My New Talent.

The stare down. 

I've realized a couple of things now that I travel "alone". As Eve, James, and Adrienne are now back in the States, I'm even more of a curiosity to Ecuadorian passers-by. Before, it was clear that this was a group of gringo travelers. 

Now, hand-in-hand with Jennifer or Mateo (the two children at my homestay), it's harder to tell what my purpose is here. Am I the nanny? Do I live here? Am I a student? Am I really a traveler, in the middle of Puyo? (Puyo is not a tourist-location by any means). 

So lately, I've been catching a lot of people staring at me. They're just not sure what to think! I don't look like a traveler, because I know where I'm going, my way around the streets, and walk into the supermarket to buy actual home items. But when I open my mouth it's very clear I'm not from the area. From their perspective, it has to be a little perplexing. 

But, in the spirit of celebrating my new adventure-self, I've decided to have a little fun with the situation, by staring back at them. 

Reactions vary, but laughter always ensues. 

Little kids are more often likely to continue staring with their mouth slightly open. 

People my age will sometimes smile, will often giggle, or will say hello. 

Old women tend to briskly say, "Buenas" and quickly turn their attention elsewhere. 

But older men...they are sheepish, turn red, and are generally awkward. 

It's a great new past-time. I wonder what they think of me? 

All the way from Ecuador...

Public education and student scholarships are important. 

I don't know how many people read this blog (it seems like a good number of you, from your emails) but I've got a platform here and I'm going to use it. 

From the scale of things, rising tuition costs may not seem like the most important issue. And trust me, having spent a month here in Ecuador, I've gotten to personally encounter things like malaria, malnutrition, crime, various vector-borne diseases and extreme poverty. I get it. Given the choice between saving a deathly-ill child and donating money for student scholarships...the answer seems so clear. 

But public education matters. It absolutely, unequivocally matters. Why? 

Because the doctor, nurse, social worker, and government official that found that sick child, got her out of the jungle, treated her, and paid for her recovery all went to a public University, all got a scholarship of some form, and are all giving back (true story). 

That's why. 

I'm not saying you have to donate your money somewhere to help save public education in California (though that would be nice!). I'm saying that it's a big enough issue to care about. It's a big enough issue to talk about. To learn about. To write to your senator and legislator about. To save, restore, and improve. 

For those of you who are receiving or have received education from a public university (and/or were helped by a scholarship)...who would you be without it? Deep down, most likely, the same person. But would you have the same skills? Would you be able to express yourself the same way? I've always heard that experience counts. For me, my experience was priceless. I wish that same joy for others. 

So, all the way from Ecuador, just asking you to think about it. :) 

this is what happens when you cut and paste into google translator*

*note: actual menu at an Ecuadorian cafe. 

things that i miss.

This post will be dedicated to the things I miss about home. I don't mean to whine or pout. It just seems that this week my mind drifts more frequently to home, maybe because the other students are getting ready to leave (their flights to the US are all on Saturday). They are nearly done and I am just reaching the halfway point. I feel futile, a bit lonely, and afraid that I will be bored without them. I know that I'm incredibly lucky and blessed to be here in Ecuador and that I have nothing AT ALL to complain about...but indulge me a little. 

I miss: 

1. My family and friends. I miss my brother and sister. I miss my puppy. I miss my mom (you worry too much!) and dad. I miss Katie Hall. I miss Emma Sandoe. I miss Kristin Luciani. I miss Armin and Nicole. I really miss my grandparents and my cousins (Jennie! Jamie!) and my uncle and aunt. I miss MOLLY KORT!!! I MISS MY ROOMMATES LIKE CRAZY. I miss you.

