female friend
-Nena- an affectionate way of saying niña, or little girl
-Guagua- baby
3.Others
-Verde- creepy, as in “There were a lot of creepy old men in that Salsoteca”
-Mandarina- hen-pecked husband. Why I know this, I have no idea.
Mi casa es su casa
There are some boundaries I´m used to that are crossed here on a daily basis. First of all, we have the “personal space” boundary. In the U.S., when you meet someone new, you generally shake hands. Occasionally, you might do the awkward dance of “shake, oops, hug, uh oops, shake.” Here, the standard greeting is a kiss on the cheek. It took me a while to get the hang of it: one hand on the person´s shoulder, just one cheek, always the right cheek. Whether it´s a man or a woman, whether I know the person´s name or not, it´s always the kiss on the cheek. Right from the start, you are sharing more personal space with a stranger than you ever would in the U.S.
In general, the people here don´t have quite the same concept of personal space. On the bus, for example, Americans would sit on the edge of their seat, clutching their arms to their sides so as to not touch the stranger next to them. Here, passengers let their arms (and sometimes bellies) freely flop into my space. At home too, how much space they consider each person needs as far as living quarters is quite different. In the one floor apartment above me, for instance, lives a family of 13. For vacation, my host mother described an apartment that “sleeps 10 comfortably.” It turned out to have two moderate-sized bedrooms and a small living room. But we were quite comfy and I actually enjoyed sharing the space. Maybe we overestimate how much space we need in the U.S.
There is also the boundary of topics we don´t bring up in polite conversation in the U.S.: politics and religion. I rode a taxi with my host parents last week, and their idea of light chit-chat with the driver was “So who are you going to vote for as president?” and “Are you a practicing Christian?”
Though it{s still odd for me to kiss strangers and ask a taxi driver his voting record, the familiarity of the culture does have one major upside: Latin American hospitality. When I say it´s a familiar culture, I actually mean as in “everyone is family.” Often, the generosity and hospitality take the form of housewives trying to convince you to eat a 4th helping of soup, or 3rds of the rice, but it extends beyond that as well. When someone you just met says “Oh, you should come visit me sometime in Peru/ Riobamba/ distant location,” they truly mean that they would happily let you into their house, give you a place to sleep, and stuff your face with four helpings of soup.
In general, the people here don´t have quite the same concept of personal space. On the bus, for example, Americans would sit on the edge of their seat, clutching their arms to their sides so as to not touch the stranger next to them. Here, passengers let their arms (and sometimes bellies) freely flop into my space. At home too, how much space they consider each person needs as far as living quarters is quite different. In the one floor apartment above me, for instance, lives a family of 13. For vacation, my host mother described an apartment that “sleeps 10 comfortably.” It turned out to have two moderate-sized bedrooms and a small living room. But we were quite comfy and I actually enjoyed sharing the space. Maybe we overestimate how much space we need in the U.S.
There is also the boundary of topics we don´t bring up in polite conversation in the U.S.: politics and religion. I rode a taxi with my host parents last week, and their idea of light chit-chat with the driver was “So who are you going to vote for as president?” and “Are you a practicing Christian?”
Though it{s still odd for me to kiss strangers and ask a taxi driver his voting record, the familiarity of the culture does have one major upside: Latin American hospitality. When I say it´s a familiar culture, I actually mean as in “everyone is family.” Often, the generosity and hospitality take the form of housewives trying to convince you to eat a 4th helping of soup, or 3rds of the rice, but it extends beyond that as well. When someone you just met says “Oh, you should come visit me sometime in Peru/ Riobamba/ distant location,” they truly mean that they would happily let you into their house, give you a place to sleep, and stuff your face with four helpings of soup.
Ceviche
Ingredients:
Shrimp
2 medium, finely chopped red onions
2 fresh lemons
1 tsp salt
tomato, chopped small
green pepper, also finely chopped
cilantro (to taste)
Fresh squeezed orange juice or orange pop
Salt
Pepper
bullion
Large spoonful of mustard
Large spoonful of ketchup
A dribble of oil
In a large bowl, squeeze the lemons over the chopped red onion and add salt. Mix thoroughly, crushing onions a little bit, then let sit for 10-15 minutes. Add tomato, green pepper, and cilantro. Here, my host mother says you just have to look at it to tell if you have the right proportion of ingredients. If it looks like you´ll be eating pure onion, add more tomato and pepper. Add the shrimp, and gently mix it all together. Add orange juice or orange pop until the mixture is quite juicy, almost swimming (another thing you have to do by looking at it).
