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.