2. UCSD (a thousand times over)

3. The Student Foundation (and all of the Trustees!!!)

4. Thanksgiving (what the heck was I thinking coming home at the end of November?!?!?!)

5. Toilet paper

6. Free drinkable water

7. Using my debit card

8. People having change for more than $5. 

9. Not feeling on the brink of death every time I enter a vehicle.

10. Movies/TV in English

11. Driving. I really, really miss driving. 

12. The purple bug zapper at home. 

13. Not having to DEET every waking (and non-waking) moment of my life. 

14. Church in English. 

15. Onion juice. 

16. Studying.

17. Texting.

18. Wearing my normal clothes (I dress like a boy here, I kind of have to). 

19. Sarcasm (I can't seem to get this across in Spanish...)

Now, here's the funny thing. I thought that writing this list would just send me on a downward spiral of sadness, but it seems to have actually made me feel better. Like this next month won't be too bad. As if I'll see all of these things soon enough! :) 

Smiles here in Ecuador.  Wishing you smiles where ever you may be, friends. (LIKE NEW YORK!?!?!?! Neg, write me about your adventures!!!)

 

kids.

Somehow, at Casa de Fe, with nearly 60 children eating, sleeping, playing, and learning under one roof, one special child is always able to find you. And then you're a goner. You seriously consider adopting and/or putting one in your backpack, a stowaway into what you're sure would be a better life in the States. 

For Adrienne, it is Gilmar and, to some extent, his two brothers and one sister. The family of four is very close knit and absolutely gorgeous. Ana and Javier, the two older children, spend most of the day learning English at school. Gilmar (3 years) is still "suffering" from severe malnourishment--one can't really tell from looking at Gilmar that he hasn't had enough to eat...but his head of nearly blonde hair (Ana and Javier have nearly black hair) indicates that he is lacking in some proteins and nutrients. Alejandro is the baby, just starting to walk. Gilmar and his brothers and sister were brought to Casa de Fe when their oldest brother died. His death caused other family members to realize that their mother was incapable of taking care of any children.

For Eve and James, there is Fernando. The poor guy had an extremely high fever yesterday (unnoticed by the staff). I sat down next to him, felt my side burning up and realized Fernando didn't look well at all. We got him some medication and he fell asleep for a few minutes on the floor. But then, he climbed up on James and sat. Just as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. Picture a towering gringo and this tiny child, sitting, watching the TV, completely at peace. Eve was done for at this point, talking to Fernando, holding him, being his mommy for the day. 

And for me, two kids. Twins. Well, triplets really, but one of the brothers lives with a distant aunt. Josue and Nathaniel are just about one year old, walk, but don't talk. They smile easily. When I walk in the house, I'm surrounded by children, and as the minutes pass, Josue (or Nathaniel, I'm not sure) walks up to me with his arms stretched toward me. I pick him up and it feels perfect. The other twin soon follows (they are rarely without each other) and he gets the other arm. They nuzzle their heads into my neck and laugh. When I try to put the two of them down, they both arch their backs and cry. 

The brothers are here at the request of their aunt. Their mother is only 18 and already has 6 children. With a new baby girl (right after the triplets), there were simply too many mouths to feed. Also, there is some sort of stigma in Ecuador against multiple births (I'm not exactly clear on this). So, Josue and Nathaniel find their way into my arms. 

And this is a conflict I go through every day at Casa de Fe. How much compassion and love can I show these kids? This seems like a strange dilemma--of course I should give them all the attention and love that they need. But I'm not here forever. I'm not even here for a long period of time. How cruel would it be to shower these kids with love and personal attention like they've never had before and then leave? Take it away? Abandon them once more? Sometimes, I decide that having this once is better than never experiencing it at all. But sometimes, I put the kids down and let them cry. 

I know that in a month, I'm going to have a terrible time leaving Casa de Fe, Josue and Nathaniel. I hope they find good homes or that they get to stay in this one as long as they need.   

"have faith in the medicine and you will have visions."

This is what Gustavo tells me as he crushes a wad of Maricoa on my ankle. It is still swollen and Gustavo is worried that the hike out of the jungle tomorrow morning will be too hard for me to walk. I assure him that I will be okay.

Veronica, on my other side, is squeezing a mixture of sangre de drago (tree sap) and juices from oja roja (a red leaf, I can't remember its name) over my blisters. It stings so badly. Eve thinks there is some sort of alcoholic property in the plants. 

