Ode to My Fridge; Oh Glorious Box of Coldness

I feel the need to praise my fridge. To cover it with beautiful magnets, to fill it with delicious foods that demand to be kept cold: opened Ecuadorian diary products (because they can be kept on the shelf until opened, don’t ask me why cuz I don’t get it either), ice, ice cream, leftovers…ahhh, frozen precooked foods…

Let me back up, before I get to my newfound love affair with my fridge, let me tell the back story.

I have been living with cold showers since I moved into my home in December. Until then, I was one of those pampered Trainees with a personal electric shower, and a personal electric shower in my “host family” home once I moved to site as a newly sworn in Volunteer. In December when I moved into my own home, I decided I would find some solace in my suffering and refused to install an electric shower. I am a Peace Corps Volunteer, I thought, I can do this. I am supposed to be living in the jungle, and here I am in this big ass city…the least I can do is take a cold shower. Yes, I convinced myself as I dashed into the shower each day, I am suffering. Look at me in my cold shower, a true PCV.

I did that for several months, denying myself many regular comforts that were readily available to me because I live in an Ecuadorian city bigger than my two American hometowns put together. A mop, a table, a couch, a spatula…Look at me living without these things, living against the elements; suffering, surviving. Yeah, well, that got old really fast. Old habits die hard, and I began to come to terms with the fact that Peace Corps probably placed me in this particular site (against my wishes, for I had pleaded to live in a small town near the northern border, though the volunteer there complained of “killer flies.”) for a reason. I made a table (not a dinner table, cuz lets be honest, I don’t know how to do that and I eat dinner on the couch). I bought a spatula for easier cooking (and a lighter thingy to quickly ignite my stove rather than “suffering” through constantly breaking matches). I have chairs, though I use them as shelves, and I bought a futon from a Volunteer leaving Guayaquil. And lets get real, I don’t mop…so the need for that isn’t all that great. The last major obstacle was the electric shower. I would mull around in the hardware department of Ecuadorian superstores, touching the familiar plastic showerheads, remembering the good old days when I used to enjoy showering. I thought about the common assumption that doing something too much made a person tire of the activity, and decided that showering every-other day in ice cold water was, therefore, entirely excessive. After one year, I told myself, It will be my one year gift.

So, after one year in an entirely anticlimactic event, I bought an electric shower. A whopping $9.00. I kicked myself for not doing it earlier. Silly silly early Volunteer, convinced she will find insight in freezing her nipples off in a cold shower. My landlord installed it for me the next day. Of course it didn’t work…I mean, this is Ecuador and that would have just been too easy. Not only did it blow a fuse every time I turned it on, it also sprayed the water about 2 inches away from the shower wall. Now I was really suffering, trying to shave my legs for a formal event to welcome the new US Ambassador to Ecuador, huddling inches away from the shower wall, showering in cold water from the turned-off electric showerhead. A few days later, my fridge stopped working.

Now, the fridge had been on the fritz for a while now. And by “fritz” and “a while now,” I mean that it had been luke cold since about 2 months after I bought it in December. One morning, I woke up and thought to myself, “The fridge died last night.” My epiphany proved true, as I opened the warm box in my kitchen that disgracefully called itself a “refrigerator;” my psychic abilities most surely gained from the last year of cold showers and months of flipping grilled cheese sandwiches with a fork.

It took the dead fridge to finally kick my landlord into gear. I had told him the shower wasn’t working, he had all but ignored my previous complaints that the bathroom light was on the fritz, and seemed amazingly unphased by the fact that pushing on the main electric breakerss for the house caused the lights to flicker. I guess my need to keep food in his fridge moved him to a more helping mood. The electrician came over, fixed the shower (hot water! Hot damn!), the bathroom light and the breaker box. The next day the fridge guys came over and took the fridge. I convinced myself that they were legit because the side of their truck had the LG Electronics logo on it…although copyright laws seem to mean nothing in this country, so they could have just bought that sticker at the mall. Two days later (yesterday), they dropped the fridge off. I plugged it in and it started making that (not-so) familiar hum. Hours later I opened the door and was further amazed at the feeling of cold air rushing out at my face. I decided to go out on a limb and fill the ice cube tray with water and see what happens. This morning I woke up to find 10 beautiful little frozen ice cubes in my freezer. Ice! Who woulda thunk it?!?

So, this brings me back to my first paragraph, back to my thoughts of wanting to love all over my newly revived fridge. Since I have officially admitted that Theresa is going no where (in self-identity terms…what I mean is that me as I am fundamentally cannot be changed by changing the scenery. Put me in the middle of the dessert and I will still labor over what to wear each day, wonder what my fro would look like if I straightened it, wish I could watch What Not to Wear, and chose sitting at home with a good book and a good cd to going out and being social-normal in the middle of the week), and that there is nothing to be learned in denying myself things that I want, have access to and can afford (in my current life, “can afford” is usually the determining factor in not getting something). In that vein, Theresa wants frozen foods…frozen precooked French fries, chicken patties and yucca nuggets. Theresa wants ice cream. Theresa gets what Theresa wants (but only after the first of the month when I get paid, cuz right now Theresa has about $10 to her name).

Woman Worry

If pregnancy were contagious, I would be so knocked up right now.

In my barrio there are five women I know of who are currently with child. Two are mothers whose kids eat in the Comedor. I was shocked when I saw the belly of one lady as she walked into the store the other day. I kid you not I see this woman nearly every single day and I never noticed that she was pregnant. I asked her how far along she was and she said 4 months; and she looks it too. I guess I just never paid close enough attention? Another came into the Comedor the other day after not coming for the past few weeks. I was worried that she just didn’t want her kids to eat there anymore, and I was worried about what the reason for that might be (I worry a lot, if you haven’t noticed). But when I saw her she was all smiles, literally glowing. I asked how she was, asked if she had been sick. No, she said, I am pregnant! I was so happy for her, I mean, granted she has two small children already, but she looked so happy it was hard not to reflect that back at her. And how refreshing to hear pregnancy not referred to as an illness!

Another of the pregnant woman is one of the Mujeres. She hadn’t been into work for a while and I asked where she was. She’s pregnant! I was told, Didn’t you know?? Well, no, obviously not. Apparently I am not all that good at spotting a pregnant woman when I see one. I joked that she should name her child after me, because she told me that her husband really likes the scented lotion that I gave her when I came back from the States…who knows what that led to? One of the Mujeres agreed that the lotion works wonders: she said that whenever she fights with her husband she puts the lotion on before she goes to bed. Then when he comes in to lie down he smells her and will try to cuddle her, try to be affectionate. Then she brushes him off and glows in the power that the lotion has given her. Another girl further agreed, however she believes that one of her cousins stole her lotion because it smelled so good and the cousin was jealous. Another girl used all her lotion up in a matter of weeks, she was putting it on several times daily. She said she tried to make it last, but she just liked how it smelled so much she couldn’t stop! Ha! So word to the wise, before coming to Ecuador, buy several bottles of variously scented Bath and Body Works lotion and distribute it in the country. You will make friends quickly.

Another one of the Mujeres is also pregnant. Well, everyone else thinks she’s pregnant, but she is trying really hard to deny it. She doesn’t keep track of her period, so when I ask her when the last time she had it the answer one day will be a month ago, the next day she claims it has only been 2 weeks. We all think she had a miscarriage a few months ago as well, which makes me even more worried that she is pregnant because I don’t think it is safe to be pregnant again so soon after a miscarriage. But she claims that the doctor said she was not pregnant before and that it was not a miscarriage; she swears it was just a very heavy period. Hmm…I worry about these things.

A 14-year-old girl that I completely adore is also probably pregnant. She used to eat in the Comedor and would sometimes come in early and help with last minute cooking, setting up and serving food. She is totally amazing, I seriously love this kid. She is so kind and so… so… so fragile. She has a sad story—since she was about 9-years-old she has been repeatedly raped by the same man, a member of her family. She came to us for help, but she was too terrified to file a denuncia (a formal legal complaint) against the man, because then all the neighbors would find out and they would probably be kicked out of their house because they live with his family. So when she had not come into lunch, I was very worried that something happened to her. But then I was told that she was getting married, living with her fiancé’s family and, for that reason, would no longer be considered a child for the program. No longer a child? Getting married? And then…Oh also, she’s pregnant. She’s WHAT?!?! Terror. I was terrified. Pregnant with whose child? I was too scared to even ask.

I finally saw her the other day. I walked in and she was standing in the office, looking for the original of her birth certificate that her mom had left with us to make a copy of. She needed the certificate to get married. Married. My whole face lit up when I saw her. I yelled out her name and hugged her full in my arms, told her I heard she was getting married, swallowed my doubt and congratulated her. One of the Mujeres asked if it was her decision or her parents’ for her to marry. I already knew the answer. Her mom was in the Comedor the other day, saying that she’s not sure about the marriage, but its what her daughter wants so she supports it. I had also been told that when the fiancé went to ask for her hand he told the grandfather about the rapes, said that he could not stand for her to live in that house any longer, and that despite all the ugly this young lady has been through, he loves her and wants to be with her, to take care of her. She told me her fiancé is about 20 years old, maybe 21. Oh, worry.

I asked her if she was pregnant. She barely looked up from what she was doing, shook her head and said No. Really? I pressed, Because I heard that you were, I was going to congratulate you. No, she says, I don’t think I am. Oh, I said, Well I was looking for information for you on this law that says you can get all of the medical care for your pregnancy for free through the birth, but since you are not pregnant I guess I will stop looking. Did you know about that law? No…she says, Maybe you can get me that information? I smile. Another one of the Mujeres says, So you are then, hmm? Well, she blushes, Maybe. I ask when her last period was (in case you were wondering, yes, this is a very personal question here in Ecuador, just as it is in the States, probably even more so. But I get away with a lot of things because I am a gringa, and you know, those gringas are so weird! And besides, I don’t think that the ability to make life is anything to be ashamed of, or anything to be talked about behind closed doors only, so I am very open and up front about menstruation questions, and people around me just get used to the fact that this is how Tere is). Its been a month. A month. Oh, worry worry worry. Worry about why she really wants to get married. Worried about if it will work. Worried about if he’s a nice young man. Worried about my never seeing her again. Worried she thinks its an empty EcuaStatement when I tell her to come by and visit us and help us in the Comedor whenever she wants. Worried about her tiny little body with a tiny little life growing inside of it. Worried.

