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.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
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
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
Sunday, May 25, 2008
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
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
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