I feel like a patient in a rural hospital and, to be honest, I am enjoying myself despite the pain. Earlier in the day, the girls spent time making beaded necklaces in the traditional Shuar style with plant seeds and hemp. I now have so much more respect for the work it takes to make those necklaces and bracelets--it is painful! Pushing a small needle through a dense seed, stringing along 30 of these in a pattern, sitting for nearly 3 hours, etc. Intense!

Meanwhile, Gustavo is making a crown of jaguar fur for James. This also takes a lot of work, as Gustavo and James take sticks on the ground and pound them with knives and water to make them supple enough to weave. And then they weave. And then they sew on the fur. There is much time in all of this for the "men" to bond. Gustavo seems to really like James (which the girls find funny because James does not speak very much spanish) and tells him his life story. 

Apparently, Gustavo has 30 brothers and sisters. Yes, 30. His father had 4 wives and his mother had 10 children. He himself only has 9, all of (which/whom), by the way, Gustavo delivered himself of his one wife in the middle of the jungle. No lie. Gustavo is 38 years old. 

I'm flabbergasted. In the Shuar tradition, women often deliver their own children themselves, alone, in the jungle, in their garden, on their knees, in thirty minutes or less. I relay this information to Gustavo and he says, excitedly, "Claro, claro!"

I then (some of you will love this) tell Gustavo and Veronica about Jon and Kate Plus 8. He is astounded. "6 children! All at one time! In one belly?" It is crazy. We assure him that we think it is crazy, too. Then we tell him that the parents are getting a divorce. He shakes his head and says, "I am poor, but I do not think I have the worse problem." And this is the moment I know that Gustavo is very, very wise. 

I think about all the "things" I have back in the States. Internet, electricity, clean water, no bugs, a bathroom, shoes, clean socks. Most people in the States have all of these things and more. But I can only think of a handful of people who are truly as happy as Gustavo is. His life is hard, but he provides and at night, before he goes to bed, he can count more blessings than pain. 

The remainder of the day, we rest, because Gustavo is worried that our group is falling apart, physically. Me with my injuries, Adrienne with terrible stomach pains, and poor James. James is Gustavo's biggest concern. James has not been feeling well and has been unable to eat anything. James is a big guy (almost 6'4"). The guy needs to eat. Feeling weak and tired, James asks for one of the six oreos I have with me. Oreos, at this point, are a precious commodity. He immediately feels a little bit better. 

The day ends with a farewell ceremony, this time, inside the house. And the four of us are grateful because with all of the jumping up and down the kids are doing, the entire hut trembles, driving away (finally) the scores of cockroaches that have grown accustomed to a still, warm, dry house. 

But soon, as we sleep, it rains. It pours. And I groan internally because I know that tomorrow, the hike is going to be even more muddy than when we came in. 

And it is. Incredibly so. And it rains as we hike the difficult walk back. I hate the uphill climbs. This next day brings the first morning that I don't feel well and can't eat my food. With anxiety, the physical exertion, and relatively poor nutrition, I feel incredibly ill the entire day...before, during, and after the hike. Eve is more worried that I will slip on the downhill track and really hurt my ankle. The hike, which only took 4ish hours coming in, takes 6 hours to come out. 

And when our group emerges from la selva, we are exhausted. We buy cold bottled water, coca cola, and cookies. And we gorge ourselves. Or, at least, the other three do. I can only keep down water and some crackers. 

But I survived. And the next day, I felt better. The bad passed and all that remains now are the memories of an absolutely incredible experience. My ankle is fine. My blisters are gone. The bug bites are annoying but will go away. 

But Gustavo and his family and la selva remain in my heart for all the lessons they taught me, whether or not they were lessons they intended to teach. 

P.S. Apparently, Gustavo really, really liked us. Our homestay mother tells us that no one has ever come out of this community with gifts. Certainly not crowns of jaguar fur. Eve and James are worried about getting the crown through customs, however. Vamos a ver! 

P.P.S No visions from the Maricoa. But this was just a topical treatment. ;) 

Voz Andes y Casa de Fe

Today, I had the opportunity to work at the Voz Andes Hospital in Shell and Casa de Fe (lacasadefe.org), a faith-based, special-needs orphanage.

By the way, there is a huge thunderstorm in Puyo right now. Most people know I love the rain, so, yes, I am absolutely loving this. I have never been under harder rain in my life. 