Do as I Say, Not as I Do.

Today the reason why I cannot stand to work with my counterpart agency was personified during a meeting with the youth group.

The only contact I have with my assigned counterpart agency is twice a week with my direct counterpart person. Lets call her Louisa. Louisa had promised them that we would watch a movie having to do with Afro-History, because that is what we discussed the last time we met. During the last meeting, Louisa had prepared a printout about Afro-Ecuadorian history for the group. It was actually really great—we read over the history and talked about how it related to the kids today. Well, really Louisa did most the talking, as it goes during most any charla she gives. She was pretty adamant during the charla, as it goes during most any time she is talking about Afro-Ecuadorian history. She gets really loud when talking about how Afro-people helped construct this country, both literally and figuratively, yet (in her opinion) are consistently denied any special rights to it as the indigenous people are. She tells the kids that they should be proud of who they are, proud of where they come from. That they should see all black people as their family, their brothers and sisters, embracing everything that is black about their neighbors and themselves.

So getting back to today—we watched a Danny Glover movie called Bopah!. It is about apartheid in South Africa, it was a pretty serious movie, had a feel similar to Hotel Rwanda. In the movie the police (which is run by white men, but dirty work is done by black men) are trying to take control of a city that is on the cusp of erupting with a revolution. Every time the revolutionaries would gather, the police would break it up with tear-gas, guns and beating batons. The twist is that Danny Glover is a police officer, but his son is one of the revolutionaries. The leader of the revolutionaries is taken to jail where he is severely beaten for refusing to speak and eventually killed. Although we discussed Afro-Ecuadorian history before, we did not discuss the premise of this particular film. I assumed that Louisa was going to do this, since it was her charla to plan and since I do not possess South African History 101 in my brain and wasn’t able to prepare because I wasn’t told what we were watching until the bus ride over to the meeting. But of course that didn’t happen and we just jumped right into the film. After several demonstrations during the film, several fights between members of the two sides, I asked the group if everyone understood what was going on in the movie. The response was silence, which I took as a “No,” but Louisa said “Yes” so everyone nodded and we continued. After the revolutionary leader was nearly killed while in police custody I asked again if everyone understood what was happening. Finally the youth group president spoke up that she wasn’t sure she understood why the police were beating the man in captivity. We paused the movie, Louisa groaned, insisting that everyone understood, and I asked for someone to explain what had happened up until that point. Silence. So we discussed it, questions were asked, both me and Louisa answered (as best we could, I don’t think she, either, is well versed in South African history), and we got back to watching.

That’s part one of what bugged me: that she insists that since she follows what is going on, that everyone else does. Are we here for ourselves or are we here for the youth group? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

The revolutionary leader was an incredibly dark, dark black man; so dark that his lips were a purplish-brown color. Louisa made a comment about the “ugly” color of his lips and laughed along with the youth group at her own joke. When it was nighttime and the characters faces disappeared in the darkness, she laughed and said they should just close their eyes and mouths, that way the police would never find them. When a character with a large, flat nose was with his girlfriend, she made a joke about how could the girl want him with a nose like that? When Danny Glover’s character’s wife is screaming, pleading with her husband to leave the police force and respect his son’s efforts, she laughed that the woman was so overcome with emotion. When the police are beating people in the streets, sending people fleeing for their lives in all directions, she makes a “plop” sound as the baton hits their flesh. When the blacks are rejoicing, singing a song in a tribal-sounding language, she makes fun of the “do-digga-do” sound of their voices and the way that they dance.

And the youth group laughed right along with her every time. I ask again, are we here for ourselves or to teach the youth something? And what are we teaching them? Our words, or our actions?

The movie ended without a real conclusion, they don’t come out and tell you what happened with the characters involved. The youth group groaned complaints. Louisa asked me again (or just asked the air? I am sure she wasn’t actually talking to me, but I answered anyhow) how they could end the movie without telling you what happened? I said it was probably done on purpose. That this was a struggle that lasted for YEARS in South Africa. That the characters probably died for their cause, that a lot of people died during this time. She rolled her eyes at me, shook her head and said, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Tere,” as though I were the one who did not understand the movie.

Lets Go to the Movies

Would you take your 5 year old to see Mr. Woodcock? Just based on the title of the movie, and the fact that the main characters are Billy Bob Thorton and the guy who got famous as playing Stifler in the American Pie movies, I would guess that the answer is a resounding NO. I would agree, and so would whoever makes ratings for movies, as I would assume that Mr. Woodcock is rated PG-13. I wouldn’t know, because these ratings don’t seem to apply here in Ecuador…it was listed as a movie appropriate for children 12 years old and up, but it seems to me that those listings are made for fun or formality sake, because the people selling the tickets don’t seem to care.

Here in Ecuador one of my favorite things to do is to go to the movies. Alone. I never did that in the States, never had the courage nor the need I guess, either. But I do it quite a bit here, and I especially enjoy it when the theater is nearly empty; in fact if I am the only one there its perfect! This past Sunday I decided to go to a movie after a “date” I had with an EcuaDude ended after he pumped gas in his car and made an emergency appointment with his mechanic because his car was stalling (he buys and sells cars for a living and needed the car to be sale-ready. I like to believe that it really was an emergency, because I looked really cute that day and I don’t like to think he was just ditching me. Why even show up then, right??). I made it to the mall with 10 minutes to spare for show time (not bad seeing as how I didn’t even know when it was starting). I bought my ticket and thought to myself, “Hmm, there must be a lot of people seeing Wall-E today, cuz there sure are a lot of kids out here.” I bought my usual Kiddie Combo popcorn, candy bar and drink and headed in.

The theater is packed, I am forced to sit in the 5^th row, just so I can have a few seats as a buffer between me and the nearest movie-watcher. Strike One. The previews start and more people continue to file into the theater. A group of teenagers sit in my row, leaving only one seat of buffer on my right between me and them. There is no way I can pretend that I am alone in this theater with people sitting so freaking close to me! Strike Two. A family comes in: Mom, Dad, daughter age 7ish, daughter age 5ish. They are looking for seats, I am relieved that the whole front row is open for them to pick from, and besides there are only 3 seats to my left, so that’s not enough space for them. You can imagine my shock when the dad comes up to me and asks if I would mind moving into the empty buffer seat to my right so that his family can fit on the left. My annoyed expression and rolled eyes must have been clearly visible in the dark theater, because he tossed in a “No seas malita” which literally means “don’t be mean” but is used in Ecuador to mean “pretty, pretty please.” Strike Three. I move over.

As if it can get any worse, the children proceed to talk during the entire movie. The movie is in English, subtitles in Spanish, so OF COURSE the 5 and 7 year old are bored. I am sure they had no freaking idea what the hell was going on, besides what they can gather from the pictures. Oh wait, no…Daddy helped them out with that one--as he proceeded to give them a play by play of what was happening. Whenever the 5 year old did catch a word that was said in the movie, like “Bye” and “Thank you,” she would repeat it over and over and over again. “Bye! Bye! Bye! What does ‘bye’ mean, daddy?” He leans in as if he’s going to whisper the answer to her, and answers at full volume that it means “adios.” “Adios! Adios! Bye! Bye! Bye!” she repeats. Well great, glad I could sit through your freaking English lesson.

So, to my left I have a family which clearly doesn’t understand the no-talking-during-the-movie rule, a 7 year old practically spilling her soda on my shoe, and a 5 year old learning that “please” means “porfavor.” Directly behind me is another child, who is running back and forth between her mom and dad, batting my head in the process. My eyes are distracted by the glow of a text-messager’s cell phone 2 rows ahead of me. Somewhere in the back, an infant starts crying. To make matters worse, the movie sorta sucks. But what really got me is that this movie was filled with sexual references. I mean, I guess its not like the 5 year old could read what was going on (or the 7 year old either, who knows?), but still. Women getting their butts grabbed, men making grinding motions, a bed bouncing up and down with “Oh, oh, oh” sounds in the background. And I am sure this isn’t the first age-inappropriate movie they have seen in their lives. And I wonder why EcuaChildren can be so inappropriate sometimes? Cripes, who can blame them?

So here’s the lesson, parents. PG-13 means 13 and up--or 12 and up, if you happen to live in Ecuador. Either way, it does not mean 5 or 7, and P.S. if the movie is not dubbed into Spanish so that kids don’t have to read along to get it, its probably not appropriate for your kids to watch. And by the way, leave the gringa alone. Don’t sit next to me!

Lost

I am at a bit of a loss here.

I like to write on this blog about interesting happenings in my work. However, since I got back from vacation in the States I have felt like I am on a downward, slippery, quickly sliding slope. I just feel...I dont know. I guess thats the loss. I dont really know what I feel but I know that its not really a feeling of happiness about wanting to be here. I dont want to be there, either. Anyone who saw me when I was at home could see in my eyes and hear in my voice that I wanted to go back home--to Ecuador. So now I am back, so now what? Work has become just that: work. Work, by my personal definition, is something that you get up for in the morning, but avoid doing for as long as is humanly possible. Terribly negative outlook, isnt it? Work is generally enjoyed once you are there, but you look for other things to do to keep youself busy outside of work, too. Thats sort of what my life here has become: work.

Maybe I just like to complain, maybe its because I am a "city volunteer", maybe its because I dont have a tv, maybe its because I'm broke, maybe its because I am perpetually single in a country where young couples take PDA to a whole new level, maybe its just me--but I feel like my life is too much about work and not enough about learning, enjoying, being. So what do I want to learn, enjoy...(gasp!), be? Good question. Theres that loss again. I am working on figuring that out (by working on it I mean being at a total loss and spending WAY more time than is healthy for a human sitting on my futon and reading books, with occasional trips to the internet cafe to research "future plans"). So what should I do? I am open for suggestions. Speaking of suggestions, sometimes (and by sometimes I mean all the time) writing on this blog makes me sad when people dont post comments. I mean, I mean not to fish for compliments, but I want thoughts, perspectives, opinions. Thats why I keep this thing for cripes sake, I can keep a journal on my own without posting it on the internet. Por gusto me voy a continuar escribiendo aqui si nadie lo esta leyendo? So anyhow, let me know your thoughts on that (silence is a thought as well).