Add the last 6 ingredients and mix gently. Let marinate at least one hour in the refrigerator. Eat cold with popcorn and beer.
Shrimp
2 medium, finely chopped red onions
2 fresh lemons
1 tsp salt
tomato, chopped small
green pepper, also finely chopped
cilantro (to taste)
Fresh squeezed orange juice or orange pop
Salt
Pepper
bullion
Large spoonful of mustard
Large spoonful of ketchup
A dribble of oil
In a large bowl, squeeze the lemons over the chopped red onion and add salt. Mix thoroughly, crushing onions a little bit, then let sit for 10-15 minutes. Add tomato, green pepper, and cilantro. Here, my host mother says you just have to look at it to tell if you have the right proportion of ingredients. If it looks like you´ll be eating pure onion, add more tomato and pepper. Add the shrimp, and gently mix it all together. Add orange juice or orange pop until the mixture is quite juicy, almost swimming (another thing you have to do by looking at it).
Add the last 6 ingredients and mix gently. Let marinate at least one hour in the refrigerator. Eat cold with popcorn and beer.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Good Friday
Holy Week is a big deal here—practically the entire city has shut down to celebrate. They don´t have the Easter bunny, but they do have a number of other interesting traditions, ranging from special foods to long processions. Yesterday, we went to the Good Friday procession, a 3-hour spectacle of religious devotion and penitence.
It wasn´t a parade, that´s for sure. For one thing, there was only one float. Very last in the procession came a float bearing the image of Mary, Our Lady of Suffering (La Dolorosa), accompanied by hundreds of women in purple veils throwing rose petals and releasing balloons.
Some people in the procession were dressed normally, carrying images of Jesus or rosaries, mumbling prayers and singing hymns. The majority of the participants, though, were dressed as cucuruchus. Their robes and tall cone-shaped hoods with small eye holes look like Klu Klux Klan outfits, except in brilliant shades of purple and magenta. Most of the cucuruchus just walk along, bare feet on the hot pavement, clutching rosaries or images of Jesus. But some get slightly more extreme—dragging chains from their ankles or carrying ropes and branches to lash their bare backs. A couple people even wrapped barbed wire around their naked torsos, or wore crowns of thorns. Thankfully, they´re not allowed to actually draw blood anymore, but there was plenty of blood painted on faces, chests, and feet.
A large number of people take their penitence one step further. In cucuruchu outfits or Jesus costumes, they haul massive crosses down the road. Young and old men, women, and even a few children stumbled and sweated under the wooden weight, sometimes requiring up to five people just to carry the cross forward. Other people carried the horizontal log from the cross, perched on their bare shoulders, like one of those yokes used to carry water in days long past. When their faces weren´t covered, their expressions told me that this was truly penitence, not just a fun parade.
It wasn´t a parade, that´s for sure. For one thing, there was only one float. Very last in the procession came a float bearing the image of Mary, Our Lady of Suffering (La Dolorosa), accompanied by hundreds of women in purple veils throwing rose petals and releasing balloons.
Some people in the procession were dressed normally, carrying images of Jesus or rosaries, mumbling prayers and singing hymns. The majority of the participants, though, were dressed as cucuruchus. Their robes and tall cone-shaped hoods with small eye holes look like Klu Klux Klan outfits, except in brilliant shades of purple and magenta. Most of the cucuruchus just walk along, bare feet on the hot pavement, clutching rosaries or images of Jesus. But some get slightly more extreme—dragging chains from their ankles or carrying ropes and branches to lash their bare backs. A couple people even wrapped barbed wire around their naked torsos, or wore crowns of thorns. Thankfully, they´re not allowed to actually draw blood anymore, but there was plenty of blood painted on faces, chests, and feet.
A large number of people take their penitence one step further. In cucuruchu outfits or Jesus costumes, they haul massive crosses down the road. Young and old men, women, and even a few children stumbled and sweated under the wooden weight, sometimes requiring up to five people just to carry the cross forward. Other people carried the horizontal log from the cross, perched on their bare shoulders, like one of those yokes used to carry water in days long past. When their faces weren´t covered, their expressions told me that this was truly penitence, not just a fun parade.
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