But, back to the story. I spent four and a half hours this morning in Voz Andes and a total of 15 minutes at the orphanage. I had intended to stay at Casa de Fe for the afternoon, but the sub-director I was to meet was very sick and could not give me the "first day" tour. I was sent home with a smile and a "see you tomorrow lovely girl!" That made me laugh. 

This all being said, I found the orphanage to be difficult to be in, emotionally. I didn't know that Casa de Fe was a special-needs orphanage before arriving in Ecuador and even when I did find out, I certainly didn't know what to expect. It was really, really hard. 

When I first entered the orphanage, two huge dogs ran up to me and gently sniffed and pawed my  hands. They wanted to be pet. Thinking back on it now, the response of the dogs and the children were very similar--walking into a room full of kids sprawled out on the floor watching Monsters, Inc., I was immediately met by Tatiana, who touched her foot to my feet and said, "Pies." (That is "feet" in spanish). Tatiana has cerebral palsy and I can barely understand what she says beyond her first greeting. Then Jhony, Javier, and Dubi surround me. Personal space is a foreign concept, not yet learned. I play for a moment and then take a peek into the rooms. There are beds stacked upon beds and more children sleeping and/or crying in them. 

I can tell that these kids are loved, but they need so much more. Better-fitting clothes, better ventilated rooms (it is almost as stuffy as a hospital), etc. One girl is crying her lungs out and I reach out my hand to rub her back, to tell her its okay. She shrinks away from me, a stranger, still crying. Another little girl cries in another room and as I sit down to try to comfort her, I can feel that she has wet the bed. She is crying in her sleep in a terrible dream. And as much as I want to, I don't wake her...can you imagine, waking up from a nightmare to see a complete stranger hovering over you? These kids have been traumatized and abused enough. I leave soon after this, silently grateful that my first experience with Casa de Fe is a short one. I will be more prepared for it all tomorrow. 

The hospital has its own sad stories, but a lot of hope as well. I first met Dr. Brice and Dr. Martin, American doctors completing two-year medical missions here in Ecuador. There are only two "interesting" patients today.

1. A 45 year old woman, diagnosed with stomach cancer (gastritis and stomach cancer are incredibly common in Ecuador, most likely due to diet). She had undergone surgery to remove the tumors and seemed to be improving but somewhere along the way, something ruptured and she lost a great deal of blood. The one surgeon at Voz Andes had stayed with her all night, giving her transfusions and monitoring her status. 

2. A 21 year old Quichwa girl with a growth in her pelvic area after a miscarriage. The mass had been growing consistently for two weeks, so the girl had gone to see a rural doctor who did nothing for her. Frustrated with "western" medicine, she went to her community's shaman for a cure. No such luck. Finally, she was sent to Voz Andes, where the doctors correctly drained her mass and found a nick in her small intestine. The fixed the tear but a fistula had grown between her stomach and her SI...basically feces was leaking into her stomach. The doctors treated this, but because she waited so long, the scar tissue in her pelvic region will never allow her to have children. She is unmarried and in her culture, will never be able to marry because she cannot bear children. Her life, as she knows it, is ruined. She doesn't know yet. Dr. Brice is trying to figure out the best way to tell her. 

Today, I learned about compassion. 

I thought about the discomfort and the shame that many of these patients feel coming into the hospital. Many of them are unaware of basic health information (for example, drinking juice with ice does not cause you to catch a cold). Culturally, there are a lot of beliefs that doctors must work against and/or with: pregnant women typically refuse pap smears because they think that such an "invasive" procedure will harm the baby; 70 year old women ask for pap smears because any pain in the abdominal region "originates" from their "womb"; several patients asked us to close the windows to keep out the "bad air"; one man thought that the pain he felt when breathing meant that his heart had failed. 

In the span of four hours, Dr. Martin and I saw 11 patients. There were many things I understood and many more things that I didn't. But that's why I'm here. To learn and observe and absorb. 

Tomorrow is another day to learn, observe, and absorb, but for now, the rain. 

Maricoa, Tobacco, Usano, and Jaguars.