In the meantime what do I have to tell you? In an attmept to do whatever it took to get the hell out of my site, I recently went on a little trip. I went up to Súa, where I spent last Christmas, and went whale watching. It was amazing. We saw a family of whales and I took great pictures (which I would share with you except that this computer doesnt want to read my pendrive right now). I then went to another beach (Mompiche) and hung out on a hidden black sand beach area. Wonderful again. Then I went to a town called Mindo (I have been there before, during training) and went zip-lining through the canopy trees in the cloud forest. More amazing and wonderul things that I get to do in my lucky life here (and I dont mean that in a sarcastic way). During the trip I chatted with some other volunteers (because thats mostly who I was with) and I pulled outta my slump, if even just for a minute. One of the volunteers I was with had a really great time talking about how he hates Ecuador and hates his job and hates Ecuadorians and hate hate hate. I do not hate Ecuador. I love Ecuador; I am just bored (I was bored in the States, too, hell, how do you think I ended up here??). The best thing about leaving site is coming back. I missed my house and I missed my solitude and I missed the Mujeres. But then I get back and there is no food in my house, and I am bored being alone at home, and the Mujeres missed me, too, but did just fine without me (and cripes let me talk before you jump in correcting me about what it is I did on my trip!).

Anyway, I am getting no where with this post. I will try to be more positive next time, if I decide I have something worth writing when next time comes around.

Peace,
Theresa

Kicking My Own Ass

(Before I get to the post, I warn you now that I recently brought my laptop back with me from the States, which means that I can write at home and more easily make blog posts. Basically what that means is that I will probably be posting more blogs, but maybe more than one at a time (for instance, today I am making 4 posts: 3 stories, one intro-explaination). I will also be back-setting the dates on those posts accordingly...okay, hope that all makes sense... and hope you dont get overwhelmed with The Theresa Show--cue theme song...what is my theme song??)

So today I got the bright idea to maybe teach yoga-pilates in the barrio.

This sprung from my deep, sinking feeling of complete and utter uselessness in the barrio today. I am sure the Mujeres would be upset to hear me say it, but I am feeling more and more (or as many mores as one can have after one week) since my vacation that they really don’t need me anymore. Did they need me to begin with? Well, not like they asked for me, but also not like I ever felt a “want” for things to do, or a need to (heaven forbid) “busy” myself. I felt like I was motivating them to get this Comedor back on its feet. I was trying to remind them of why they became a group in the first place, and bringing them back to the place where they worked together as a team, not as several separate entities. I was bringing in the outside so that they could bask in the sunshine that they created for themselves on the inside. I was a good volunteer.

Then I went on vacation, and things continued as normal without me. Or at least they continued as a post-Tere normal. I came back and found that my role had been divided up between various members, and that things were going as they should be (not quite as detail-oriented as they were with me, but going nonetheless. And with WAY fewer math mistakes, but hey, it was their choice to put me in charge of a math-oriented job!). Isn't this the goal? Isn't this that thing they call “sustainability?” For my community to pick up where I left off: be happy to see me, happy to have me around, but not really NEED for me to be there. I guess that’s the goal, trouble is the goal sucks for me. I hate to be constantly tuned into The Theresa Show, but here’s the thing: I like feeling wanted, but I like feeling needed more. I like feeling that my help is actually making a difference. Yeah, yeah, my help MADE a difference: I mean, look at where we are now. Not like I can begin to take credit for all the changes that have gone on in the last year with the Mujeres, but I equally am not gonna act like it had nothing to do with me. I did a lot of legwork, a lot of talking, a lot of brochure making, a lot of organizing, a lot of smiling nice and embarrassing myself in front of TV cameras, a lot of supporting and backing and encouraging…and finally, the Comedor is on its feet again.

So now what do I do?

I mean, I can still to the listado for lunch; that it is still helpful for me to keep track of who is eating lunch each day and making various payments. But that’s about the only role that I have going on right now…I mean, I guess by the time I left for vacation that’s how it was, too, but I had PLANS. Art class was done since the kids started school again and were sleeping in on Saturdays. I planned to fill my Saturdays then with classes for the mothers of the Comedor program. I figured I would alternate traditional (read “mostly-because-PC-makes-me”) charlas on nutrition, children's rights, care for kids, etc. with more practical (in my humble opinion) workshops on making flowers out of paper, making toys for your kids out of toilet paper rolls, making a campo oven, and knitting (that is once I learn how to knit…). But then I get back and learn that some classes for the community are going to be starting. I don’t know by who…some governmental something or the other I think. Anyhow it’s a wonderful, wonderful thing, but they are offering classes on EVERYTHING from cake baking to auto mechanics to crafts to computers. So again, I am at a loss. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just up and find a new community to work in because mine doesn’t need me anymore? Like hell I will! I freaking love this community fiercely, I don’t want to work anywhere else, I just need to know what to do!

So that’s how I came (back to) yoga-pilates. You see, the only reason I brought my yoga mat was because I had this pipe dream when I left that I would teach yoga-pilates to women or teens in my community once I had a “community” to speak of. That never ended up happening, mostly because I am too afraid. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can be fearless at times, but when it comes to putting myself out there like that, I am a big fat quivering coward. Which brings me back to why I referred sarcastically (in case you didn’t catch the sarcasm) to this being a “bright” idea. I did my yoga-pilates routine today and that’s exactly how I felt. Big, fat and quivering. You see, I haven’t used my yoga mat for a damn thing besides decoration in my home since…oh…January? Ok, lets be honest, probably more like December, and I'm talking early December. Now, everyone who saw me on my recent vacation knows that I “left half of me in Ecuador.” And I mean that not in some deep, touchy feely, philosophical way, I mean that like I lost a lotta weight (have I mentioned that? I lost weight! I’m sorta really freaking happy about it, so be not fooled that this will be the last mention of it…). However, loosing weight had nothing to do with purposeful exercise, rather it had more to do with walking too much, probably not eating enough, and sweating more than I ever thought I could possibly sweat…while sitting still…

So, in order for my Operation: Feel Useful Again in the Barrio to work out, I am going to need to do some working out. No one wants a yoga teacher who can barely hold the pose herself, now that’s not inspiring! In the meantime, I am going to continue to avoid “finding work to do” in the newly opened daycare, because work that involves several screaming children that do not stand past the height of my knees is NOT the kind of work I am looking for…just being honest.

Wish me luck!
Tere

Culture Shock??

The next two posts are excerpts from the journal entry that I wrote while getting on the plane, and while on the plane to the States on my recent "vacation."

In the posts I am trying (not sure that I accomplished it) to figure out what "culture shock" means for me....is it acknowledging the difference between two places? Does it mean that you have to pick a favorite? Why does everyone seem to want me to pick a favorite??

Anyhow, I hope no one takes offense to my back and forth thoughts about Americans, America, Ecuadorians, and Ecuador. None of it is meant to offend, so just enjoy.

Peace,
Theresa

Leaving on a Jet Plane: Pt 1- A Love Story

My alarm woke me up at 5am, I think I only half realized why I had set it. Quickly I jumped to attention and realized: I leave today. I fumbled to turn it off and called the cab company. They must have had my number registered since the last time I used them, because they already had all my information ready (which was good, since I had only .31 cents of saldo left on my phone). He asked me something really fast…If I’m at the puerta principal (main door of the house)? I was like, What, what, what? And he says something else—I’m groggy and confused. He says something about confirmation and hangs up. You would think that after a year in this country, I would have learned how to carry a conversation on the phone. You would think that, but you would be wrong in most cases.

I jump out of bed and use the bathroom, then get a text that the taxi will be at my house in 9 minutes! Ahhhh! Kelly Clarkson! I will NOT be ready in 9 minutes, what kind of Ecuadorian service is so quick, anyhow?!?! I text back and tell them I need at least 30 minutes. No response. I hear beeping outside; I decide to ignore it and continue racing around the house trying to stay calm but quick. I get a text (in all capital letters which I hate because it makes me feel like the person is yelling at me) that the taxi is waiting for me outside. I race around the house to find my glasses, but am so frantic and totally blind that my search is unsuccessful. I go outside, there’s a car near the scary guard guy the next block over. I ask my guard (who is slightly less scary) if a taxi came. “No…,” he says; he’s barely listening to me. I ask if maybe it’s that car parked over there. He doesn’t know. He asks if I leave him today? “Yes,” I say, “and I called a taxi and I think they are here already, but I am not ready!” He takes my hand and is gazing me in that creepy way he does sometimes and is muttering something about how he’s going to miss me and gets jealous of my being away with other people. I ask AGAIN about the taxi, finally he starts listening to me. I pull my hand from his, go into the street and wave the taxi over. I explain to the driver that I need another 15 minutes, he looks irritated and asks where we’re going. To the airport. Okay, now he’s willing to wait because that’s a good distance and he wants the fare.

Racing again--thank goodness I had the presence of mind last night to have all my stuff ready to go. I check, double check and recheck that I have my passport and E-Ticket in my purse, zip up the suitcase, take a few breaths, turn off all the lights. Shit! There’s milk in the fridge! I grab it and dump it in the drain outside, making a mental note to text the landlord to ask his maid to wash it down the drain for me so I don’t have nasty curtly milkness growing out of the drain when I get back. How do you say drain in Spanish…? I wonder to myself as I head out the door. I lock the doors, did I double check that the front door was locked? I had to slam it, right?…so that means its locked, I hope…

I get out to the taxi and dude is fast asleep! Dammit! If I knew he didn’t mind waiting, I wouldn’t have rushed and woulda washed the milk down the drain myself!

I get in the cab, he barely speaks the whole ride. He changes the radio from the good reaggaeton station to Radio Disney. Weird for an adult to listen to Radio Disney, I think. My mind is racing, I don’t even realize that I should be, like, taking in the view or something, right? Yesterday I saw a guy in a suit peeing on the side of the road. I’m gonna “miss” that sort of stuff these next three weeks. I know that my passport, E-Ticket and Ids are in my purse, the rest is arbitrary. I look around as we pass through my city. Normally I kinda hate chatty taxistas, but I feel like chatting! I’m nervous! Doesn’t he want to know why I’m going to the airport?? Where I’m going, and for what? I guess not… We get there, the total is $4.83. Yikes, that’s an expensive taxi! I give him a $20 bill; “Waaauw” he says, “Hopefully I have change to break that!” I watch him pop open his money area up front and there a shit ton of change in there! Why do they always do that?? Like the dude who stopped at 2 gas stations AND asked another taxista for change during a 10 minute taxi ride, only for me to later see that dude has about $50 in singles in his back pocket! Honestly!