I wake up, painfully, with a start. There is a rooster crowing directly beneath me under the hut--it is the rudest and most amplified awakening I've experienced in a long time. My left ankle is incredibly sore and, in curling my toes, I can tell that some on my right foot are very, very swollen. Slightly worried, I brush these thoughts aside and rub the sleep from my eyes. 

The green light on my wrist watch tells me that it's 5:45 am and in between the cracks of the wood planks of the wall, the sun is already shining through. Day Two has begun and like most of my mornings, the first thing on the agenda is the bathroom. 

El bano is, well...friends and family, it is in the middle of the jungle. It is a short walk from the hut to the hole in the ground by the river bank. I only recognize it because right above the hole are four sticks holding up a square tin "roof". I inhale deeply in my approach to fortify my spirits and bravery in this first attempt. This was my first mistake. 

I won't even try to explain the smell here, in writing, or ever in my life. There are simply no words. 

With my foot, I gently push aside the rectangular wooden block covering the hole (to keep the flies away). This was my second mistake. But, you ask, don't you have to remove the block to uncover the bathroom?  The answer is yes, but my eyes said no. 

In that hole, as expected, was human excrement. What wasn't expected was. that. it. was. moving. Swarming. Squirming. 

Terrified, I kick the block back and walk as fast as I can with a lame ankle to the hut. I discuss with Eve, James, and Adrienne. The two former decidedly state, "Probably human worms and parasites." 

And in this moment I think of all the bathrooms I have ever had to use in my life and silently thank every toilet for its mercy. It's amazing to think how much we take for granted on a daily basis. I've always been grateful for the running water, heat, electricity in my house--because I knew that many people in the world are without. However, once these things are physically taken away from you, the appreciation for them deepens hundred-fold. A new understanding for what it means to be without develops. 

(Just in case you were worried, I eventually did muster the courage to use the bathroom. It was an experience). 

Breakfast is a "cake" of oritos (a platano looking potato plant) with canned tuna, tomatoes, and onion. I am beginning to dislike the taste of tuna. 

Then, Gustavo declares that we are to see the waterfall today. Crossing the river, we hike up a steep mountainside, stopping occasionally to study a medicinal plant, its preparation, and its uses. It's amazing to think about how the Shuar came up with these treatments. How do you figure out that if you boil three leafs in water and combine it with the fibers of a stem of another plant that it will relieve diarrhea when consumed? 

An hour and a half later (my feet hurt so badly at this point) Gustavo asks us to sit and paints our faces to prepare us for the hike down to la cascada. I am a tiger. 

According to Shuar culture and tradition, every member of the community must partake in a particular ritual when they come of age. They spend two nights alone in the jungle, ingest a medicinal psycho-tropic plant called Maricoa, paint their faces, and swim in the pool by the waterfall to receive visions of their life's purpose. 

Gustavo tells me that if I do this, I will absolutely know that I am supposed to be a doctor. I decline, politely, as do the other students in my group. Gustavo chuckles and, satisfied with his artistry, leads the hike down to the waterfall. 

La cascada is a bit smaller than I expected (it is larger after a heavy rain) but nonetheless gorgeous. It feels like I'm standing in the middle of a secret. 

But before we're allowed to touch the water, Gustavo pulls out a small package wrapped in a leaf. It is a wad of freshly cut tobacco. He squeezes some sort of water from the plant and tells us that we have to snort this through the nostrils to clear the mind and our sinuses. Not wanting to offend him, I weakly allow some water up my nose. It is unpleasant. 

We swim and bathe in the pool by the waterfall, enjoying ourselves. Gustavo then leads the hike back, which is relatively uneventful and less difficult, except for three things: 

1. Gustavo finds a hanging vine, studies it for a bit, and then, without warning, grabs a hold of the plant and takes a running jump off of an embankment. He is Tarzan. He motions for us to do the same, smiling. For those of you who know me very well, swinging in the middle of the Amazon is not something I regularly do. I did. It was awesome. 