I go into the airport, there a short line formed with lots of gringos. I ask which desk is American Airlines? The short line. I get in line, and a guy with a young lady come up behind me. They open the elastic-expandy-gate thing to let themselves through rather than just going through the line the gates form. Must be Ecuadorians, I figure, take the ‘shortcut’ instead of doing what’s most obvious and logical. Its about 6am now, maybe 6:15. The guy asks the dude setting up the gates what time the desk opens. “…Seven…or I mean six,” dude says. Crap!

The couple gets in line behind me, he asks in timid English if I have been waiting long. The girl looks off with an annoyed expression on her face. DEFINITELY Ecuadorian, ‘cuz she’s tossing me attitude just because her man asks me a simple question. “No,” I respond, “I have not been waiting long.” He starts chatting with me, we are talking in English and Spanish because I never know if when Ecuadorians talk to me in English if I should answer in Spanish or English. I know they do it because they want to practice their English, but usually its easier to follow the conversation if we just talk in Spanish. He lives in Miami, but is Ecuadorian. He asks where I am from more than once. I ask if his girlfriend speaks English as well? “No,” he says, “she speaks French.” She laughs. He tells her about how I am a volunteer here in Ecuador. I offer her my hand and introduce myself. She mutters to him how she’s always wanted to work with street kids. I nod and raise my eyebrows to show interest. He tells her to talk with me, so I ask her about what she was saying. We exchange EcuaFormalties about how I speak Spanish, and speak it well, “and you’re not timid about it like other gringos!” I explain that I live here, so its speak Spanish or don’t speak. We talk about my work, more than once he says, “I want to tell you something. You have my respect.” She’s 23 years old, he doesn’t offer his age but looks about 40. I tell them love knows no age and smile. They met 12 years ago but just recently started dating because she was really young back then. She doesn’t want him to leave. I smell the whiskey on his breath—before or after he told me that he was drinking last night?? He hasn’t slept. At the party last night he decided he didn’t want to leave. “Great!” she says, “Let’s go!” and grabs his bags making like she’s leaving. Haha, they’re cute. I get these romantic thoughts about how they are the Ecuadorian Greg and Tara Mortenson. Except he works in “imports and exports”…which, when in Ecuador and said without more elaboration, I generally assume to mean drugs.

There is staff milling around behind the desk, but not doing much of anything, and the line is not moving. He says he’s surprised the line is so long, he thought he would be the first one here. I say its ‘cuz its an American Airlines flight with tons of gringos. We joke about la hora ecuatoriana (Ecuadorian concept of time). He says he was gonna get here at 8:40 (the flight is at 9:10!), but she insisted that they come earlier. She says he should know better because he lives in the States. I say la hora ecuatoriana is always with an Ecuadorian, its permanently in their mind. We laugh and he says he will always be an Ecuadorian. We joke about EcuaSayings like ya mismito, bien prontitio, un ratito (all of which mean “in a minute” but really in an hour, a month, a year…maybe never…). He asks the gate guy again when they open. “Ehhhheeeemmmm…?” responds the guy. He’s not wearing a watch, I am sure he doesn’t want to accidentally offer a time that has already passed. “Ya mismito…” he finally responds. The girl and I exchange smiled glances. He asks for a time, a specific time. Ecuadorians crack me up! Everything here takes SO LONG, but the people can be so freaking impatient! The line starts moving, he immediately cuts the line and goes to an open desk and starts asking about changing his ticket. She says she thinks he might stay, she wants him to stay, but she knows that he can’t. He owns his own business, and when he’s not there the workers don’t do their jobs. She says he’s coming back in 15 days. I tell her that’s not all THAT long to wait. She smiles but looks sad. She has to go to the bathroom and asks if I will move their bags if the line moves. I say sure, while thinking about American airports automated warning messages about not touching bags that aren’t yours. Especially bags of a guy who works in “imports and exports,” I think. Man I can be paranoid sometimes! He comes back and says they can’t guarantee him a spot on a plane tomorrow (now that I am no a near-empty, freaking huge plane to Miami, I cannot see why not!). He says he loves her, wants to stay, but knows he can’t because he has to work. I tell him she told me the say thing. He says she’s a great girl, but what can he do? I tell him to do whatever he’s thinking, that’s the right thing to do. He clutches his left chest and says that’s easier said than done. He says I’m using my psychology on him (I told them that I’m a social worker, somehow that always means that I am also a psychologist…). As she comes back to the line, I get called up to the desk.

The ticket desk dude is taking forever! I hear the couple asking a few desks over about flights for tomorrow again. What’s the holdup with my freaking tickets? I’m getting nervous! “Is there a problem?” I ask. He cannot find my flights. He asks where I am going, he says my flights were either cancelled of the numbers changed. He ends up rebooking all of my flights, which I have no problem with because his new flights have me home hours before my initial flights did.

“He staying!!!” I hear the girl call out. “Congratulations!” I respond. She rushes over to me, thanks me, asks what I said to him. I say I told him to follow his heart. She smiles, “Gracias.”

Leaving on a Jet Plane: Pt 2- Culture Shock?

I go through check in, its so much faster than it ever is in the States! I call my mom with the new plane information. I put on a (3rd in 3 days !! That’s what happens when stupid boys at the club don’t tell me that they use a different cell company than I do!) $3 saldo card on my phone so I can text all the people who asked me to let them know when I am getting on the plane. I go to the coffee shop near the gate. $3.95 for a white chocolate mocha, $3.00 for a humita de queso?!? Ouch! Is that pain in my side what they call culture shock? ‘Cuz it hurts me to pay so much for a freaking coffee and humita! Is this how much things cost there? It’s only been a year and I already cannot remember. I buy it anyhow: hey, I’m hungry AND I’m on vacation, right? And besides, the servers are polite, listen to what I am ordering without interrupting, don’t try to extra-grande-size my drink, and bring the food to me even though I’m sitting just a few feet from the register. I go to the bookstore, they don’t ask me to check my bag when I walk in. Weird. There’s a photo book there called “Un Dia Como Hoy en el Ecuador” (A Day Like Today in Ecuador). I want that book! But I am too afraid to even ask how much it costs. I go to the bathroom-do we still throw the paper out, or do we flush here? I’m struggling (not with bowel movements, don’t worry), should I act like I am in Ecuador, or should I act like I am in the States since we seem to have switched to American pricing standards and social rituals? Or am I just confused because its airport prices and standards? There’s a basket by the wall, I toss the TP in there.

There are gringos everywhere! They’re those (no offense) annoying, crunchy granola eating, wearing shoes that are meant to look rugged but cost a fortune (like those shameful, waste-of-freaking-money Chacos of mine!), Panama Hat, wrinkle free pants, Galapagos Islands and Mitad del Mundo t-shirt kind of gringos. They’re laughing, Ahahahaha!. Talking, Oh! It was so nice to meet you! Oh we will see you again! Oh you must come and visit us in New York!

I cannot stand the sound of their voices. I think I got just got shocked again.

The airline is boarding my flight now. I send the mandatory Emergency Contact text messages, text a couple PCV friends, the landlord (and remind him to have his maid wash down that milk outside!). I text an Ecuadorian friend, I text the Mujeres. I turn off my cell phone (sad face). The safety warnings are starting, the plane starts moving, I can see a bus leaving the terminal across the way (my usual mode of transportation) and I frown. In seconds we are in the air. I forgot gum; I never remember those kinds of things for flights. We are passing the city, I peer out the window: Where’s the Malecon? Where’s my house? I always hear planes passing over my roof. We pass cloud cover. Its just clouds and the plane wing thing in my view now. God, I hope this plane doesn’t burst into flames, I think. I imagine those little death gremlins running out on the wing like on that show ‘Dead Like Me.’ The clouds break, I can see the city again. God, I love Ecuador, I think. There are tears in my eyes, but its just becauseI forced a yawn to keep my ears from popping.

Its cold on this plane! Like there’s an air conditioner or something. We are in the air now, they turn off the seatbelt light. They are coming with the food. I will be in Miami in 3 and a half hours. It feels too easy. Life is always anti-climatic when I am expecting drama. There’s no one sitting next to me. Good, I don’t really feel like chatting more right now. I am wearing my “Peace on Earth” shirt. God, how cliché: a Peace Corps Volunteer wearing a “Peace on Earth” shirt. I don’t want to sit next to any gringos who will ask me about what I am doing in Ecuador, then look at my shirt and smile and laugh to themselves. The flight attendant just gave me a turkey sandwich and a ginger ale. Turkey?? In a sandwich?? And I didn’t even have to pay extra? Now that’s a shock I like getting jolted with! I pick up the “American Way” airline magazine. The cover story is about some Will Ferrell basketball movie. I have never heard of it. I look at the date: June 1, 2008! That was like, 10 days ago! I haven’t read a magazine this current in months! I read an article about Nanny 911 and the likelihood of other TV nannies like Fran Drescher and Charles in Charge. I think I will switch to my month-old, Peace Corps-issued Newsweek about the worldwide hunger crisis. It may be old, but hey, it’s still relevant. (Yeah, that’s right, I said it! I LIKE Newsweek! Take that all you whiney PCVs who made the subscription get cancelled!)

In Miami the arrival gate is THE farthest possible gate from my next departure gate. I decide not to hurry, I am gonna miss the plane and will just deal with it when I get there. The customs line is ridiculous. There is some lady rushing her way through, getting a guard to let her skip. I do NOT want to be that lady. Maybe wherever she’s going is temporary, urgent; but I am going home, and home doesn’t move and will wait ‘til I get there. The customs guy looks at my passport, looks at me, smiles at my shirt and says, “Yeah, that’ll never happen.” Ass, I don’t even validate his comment with a response. Pessimist. I missed my plane, I swear I got to the gate on time, but whatever. The lady who was rushing through customs was supposed to be on my flight, too. She’s ranting and raving about missing the plane, wanting to call the manager (the manager of American Airlines? Come on lady!) and yelling at the desk staff that its THEIR fault she missed the plane. The check-in staff told her she would make it if she ran, and she RAN! When she leaves one of the gate-staff says in a timid-English not as his first language-tone that they are not there to abused and he does not understand why people act that way. He asks if I was on the flight from Guayaquil. “Si,” I respond-realizing that I am speaking in Spanish and should probably switch to English. He asks if my plane was late. “No,” I say, “but the gates were super far apart, and I just didn’t make it in time, no big deal as long as I can get on another flight.” He tells me that the lady wasn’t even transferring flights, she checked in here in Miami, late on her own accord, and is now pissed at the staff for her own mistake. As if gate-staff has any control over what check-in staff says, as if it’s anyone’s fault but her own that she missed her flight! Immediately I think, God, I hate America. Then I remind myself that someone of any nationality could have been just as much as a jerk as that lady, right?

I get a new flight to Chicago. Almost home, except, oops: Planes are not leaving Indiana because of rain, so the plane my flight is supposed to load onto is stuck in Bloomington. Whatever, I think as I make my way over to the magazine stand, buy an Elle magazine and a bag of Lays chips (chips that don’t taste like peanut butter! Yum!). I take a seat and get to waiting. The gate gets changed, SIGHS from everyone waiting. What’s the matter? Isn’t them changing the gate a good thing? Doesn’t that mean that they are trying to arrange a new plane for us? Whatever. At the new gate I take some time off from the Elle magazine to do some people watching. There are countless men in business attire and argyle socks. Most people are intently starting at their Blackberry thingys, poking at ‘em with that little plastic pencil thingy. Others are rearranging meetings with someone on their cell phones. My cell phone does not work now that I am not in Ecuador, so I cannot even text my friends. Not like I have anything important to say, but still, texting is fun: just look at everyone else doing it! I get all panicky realizing that my ex could be getting on this very plane, back from some very important business trip. I bet he has one of those Blackberry things with the plastic pencil thingy. I mentally promise myself that I will never own a Blackberry (it’s not the first time—I used to make that same promise in court rooms when snotty lawyers busted theirs out to rearrange hearings, as I frantically scribbled things out in my dayplanner). There is a young couple in post-vacation clothing, the girl is sighing loudly about once every 5 seconds, as though that’s going to change anything. No one is striking up random conversations with strangers next to them about how they work in imports and exports and don’t want to leave their girlfriend who is several years their junior. I’m sad. I miss Ecuador already. I miss social rules where you share your life story with strangers. Its so annoying to me sometimes when I am there, but right now I just want to tell some random person all about the Mujeres de Lucha and my youth group. No one asks, no one cares.

The plane finally leaves, about 3 hours behind schedule for a 30 minute flight. Asi es la vida. My luggage is late, its on the next plane coming in (hopefully) and will be here (hopefully) in an hour. I call my mom, and get to waiting. I overhear some lady and her grandson complaining to the baggage claim lady about how their baggage is late, too. Like she has any control over it! She walks past me and rolls her eyes in their direction. I take a seat and start chatting (finally!…wait, didn’t I NOT want to be chatting?) with an older couple sitting next to me about what they are doing in Milwaukee, what I am doing there, where we started our journeys today. Their daughter comes to pick them up. She tells me she has “always wanted to do something like the Peace Corps.” My mom comes, she does this funny-excited-speed walky thing when she sees me. We hug. Finally, I am happy to be home.

We go to the grocery store to get tortilla chips for Mexican dinner (my favorite!). “What kind of tortilla chips do you want?” my mom asks. What?!? There’s at LEAST 25-30 different kinds. I’m struggling again. I’m overwhelmed. This is going to be a long 3 weeks.

People, Projects and Things

I have been in Ecuador for almost one year. My one year mark will actually be spent in the United States, because I am going there shortly for a "vacation." That being said, I feel like how most Peace Corps Volunteers probably feel at this first-one year anniversary (first because we have 2 anniversaries, 1 year in country and then 1 year at site). I feel analytical. I travelled up north recently for my one year medical exam. While there I learned that I have lost at least 30 pounds since I arrived in country, and have managed to avoid any serious ailments (including cavaties, parasites and STDs...not like I'm promiscuous or anything, but I am human, and 50% of people living with HIV in Ecuador live in my city, so you know).

I was, however, sick with food-something-yuckyness the day I left for my medical exam(Friday). I ate some bad crab meat, went to work in the barrio the next day, and left about an hour later (after 2 trips to the baño...). The Mujeres sent me home with Alka-Seltzer and lemons to make me feel better. I took the Alka-Seltzer only because they were so worried about me, otherwise I'm anti-meds on those kinds of things and would rather just wait it out. Anyhow, the Mujeres called me that afternoon to check up on me, and again the next morning to make sure I was feeling 100% better. The next Wednesday when I returned, they told me that they were super worried about me because they have never seen me sick before. Not like I have never had a case of the food-something-yuckyness before, but I usually stay home for the day and am back the next day so they know I am okay. On that Wednesday I also reminded them that I would be leaving for the States in about a week. They were bummed, but excited for me to get to see my family and friends. Their number one concern was when my plane back to Ecuador was getting in so that they could meet me at the airport, "With balloons! And a big sign that says 'Welcome Tere!'"

Anyhow, that side tangent will make sense in a minute, just bear with me...

While on my trip I met a volunteer who is completing his 2 years of service, but has decided to extend service to a new site for the next year. He proclaimed shortly upon meeting me and a bunch of my other PCV friends that he as "the best site in Ecuador." Well, congratulations to you, buddy, but my site is pretty cool, too. He works on a community garden project at his site, and appearantly it is a very big garden and very well recieved by the community. He informed us that said garden project won a national award, and that he plans on winning an international award also about this fantastical garden project he has going. His major concern is that he is leaving, but he has requested a volunteer to take his place. He is, however, beyond concerned that this new volunteer will not live up to his expectations. He wants a volunteer who will keep the garden going (he, of course, will train this volunteer on how to do just that); a volunteer who always takes initiative to start new things; who sees a room full of dusty books as not just that, but rather as a youth reading group just waiting to happen. How will he ensure that the new volunteer is living up to his expectations? Well, besides his plan to hand-pick this volunteer from the new training group and to train this new volunteer himself, he also plans to make near-weekly phone calls to his community to check up on the new volunteer. He followed all this up by saying, "Not like I want to scare off the new volunteer, but I just want to make sure they are doing a good job." I said, "Thank God I already have a site, because I would kill myself if I got assigned to your site." "Well, you are not the kind of volunteer I am looking for, then."

Thats right, I most certainly am not.

This volunteer had lots of ideas about what makes a good volunteer. Number one on his list appeared to be a willingness to purchase things for people in the community. He has fully funded 2 families with gas stoves during his service, and paid to do so out of his PC allowance. He also believes that a good volunteer would never have money left at the end of the month and would never spend their money on frivolous, personal things, but would rather donate all extra money to random people on the street who ask for handouts. Finally, he shared with us his theory of what is messed up about Peace Corps: the priorities. He was outraged that a high-up administration person in PC Ecuador had recently admitted that, ultimately, PC service is about making the US look good, not about the success of projects that the volunteer does. I tried to remind this volunteer that all three of the major PC goals are, essentially, about image: showing other countries what well meaning Americans can do to help them; other countries learning about Americans; Americans learning about other countries. No where does it say that the point it to make a community garden (or help with a lunch program). Well, he informed me, thats just wrong.

Is it? For me its not. I'll be honest with you: if the lunch program failed I would be devestated. I worry endlessly about how much money we are and are not making in that program, and wait in fear for the day that the Padrinos drop out again. I constantly wonder what I can do to help the program more (outside of tossing money at it, because I personally dont believe in tossing money at people as form of helping them). I am a bit bummed right now because school is back in session, therefore my art class with kids has pretty much fizzled out. I get bummed when I plan a charla and it doesnt work out. Thats because I take pride in the work that I do. However, I know that at the end of the day, at the end of my 2 years, all those things are just a song and dance that I am doing while I am doing the "real work." A big part of the reason why I wanted to come to Ecuador (outside of the inner reasons about "finding myself"), was because I really dont like the way that America and Americans are seen by the global society. Its an image we have brought upon ourselves, obviously, but its reality. People think Americans are greedy, selfish, violent, uncaring, rich and war-driven. And some Americans are, but this one is not (well, I can be quite greedy and selfish, but not in the way that I am getting at here...). I wanted to show people that there are Americans that go to other countries not to spy on them, not to sell them things, not to bomb them, not to hurt them in any way. Just to hang out, get to know them and help them out with whatever they are doing. Thats why I am here, I am just helping out...if it doesnt work out, that really sucks, but the people I work with will still remember that there was this American chick here once, and she helped us just for the sake of helping.

So, getting back to the side story about me getting sick....thats what I want at the end of my service (and I am not taking about food-something-yuckyness, cuz I have had enough of that!). I would love for another PCV to take over my site when I leave, I think that would be really beneficial to the Mujeres and the community. I dont, however, really care if that PCV is down with giving art classes, charlas on self esteem, and helping to manage the lunch program. In fact, I think it would be cool if the PCV was into repairing TVs, gardening, and environmental education. Or whatever! I love my community, and I want them to see that there are good Americans out there...some of them like to teach art to kids and really care about food insecurity, but some of them are totally unlike this American Tere they know. What I want at the end of my service is to have a group of people in Ecuador that care when I eat bad crab and am not feeling good. I want people that want to pick me up at the airport when I get into the country. I want people who will say, "This one time, this American came out of the blue and she really helped us." Thats what I want, project success or not, thats what Peace Corps is about to me.

(In the other volunteer's defense, I should note that he was drunk at the time. Hopefully hes a cooler person when sober...)

(I will also take this time to remind you to read this page's disclaimer about these thoughts being my own personally, and in no way reflecting the view of the Peace Corps...yaddayaddayadda)

See you soon...
Tere

Prison (Big) Break

I wanted that title to be like Wheel-a-Fortune Before and After catagory. As in Prison Break, Big Break...but it didnt work out. oops.