2. Gustavo chatters endlessly throughout the hike back, but will occasionally stop and revert to an animalistic mode. He will look up at the sky, study a branch, touch the ground...all in dead silence. I am at first worried that he is lost, because he breaks the branches off of plants here and there, almost as if to mark the place (think Hansel and Gretel...if you come back to the same broken branch, you're going in circles). I later find out that he had seen jaguar tracks and wanted to mark the spot in order to hunt later that night.

3. Gustavo stops at one point and starts to viciously hack away at some dead looking tree with his 3 foot machete. We are confused. He is looking for something. We don't see anything. He finds it. Three GIANT slugs. He keeps telling me that they are vegetables (or something like that). Clearly, the insect slithering across the banana leaf I am holding is NOT a carrot. He calls it Usano. And he means to say that they are edible (I misunderstand many things Gustavo tells me). Apparently, when cooked, they taste like fried cheese. 

No, I did not eat them. 

The night comes sooner than I like it to, and with it, the bugs return into the house. Mentally, the group is better prepared and plays a game of Eucer (cards) under my mosquito net. It is cramped. By the light of someone's head lamp, I see that the toes on my right foot are swollen due to blisters. One looks slightly infected. The med students take care of it. My ankle appears purple and bruised and I remember that I had sprained it nearly a year ago. As I fall asleep, I hope that I can rest it enough to be able to hike out of the jungle on Friday. A little sangre de drago and oja roja (medicinal plants) should do the trick, Veronica says. 

And so, Day Two ends. I've survived my first 24 hours in la selva...

Day Two: The Sacred Waterfall

More on Day Two this evening, as I'm about to go to Dr. Torres' office to learn about various vector-borne diseases (malaria, chagas, leishmania). But for now, a photo-preview. 

In Shuar culture, the face must be painted before venturing toward the waterfall; for these communities la cascada is sacred ground. I don't partake in the actual vision-inducing ritual, as this would require spending two nights alone in the jungle, ingesting some sort of wild psycho-tropic drug, and then swimming by the waterfall for some time. Apparently, when the Shuar do this, they receive visions of their life's purpose. 

Instead, Gustavo uses the lipstick-consistency dye from a strange looking plant to paint me as a tigre. Because I am fierce, he says. 

Darn right I am. 

Photographs.

Yes, I have taken many photographs. Unfortunately, on the connection that I have, it is nearly impossible to upload a decent number of pictures on this blog. I will search for alternatives. In the meantime, comment below to be sent the picture-email. 

Oh, La Selva

Friends, I will take some time to apologize here. I haven't been the most dedicated blogger, but it's not for a lack of trying! I hadn't anticipated how much moving I would be doing (from Quito to Quilotoa to Puyo to the jungle to Banos and back) and how overwhelming all of these new experiences would be. Everytime I try to sit and write my thoughts down in a coherent manner, my mind becomes a blur of mountains, waterfalls, bus rides, very obnoxious salesmen, food, animals, people, bugs, and conversations. I'm looking forward to the next 4 weeks because I know I'll be able to stay in one place and recollect these thoughts. This blog and my sanity will be the better for it.

There has been much that has happened between my last visit at the Hospital IESS in Quito (this entry wasn't particularly well written I'm afraid...again, my sincerest apologies) and today, October 18, 2009.

One big difference between then and now is that I've entered, survived, and come out of the Amazon. Mind you, this isn't like camping in the Angeles National Forest or Yosemite. For reference, I've been told that both Bear Grylls (Man vs. Wild) and the guy from Survivorman have attempted episodes in the Amazon and only one of them made it through the entire night/episode. That being said...

La selva (the jungle) was by far, the best/worst/most ridiculous/hardest/most rewarding/craziest thing I've ever done.

Tuesday morning, having packed a small bag of clothes, insect repellent, a toothbrush, and other "necessities", I took an hour long bus ride to a small town called Pitirishca. I am surprised the bus stops here because literally, there is one store that sells coca cola and four houses. Try googling it. 

From one of the houses, Ramon, our contact, appears. We make small talk. His daughter, Veronica, and his nephew, Rivaldo, will be our guides into la selva where we will stay with his brother's family in their small community. Excited and not quite sure what to expect, I happily follow along in my wellies (jungle boots) wearing my fake "FBI"-branded jungle pants that I bought in Ecuador for 9 dollars. Ten minutes into the four and a half hour hike, it becomes alarmingly clear that none of us knew what we were getting into. There. is. mud. everywhere.