I used to have a section on the blog here called "We're Making Headlines" in which I posted links to newspaper articles about the organizations that I work with. But then I realized that the articles were in Spanish, and as I dont have many friends and family that read Spanish I took that part down. Also, after this one visit where a former Ambassador and the Vice-Mayor of Guayaquil came out, we (as in the Mujeres de Lucha) have gotten A LOT of press coverage, and I just could not keep up with all the stories! A few days after that visit (which was way back in Feburary, my blog post about the New-Chick refers to it) we made the front page of the city section in the major Guayaquil newspaper. After that story ran, we got a couple of phone calls, mostly from organizations wanting to help us out with one thing or another. One organization wanted to give us discounted coffins...um, okay? Another sold us resturant materials at a discounted price so that we could expand the lunch program to include a resturant so that we could increase revenue. Another gave nearly-free eye exams and free eye glasses to anyone in the community over the age of 30. We did not, however, get what we needed the most, which is Padrinos for the lunch program.

Padrino literally means God-Parent, and it is a role taken very seriously in Ecuador. In fact, a mother refers to her child's God-Mother as comadre, which means co-mother. However, a Padrino for the lunch program is only responsible for paying $1.50 each week so that their ahijado (God-Child) can eat lunch for that week. I have an ahijada myself...her name is Melissa. She's all over my photo page...She eats all her soup every day like a good little girl. I love her.

Anyhow, last week Thursday I did not go into the barrio because I was at home being lazy. When I went in the next day they told me that this small, although very popular newspaper had come out. My immediate response was, "Why? Nobody died here," because this newspaper is notorious for having nasty bloody corpse pictures all over the front cover. That and pictures of half naked ladies....The Mujeres were like, "Tere! Dont talk like that! They came to help us, they are going to write a story about the lunch program." So last Monday the story ran. By the time I got to the barrio on Monday at 10AM, we already had 3 appointments to be to that day with people that were interested in apadrinaring a child (which is Spanglish for "being a Padrino"). The rest of the week continued in that fashion, everyday we got more and more phone calls, by Friday we had a list of 32 new kids to start eating lunch next Monday with payment from a Padrino. It was totally amazing. I was totally blown away by the generostiy of the people in Guayaquil.

One of the strangest (in my opinion) calls we got was from the prison. Yep, an inmate called and wanted to help us. What the what?!?! was basicaly my response to that one. How on EARTH can we take a prisoner as a Padrino....I mean, think about where the money comes from. The Mujeres agreed, but they still thought we should go out and meet with him: even if we wouldnt be able to collaborate with him as a Padrino, maybe he just likes to get visitors and we could talk to him and give him advice and stuff. Again, I was blown away. As many problems as these women have in their own day to day lives (including not making any monthly income despite working more than 8 hours a day with the organization, and offering to have their kids be the last ones on the list for Padrinos, which means that they keep paying each week...), they want to take the time to talk to a prisoner, in hopes that they can give him some advice. Ecuadorians continue to surprize me.

One of the Mujeres has a family member in prison, lets call him Juan. He has been in for two years for robbery (from what I could gather), and is still awaiting sentancing. We decided that I would go with her, we would visit her brother, and we would ask him if he had heard of this guy who called us. So this morning I got outta bed, got dressed, and headed over to my friend's house to go to an Ecuadorian prison. The prison here in Guayaquil, I believe, is the 2nd largest in Ecuador, and it houses men and women (although they are separtated). There is also no distinct location for a jail vs. prison. If you are only in for a week, you get put in one part of the prison; if you are in long term, you get put in the other part. My friend told me to bring my ID and to leave my cell phone at home. At her house, her family packed up a big bag of food, coffee and a small sum of money to give to Juan. We caught one bus for about 10 blocks, and then another bus for about 45 minutes to get out to the prison. As we got on the second bus, she saw a friend of her's who was also carrying a big bag, also on her way out to the prison to visit a loved one. I asked why we were bringing all that stuff with us, and my friend told me that its because the food in the prison is not very good, you dont get very much, and the prisoners have to pay for it themselves (and its expensive). So someone from her family goes every weekend to visit Juan and bring him food. I asked what inmates do when they dont have family to bring them food or money, she shrugged and said she didnt know.

The bus was packed full by the time we got there, and when we got off my friend was like, "Walk fast, 'cuz theres gonna be a line!" So we rushed into a line that wound around the outside gate. The line we were in was for women only, there is a separtate line for men, and another still for elderly and women with children. As with any line in Ecaudor, it is only for formality sake, because as soon as you get to the front, people start pushing and jetting in front of each other. As if that ever made anything go any faster, sheez! Outside the prison there are a ton of vendors set up serving small snacks, full meals, gum, soda and candy. There are also people that will store you cell phone, sunglasses and hats for you (since none of those items are allowed inside). A nicely dressed woman came up to one of the storage vendors and asked where the female was that usually worked there, the man said thats his wife and she was at home for the day. I thought it was odd that this woman would be so familiar with a random vendor, but I assumed maybe she, too, visited someone every week. But she didnt have any large bags of food with her...my friend told me that usually when you see a nicely dressed woman like that at the prison, its because she comes to "offer her services" to the inmates. What??...like, where? Where do they, you know, have relations? And does she, like, take appointments?? My friend shrugged, the men know shes coming, she probably has regular clients.

As we made our way to the front of the line I realized my hands were shaking. I was terrified they wouldnt let me in, since I dont have an Ecuadorian ID, and sometimes the cops get crabby with the ID that I do have to offer. The guard to enter the prison grounds didnt even look at my ID. From there we ran (literally) to get into the next line. My friend told me to switch my purse to my left arm, so I did. A cop came by and made a stamp on my right arm. My friend says that this stamp, and one more that we would get when we were all the way in, is what gets us out at the end of the visit. Its the only way of distinguishing inmates from non-inmates. Huh? Are the inmates in regular clothes? I asked. "Claro," she says, of course, "What, in the States inmates have uniforms?" Well, yeah, I said. That way you know who is and inmate and whos not...even without a stamp on the persons arm. The guard to let us in almost didnt accept my ID. My friend turned on her EcuaWoman sass and was like, "Shes with me, shes not from here, shes not a minor and she just wants to see what the prison is like." He nods and accepts my ID. I'm in.

Next my friend leaves her bag on a table and ushers me into a room. She told me this is where they do a pat down search to each visitor. I still had my purse on, I didnt even realize I didnt leave it on the table to get looked through. I stood infront of the female guard who was supposed to pat me down. She was eating an orange, glanced at me, and with her free hand flicked her wrist at me as if to say "ya, ya, go ahead." We went back to the table for the bags, I asked my friend if they needed to see my purse, she said dont worry about it. The guard reviewing her bag pulled out a clear plastic baggie with a bag of sugar and a yellow non-see-through tupperwareish container. The yellow container had coffee in it, I saw them packing it back at the house, but the guard doesnt know that. My friend tells him, "its just coffee" and (get this!) he SHAKES it, nods, and puts it back in the bag. He doesnt smell it, doenst open it, nada. Shakes it. As if the sound of coffee in tupperware is different than that of cocaine.

Then we are in. There are a bunch of men milling around an open front yard area, and my friend leans to me and says, "Check their arms. If they dont have a stamp, theyre a prisoner." There are armed guards milling around as well, although none are actually near the exit door. We head into the large compound area. I wonder how on earth we are going to find Juan, since no one has asked which prisoner we are there to visit. We walk through a short entry corridor and head into another outside yard. Some guy, street clothes and stampless arm, comes up and asks my friend who she is looking for. She keeps walking and doesnt respond, but hes right by her side. She speeds up (I think shes seen Juan), and a young man in a striped polo shirt, blue jeans an Nike shoes walks up to us. "I thought you werent coming! Ive been waiting forever," he says. Its Juan. The random guy taps him like he wants something, my friend says "No! We found him on our own," and Juan tells him to get lost. He leads us back into the indoor corridor, and into a bigger hall. There are men lining the walls, some are craning their necks down the hall and look like they are waiting for someone, some look like they are waiting for something, some just look like they are waiting. "All these guys are prisoners," my friend tells me proudly, sort of pointing at them. Yeah, thanks, I kinda gathered that much.

We head into the cell block through a gate (Juan sort of nods at a non-stamped guy guarding the door) and then into Juan's cell. Juan opens a padlock on the door with a key he got from another inmate in the hall, there is a sheet hanging on the inside of the door so that you cannot see in the room even if the door is open. I have not seen a guard since we left the front yard. They explain to me that each cell has an owner, who buys the cell. Then the owner can "rent" out space for extra inmates who cannot afford to buy their own cell. Juan is one of those inmates, and shares the 15ft by 8ft cell (my rough estimate) with the owner and 7 other guys. I count the tiles on the floor: by what I can see, the owner sleeps on a trunkated twin bed, 6 guys sleep on the floor--about 2ft of space each, and one guy sleeps in the hammock above their heads. As we visit, my friend and I sit on the bed and Juan lounges in the hammock, devoring the food we brought. He goes through the other items (soap, coffee, sugar) and stores them in a small ledge behind the bed. He offers me some of his cola. He cleans the dishes using a bucket of water on the kitchen floor, which has a drain in the corner. Connected to the kitchen (a space I am guessing is 8ft by 3 ft) is the bathroom, I cannot see if there is a shower. At the foot of the bed is a wire with clothes hanging on it. "The guys sleep with their feet under the bed," my friend tells me, as I take in the Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. The room is basically spotless, the bed is nicely made, outside I can hear some kind of a concert going on, or at least a live DJ.

We hang out in his cell for a while, as my friend lectures Juan about praying with his heart and not just his mouth, and things of that nature. He looks like hes heard it all before but he listens politely. Another guy comes in (not the cell owner, but one of the cellmates), Juan offers him the glass of cola he is drinking. Another friend comes in who Juan was friends with on the streets. My friend continues to lecuture them both (as they share Juan's fish, rice and beans), this time about not blaming their girlfriends for moving on with their lives while they are in prison. My friend asks Juan if hes heard of the guy who called us. Yes, he has, he owns a store in the prison, we will go see him ya mismo. My friend tells me that inmates open up small businesses (stores, fruit juice bars, pharmacys, etc) in the prison to make money. Prisoners have various expenses, like buying their cell or paying cell rent, paying the "guard" (the inmate watching the cell block door), buying food, toilet paper, medicine and whatever else they need to get by.