Not just playground mud. MUD-MUD. Knee deep mud. Mud that sucks your boot into its depths so tightly that your (and by your, I mean my) foot comes flying out of its gear and lands boot-less into more. Mud. I now come to terms with the fact that my small 10 pound bag will feel like it weighs 60 pounds for the majority of this adventure. That this hike is going to last nearly 4 and a half hours. That the first 2 hours are all uphill, nearly to the point where the four of us are on our hands and knees climbing up rocks. That the biggest spiders and scorpions I have ever seen are under every leaf. That I have never been so filthy in 22 years of my life. That our guides are trying their hardest not to laugh because, according to them, without gringos this hike takes them under 2 hours. I am in way over my head.

We take breaks, blaze through our water, and somehow, miraculously, on top of one of the many heights we scale, nearly four hours and fifteen minutes later, Veronica smiles and whispers something in Shuar to Rivaldo. The 11 year old boy lets this ethereal call escape from his lips. It sounds like a wolf howling and it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard in my life. Veronica and Rivaldo wait, listening. And sure enough, a howl in the distance.

We're close to the community and these calls are how indigenous people let each other know that they are approaching and that they mean no harm. (The Shuar are a tribe of warriors and, traditionally, would simply spear anyone who approached as a preemptive strike). 

Emerging from the tree cover of the jungle and onto slightly flatter, drier ground, the Ecuadorian sun burns down on us. We see the hut and I almost cry from relief. There are chickens and ducks running about and a green parrot sitting on the grass roof of the hut. A small group of impossibly tiny children surrounds us in seconds. They are quiet, shy, keep their distance, but are always, always looking curiously with bright eyes.

I immediately head to the river, water filter in tow, and jump in with all of my clothes on. Water has never felt or tasted so good in my life. The children have followed and all sit on the bank, watching, dressed in normal "western" style clothes in various degrees of tatter. No loin-clothes or bare breasts, mom!

The group spends the rest of the afternoon recovering from the hike, tentatively laying our things down in the small "room" where we are to sleep. The wooden floors don't seem particularly welcoming, but, after four and a half hours in the jungle, the prospect of somewhere dry and mud-less to sleep is very promising. 

Finally, Gustavo, the head of the community, comes back from the jungle to greet us. He's killed a baby jaguar today and will be drying the skin over the next few days. He is excited, happy for his luck on his hunt today and for the newcomers that are visiting his family. He talks repeatedly about sharing cultures (compartir! compartir!) and assures us that tonight there will be a welcome ceremony with traditional dancing. 

Gustavo is an extremely generous man with smiling eyes. It's hard to believe that he comes from a long line of warriors or that he's killed an endangered animal today. Endlessly patient with us and our elementary Spanish, he pulls out two wooden benches in front of his hut and beckons us to sit. The ceremony is about to begin. 

In the dark, with moths and bats flying about, we hear the performers walking toward their stage. Dressed in long necklaces, belts, anklets, and bracelets of shells, two young girls appear. Three boys with small wooden spears and crowns of feathers and animal furs follow. Gustavo presents the group: Hijos de Cascada. It is his version of the Jackson 5 and we all stifle a laugh because it is clear that these are his children and he has been making them practice. But, our host insists on calling them Children of the Waterfall. It is cute. There is dancing, there is Shuar singing, and then they teach us to dance.

And then we re-enter the hut. 

Oh, dios mio. 

In the time it has taken the gringos to learn how to dance, our comfortable hut-away-from-jungle has turned into a paradise for cockroaches. They. are. everywhere. They. are. huge. They. are. crunchy. when. stepped. on. 

James, Eve, and Adrienne seem to be having a harder time with this than I am. I have resigned, knowing that the next four days will hold things that I cannot even imagine or hope to be prepared for. I am particularly fearful of the walk back out of the jungle, as the last 2 and a half hours coming in were completely, steeply downhill (walking up this would be/was a nightmare). I have made peace with the roaches. At least they don't bite. 