Before we head to the guys store, Juan wants to take us to visit another one of his friends. We head down the hall, Juan seems less comfortable walking into this area, I guess because its not where he lives so people dont recognize him as well. As we head down the hall I smell marijuana, I look around and see an inmate sorta slumped against the wall, inhaling on something hidden in his hand. There are people everywhere, children running around, a toddler jets past us with no shoes on. A sgraggly looking dog crosses our path. Some guy offers Juan his hand in a greeting, but Juan refuses to shake his hand, saying something about not wanting any of that. We head into another cell block, passing through a group of guys playing pool. Into another cell, this one about twice the size because there is a bathroom thats the size of Juan's cell attached to it. This inmate is an old friend of the family, hes sorta chubby, espcially compared to Juan. There are bunk beds in his cell, and I am told that only 2 guys sleep there. Juan tells me that these room are for foriegners (though my friend tells me later that this is only because the cells cost more, and foriegners have more money sent to them from the outside; this guy, for example, is Ecuadorian). He has been sentanced to 17 years, I think he has already been in for a year or two. He comes out of the bathroom to greet us, pulling on his shirt and zipping up his unbelted pants. He introduces us to his beautiful newborn baby and his wife. There is a rug with a print of a tiger on his floor. My friend commends him for being so chubby, and nudges Juan saying that maybe if he smoked less he would gain some weight, too.

We finally head down to this store of the guy who called us. There is a woman and two small children working in the store. My friend presents us, the woman calls for he husband and he lets us into the store. We sit down and he talks to us about how he was impressed with the work we are doing, he says that hes concerned about the families not being able to afford the lunch. He talks to us about Community Banking, which he used to participate with in his home country (he is not Ecuadorian) before he got "here." My friend asks how long hes been in? 7 years, he says, and hopefully he will be out soon. He quickly changes the subject back to Community Banking. He eludes later to being in for something having to do with drugs. We talk for a while, maybe half an hour, and thank him for his thoughts. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

Juan wants to show us around a little bit, and I am all game. So we check out the swimming pool for inmate's kids, and walk through another yard area. Everywhere you look there are inmates hanging out, wandering around; I still havent noticed a guard since we came in from the front yard. Some of the inmates are alone, some with people who look like their mothers, others with women holding small children, some are leading women in fancy clothes and high heels down the halls into the cell blocks. We head back to Juan's block to get my friends bag that she left in his room. We are informed by one of the cellmates that she will have to get the bag next week; there is a "visit" going on in the room, and we cannot get in. We head back towards the exit, another family member has come to visit Juan and we run into him in the hall. We pass and area with a closed door and guys hanging out, my friend says those are the really bad cells, for inmates with no family and money sent to them to get a nice cell. On our way out, Juan gives me a semi-toothless grin and tells me that when he gets out he will protect me on the streets. I laugh and wish him luck.

Out in the front yard there is a huge group, like 80-100 women, waiting in several unorganized lines to pick up IDs and leave. We are in line for at least an hour, pushing, getting pushed, waiting. Everyone is yelling, "Get to the back of the line! Guard, help us!" as women creep around the edges and cut ahead in the line. I kid you not, I counted 7 armed guards milling around the front yard, SITTING DOWN AND CHATTING, as this group of 100 angry EcuaWomen push and shove and fight to get their IDs. Finally, a young guard with braces on his teeth comes up and starts to try to establish some kind of order. He stands no chance against these women, and he knows it. The machine gun strapped across his chest does not even phase them, he kindly asks them to step back, they look past him and scream out their last name to the guy sorting through IDs to hand out. An inmate keeps coming up around the side, telling the ID guy last names and getting IDs to take to the back of the line. I think this is the business that he has set up, I am pretty sure I heard him say, "I already gave you the $4 for these IDs!" and then yells out a last name attached to the ID he is seeking. We finally get our IDs, push our way back out of the line, and head through the door.

I check my arm, worried that my stamps have rubbed off. My friend told me that once, her sister only got one stamp (instead of 2) and they almost didnt let her out. My stamps are intact, but a little smudged. I accidentally made a copy stamp on my upper arm at some point during the day because its hot and sweaty out. There is no guard at the door when we exit the yard, no one looks at my id or my arm at any of the checkpoints on the way out. I want to keep my stamp on til I get home so I can take a picture, my friend just laughs at this idea. It starts to rain as we head home: hard, pouring, Guayaquil-rain. I ask what happens in the rainy season with stamps at the prison, she says they do it the same as they do all the time. I wonder what keeps inmates from licking their visitors arms and passing the stamp to their own.

"So, what did you think???" my friend asks as we cross the street to catch the bus home. Well, its certainly different than prisons (as I know them) back in the States, I respond. If nothing else, I learned lots of new swear words.

Until next time,
Theresa

Peace Corps Volunteers: They're just like US!...They love and worry about kids

Haha, thats my nod to my favorite section of the trash magazines from the States. Like its important to know that Ashton Kutcher plugs the toll on his own meter. Ah, but I cant help but look...Anyhow, on to the post.

This problem I have right now is multisided, multidimensional, multiplying with each coming day. In Ecuador, migration is a major problem. Have we discussed this? I think so. Its two sided: adults leave Ecuador to go live and work in other countries, especially the States, Spain and Chile (at least in the families that I know). Then they send money back to their families here in Ecuador. Sounds like a good enough thing, but the problem is that most of the time they leave their kids behind. And as much as money is helpful in raising kids, (in my opinion) a present parent is far more valuable. Interesting factoids: Of the total Ecuadorian population (about 13 million people), about 15% live outside of the country; and money sent from family members who migrated to other countries is the second leading source of revenue in Ecuador (second to oil. I think I previously said it was the third, but I was wrong). So, obviously, migration is a big problem in the country, because it leaves lots of kids behind; but its totally necessary in the country, because it creates revenue.

So there are the statistics. Here is a piece of the reality, in my admittadly skewed, American way of seeing it. I work with teens in one barrio here in Guayaquil, and I work with an am very close with children in another barrio here in the city. The teens I work with are incredibly wonderful. In fact, they just threw me a surprize birthday party last week and pushed my face into the cake. It was wonderful and I love those kids! They are smart, they come to meetings twice a week, and they are generally interested in learning about values, self esteem, and of course, sex. We had a charla the other week about the human genital parts. They were so freaking attentive during that charla, it was scary! It was so much fun, such a rush, to see them connect the pieces together...the pain near your pelvic bone when your ovary releases an egg, the fact that the penis fills with blood (not sperm) to create an erection, the concept that the vagina expands in such extreme ways that it allows a new child to pass through into the world. I would not trade the work that I do with them for anything, it is a major part of my life here.

Like I said, they are really great, wonderful kids. They are well cared for, they have adults in their lives who look out for their well being. But the fact is that they are not the only teens living in their barrio. Consistantly there is a group of about 9 kids that come every week, but there are hundreds of teens living in that barrio. When I get off the three-wheeled moto in Isla Trinitaria, I pass by lots of teens sitting around on street corners, doing a whole lot of nothing. They gather and play cards, they probably drink a beer or two if they can get their hands on some. They whistle at girls who pass by, they struggle to carry the children that they had years before they were ready to care for them. Thats just reality. I love my jovenes, but that doesnt mean that I dont notice all the teens that dont come to the meetings. I care about my jovenes, but that doesnt mean that I dont worry just as much (if not more) about the kids gathered on the corner.

As you know (if you have been keeping up), I spend most of my time out in Calle 8. Since I am there for several hours a day, 6 days a week, I have come to be that Peace Corps Volunteer that kids run up to screaming "Tia!!!" (which means Aunt). They grab my hands and ask me if we have class that day (art class), ask if we can play a game, ask me for 5 cents so they can buy a frozen treat (I never give it, but they keep asking). There are a couple of kids that I see very often, and am becoming very attached to. Two are a set of brothers, two are a set of sisters, both live with grandparents. The boys' mom live here in Guayaquil. When I ask adults where she is, I get told that shes "Over there" with a motion leading out of the barrio. When I ask what shes doing, and why shes hardly ever around, I get shrugs. What is she doing? Drugs? Who knows. The girls' mom has migrated to another country. She comes back to visit about once a year, an event that is coming up right now with much anticipation from her daughters and mother. And me. I want to know her, I want to not be so mad at her all the time. I want to understand her intentions, because I am sure they are good.

Ah, this is hard. Out of respect for the kids and their families, I dont want to give too many details. But I want you to know these kids. I want you to come to lunch and meet them, to see how they all but beg be be spoon fed their soup, despite the fact that they are 7 years old. I want you to see how giving them one little hug results in them crawling up on your lap, cradling themselves in your arms like an infant. I want you to feel this constant tug on my heart that these kids make.

The girls' dad lives in Guayaquil, too. He was supposed to take care of them for the school year, but when confronted with the reality that he would then also have to be financially responsible for them, he ran off with his 'other woman.' The girls dont seem to mind, I wonder if this was the first time. While taking a nap the older one heard her grandmom say that someone had called earlier. She woke from her slumber and asked, 'Who called? My dad? Is he coming to get me? Did my mom call? Who called, grandma?' We all just looked at her...what do you say? Your dad doesnt....doesnt want...doesnt want to what? To care for you? To pay for you lunch? To hold you when youre sleepy? To play with you? To what? And your mom? How do you explain to a seven-year-old that mom loves you SO much that she moved far, far away so that she can send money home to pay for you to go to school?

I just worry about my kids, thats all. I want to take them all home with me, to love them all like they are my own and to remind them everyday, every hour and every minute how beautiful and wonderful and special they are. I do not want them to grow up to be those kids who hang out on the corner and do God knows what. I want, I want, I want them to be okay. But, at the same time, I know that I am not the solution. As much as those kiddos love me and I love them, I am Tia, not mom. I tell them that I love them all the time, I braid their hair, I kiss their boo-boos, I draw pictures with them. But I am Tia Tere, and thats just reality. I just hate reality, thats all. I want to be able to some how change it, somehow make it "better" or at least "easier." But what do I know? And more importantly, what can I do?

...ah, I hate stressing so much. Continue with art classes (in celebration of Earth Day they each decorated little cups and got little plants to take home and care for). Hold hands as we walk down the street. Blow on spoonfulls of soup to cool it off. Kiss boo-boos. Be Tia. Thats all I can do.

Go home and kiss your kids,
Tia Tere

I´m not Ungrateful, I just suck at Small Talk

Before we get to the story, let me add that I turned 25 on Monday! Happy Birthday to me, to me, to me! haha. Did you know that in Ecuador they sing the Happy Birthday song first in Spanish and then always followed by the English version? I dont think that most people even know what they are saying, but they sing it all the same...I was serenated by both the staff at Applebees in Quito and by the Mujeres de Lucha. Good times. The best birthday wish I got? From my little sister who posted on my Facebook wall: "Feliz Navidad sista! Hope you had a fiesta fantastica!" hahaha! Clearly she doesnt always know what the words in songs she hears mean, either....as in "Feliz Navidad...I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart." Ohhh, too funny little sis. Feliz Navidad to you, too.

So what does a Peace Corps Volunteer do for her 25th birthday? Well, this one went out dancing one night, had a party with the Mujeres de Lucha another day, went to dinner with friends a couple of times, and oh yes, gave a charla about homosexuality in Ecuador. Ahhh, duty calls.

The newest Omnibus 99 arrived in Ecuador in January, and now they are just getting set to head out to their sites. They are the Agriculture and Habitat Conservation Groups, so you know, their PC life is gonna be just a liiiittle bit different than mine is. Nonetheless, their training site is the same place where I used to live: in Tabacundo (lindo de mi corazon, eres la tierra de mi pasión). As a member of the PC-Ecuador GLBT Interest group, I was invited to give a charla about homosexuality in Ecuador along with a friend of mine from the group. I took the night bus up to Quito on Sunday night so that we would have Monday (the day I became a quater of a century years old) to plan. Yeeeaaaah...she has a tv so instead we watched movies and dvds of The L Word. But I mean, hey, watching The L Word is sorta like planning a GLBT charla, right? So yeah, the charla didnt end up getting planned until basically the morning of the charla, which was the next day. No big deal because we were just replicating the charla that was given to us several short months ago when we were eager to learn trainees.

So we head out on the bus to Tabacundo. I wanted to stay awake and alert so that I would see my old surroundings coming in around me again, and relish in the beauty that is the sierra of Ecuador. Instead I fell asleep on the bus...oops. When we got there, I called my old host family. Heres the thing--I have done a real crappy job of keeping in touch with those folks. And its not because I dont love them, because I do love them. They are wonderful and absolutely the best host family match for me and I wouldnt trade them for the world. The problem is that keeping in touch requires a skill called "small talk." Thats something I have always stuggled with, and it doesnt get any prettier in Spanish. I did text my host sister once to tell her that I was reading all the wonderful things that I had written about her in my journal and that I missed her. But then she didnt call me back. In fact, they have called me no more than I have called them, which is not at all. So then I didnt feel so bad, you know?

So anyhow, we get to Tabacundo and I call the host family, ask for Sra. Carmen. A man answers the phone...shit...its Don....Don...Don, shit! How can I forget my own host fathers name?!?! I'm like, Hi! Its Tere! How are you?? And he's like, Teresita?? I dont believe it! How are you, how have you been, how long its been since I have seen you, how is everything, how do you feel? Awww...did I ever mention how my host dad asks a minimum of 5 "how are you doing" questions at the beginning of EVERY phone conversation? Haha, I love that man. So we get to talking and he's like, We thought we would never hear from you again. Youre in Tabacundo? Where? Since when? When are you coming over? My wife and the kids will be home later today. I feel this immediate rush of happiness and nostalgia and wonderfulness and missing my host family like crazy. I tell him that I have to give this charla to the new group, but I will come over shortly after that. They have a new host daughter in the new group, he asks if I know her? (ps, at least as it relates to Peace Corps, in Ecuador the general assumption is that all gringos know each other). I say no, but I will look for her during the charla. After I hang up it hits me: Cesar! Don Cesar is his name! Man, Im an idiot.

Yay! So they dont totally hate me for not being the wonder-gringa that their last host daughter was who called them once a week and visited like once a month. And it seems like they want to see me, too, which makes my heart smile. So I head back over to the meeting site for Omnibus 99, and immediately one of the PCTs comes running up to me and is like, Oh my God! I was so excited to see you! I figured she was one of the girls who I had talked with online before they got here. But no, she thought I was a friend of hers from home. Haha. Funny how many people I look like. Anyhow, I find the new host daughter for my host family and introduce myself.

Then we get going on the charla, and all in all, it goes well. Well, I mean really, the main part of it totally crashed and burned because it based on a lie and they didnt really go along with it (kinda complicated to explain, but just trust me it didnt really work out). So I was like, heres a PC Lesson: Sometimes charlas dont work out. Haha. Then we had a productive discussion on how to improve the charla to do in their sites, their worries about doing a charla on such a hot-button issue like homosexuality, talked about intergrating into your site first, etc. Really we had a good little chat, it was fun. There are also 5 people in their group that are from Wisconsin, and they enjoyed my (still)very Wisconsin accent. It was really fun being the person who came to visit the new group. I remember when I was in training and all these random PCVs came in and gave us charlas and we (or at least I) were in such awe that they actually live all alone in this country and enjoy themselves and manage not to die. In case you dont recall, I totally fucking hated training, so it was always such a major refresher to see real life volunteers. Its a lofty goal, but I hope that maybe one of those 99ers was like, Dude, that Theresa chick was cool and is doing some cool work and I hope I become a cool volunteer like she is. Ahh, dreams. I did end up meeting a girl who had read my blog...so in case shes reading this now: Hello! Good luck at site!

So after the charla I ended up continuing to be a crappy host daughter and did not go out and see my host family. I just ran outta time because I went to coffee with some of the new group and we were chatting and I felt bad bailing out on them. But I went back out the next day. I got off the bus (I stayed awake this time, and yes: the sierra is still way prettier than the coast) and I was like, crap! How do I get to my house?? I lived in Tabacundo for 10 weeks, and I get back there and feel immediately lost. Then I took a deep breath and realized I knew exactly where I was and walked home. Im pretty sure I saw my host uncle in the paper store they own, but I didnt stop to say hi because I couldnt remember his name (although Im sure he doesnt remember mine either) and because that would result in the dreaded small talk game. I get to the house, open the front gate and walk up to the door. A car drives up behind me and a guy says "Who are you looking for?" and Im like, Eeeee! My family is here! (it was my host dad, I recognized his voice). We all hugged and headed inside and they took my bags and sat me down at the table.

For the next several hours I kicked myself over and over again and wondered what the hell had kept me from calling them all this time. I mean, its been SEVEN MONTHS! And believe me, they reminded me of it. My host mom even joked that they thought maybe I was just ungrateful. At least I think thats what the word meant...and I was like NOOOO! I think about you all the time, Im just not good at calling. Turns out they had my phone number wrong, so the ball was all in my court and I totally didnt pick it up. They were full of questions about my life in Guayaquil, my work, and how I am adjusting. They (I, we all, everyone) were very worried when I went to site because I was so completely terrified at the prospect of living in Guayaquil. I assured them that all was well, that I was living in a nice house with a nice landlord who also lives on the same plot of land. They said they were really glad that I was safe and happy. My host sister said shes glad I have a place and now she can come and visit me! Yes! I hope she meant it! We talked about the difference between life on the coast and life in the sierra: how I was shivering cold now in Tabacundo because I had gotten used to it being 90 degrees out everyday. How men on the coast stand around with their shirts lifted up over their beer bellies on the side of the road. How Guayaquil is totally crazy and practically its own little world. How I talk weird, fast, slurred coastal Spanish now, instead of the slow, clear sierran Spanish. And as we spoke I realized how much I have grown up since I was in Tabacundo. I dont know that I have really matured (well, maybe I have...) but I am certainly more myself now than I was then. Talking with them came so much more naturally than it did when I was in training. And being myself was less of an effort, as well. I think as I spend more time here in Ecuador Theresa and Tere are becoming more of the same person. Thats a good thing. I dont quite know that we are one yet, but we are getting there.

I also chatted quite a bit (in English and Spanish) with their new PCT. She is really nice, shes 30 and from Florida and her site will be with the Tsachilas (the super cool indigeounous group that I visited during a tech trip waaaay back when). She seems to be real nervous about going to site and being out on her own. Shes still really stuggling with Spanish and worried about that, I told her that when you stop being surrounded by gringo PCTs and are at your site, you have no choice but to learn Spanish. She seemed a bit awed that I was gonna hop on a bus all alone (at night time nonetheless, how DANGEROUS!) and go to Quito and then back to Guayaquil. She said that the other day she took the bus to Cayambe (which is about 20 minutes from Tabacundo) and she was terrified. I tried not to laugh, because I can totally remember feeling exactly that way just a short time ago. I told her that PC tells you a lot of things are dangerous, but when it comes down to it, you gotta just learn to be yourself and live your life here in Ecuador. Following all the PC rules about night buses, sleeping on buses, taking pictures with your digital camera, eating meat sold on the street, eating strawberries, brushing your teeth with the water, all that stuff. I mean, they say it all for your own good, and any one of those things could turn out to be "dangerous" but its worse not to do them, I think. Except for the strawberries: do NOT eat the strawberries.

So anyhow, thats what I learned on my 25th birthday. I learned that keeping in touch is only difficult in theory, and that once you do it feels oh so good (you also get a delicious home cooked sierran dinner and amazing peach flavored Quaker outta it--thats a drink made out of water strained from Quaker oatmeal, my host mom makes it better than anyone on the freaking planet. Ecuadorians think its totally weird that in the States we actually eat the oatmeal instead of straining it and drinking the water. They also refuse to believe that its pronounced "Quake-er" and not "Quwaak-er" hahaha!). I learned that this life I live here is making the different parts of myself more like one whole self. I was reminded of how terrifying it is to be a PCTrainee, and how good it feels to look back on how far I have come. I learned to try to stay awake and watch the view.

I also scheduled a gyno appointment, so it wasnt all good times...haha.

Besos mijitos,
Tere, Theresa and somewhere inbetween