Dinner is agonizingly long, because it takes place by candlelight (as in, one candle...there is no electricity or running water in the jungle, my friends). There are insects crawling on the table, on my plate, over my feet, flying in the air, but Gustavo ignores them and happily consumes his meal as poor James shakes his leg out of anxiety and both Eve and Adrienne's faces look terrified. I start laughing, out of nervousness, out of delirium, I don't know. But, in this very moment, my life seems very, very funny. I practically inhale the plain pasta and canned tuna, avoiding what seems to be another type of fish...I cannot really tell. 

We go to sleep. The cockroach situation has not improved in our "room" as the wooden slats are not perfectly aligned and allow for easy passage into our haven, even 4 feet off of the ground. I glance at my watch and sigh one of the deepest sighs I have ever sighed. It is only 7pm...

I somehow fall asleep, my back against the hard wood floor, the chickens clucking to sleep underneath the house. So ends Day One. 

I was chased by a monkey yesterday!

 

Hospital IESS Continued

So, to be honest, I didn’t know if I could finish out the day at Hospital IESS. It was incredibly stuffy in the hospital and paint was peeling and curling off the walls on top of the patient beds. Their names weren’t important, only their conditions and surgeries. Open electrical sockets and light fixtures laid their claim on every wall. A janitor was sweeping dust off of the floor, collecting an extraordinarily large pile in front of the stack of patient meals. The one thing I remember thinking was this: do NOT get sick in Ecuador, this is where they will bring you. It was a selfish, bratty, privileged thought, but to be honest, with what I’ve previously been exposed to, Ecuador seems like a “third world” country (I know some of you take issue with that term, but for lack of…) I think back to the US, with our nice, sanitary, shiny hospitals. They may not be terribly welcoming, but you at least feel hopeful that you will get better. Here, I look at Senor Lava (pronounced lay-va) and I can’t help but notice the look of absolute misery in his eyes. I don’t blame him. He’s been in various hospitals for over 2 months, had undergone two surgeries, and met me on his sixth day in Hospital IESS with a list of various complications on his chart. Dr. Jimenez explains to us the difficulty that he’s experienced with Senor Lava—leakage of pus into his abdominal cavity, ruptured intestines, carcinoids (which, from what I gathered, he had to look up on the internet to figure out). At this point, I thank God for Eve and James, who seem to understand every word. Medical Spanish, like I said, is more like Medical English than actual Spanish.

They explain to me that back in the US, in the clinic, they’ve seen at least 10-15 carcinoid tumor cases. This was a first for Dr. Jimenez, not because of his ability or inability (he seems like a very capable doctor), but because carcinoids mainly go untreated. When Dr. Jimenez lifts up Senor Lava’s shirt, I’m sure I’m about to faint. He has a large bandage wrapped around his belly with  a bag intended for draining his cavity of pus-blood. I handle myself.

Today, Dr. Jimenez only has 2 patients—the other is a simple ruptured appendix. Dr. Jimenez assures us that this is routine, no problem. His main concern is Senor Lava. Afterward, he talks to us a bit about competition in the hospitals and how it can be good, when it is used for patients and not for the self-importance of the doctors. He talks to us about ethics. He wishes us luck. And I leave Hospital IESS with a lot of food for thought.

 

What kind of commitment do you make as a doctor? Through medical school, how is it possible to know enough to make the right kinds of decisions? How can knowing what the patient is feeling or going through make you a better (or worse) doctor? I don’t know these answers yet, but at least, now, I’ve asked the questions. 

So, no one told us where the toilet paper is supposed to go.

This post is dedicated to the cultural questions, misunderstandings, and mistakes Adrienne and I have both made while in Ecuador. Intrigued? You should be.

 

1. Nothing is open on Sundays. Nothing. No lavanderia, no museos, no cafes con internet. Nada.
2. This next fact requires a bit of storytelling. So, Eve, James, Adrienne, and I are walking towards Av. America to catch a taxi to Quito Viejo. Eve mentions that, apparently, there is a curfew in this neighborhood at 7 pm. I think, curfew, at 7? Why? Someone says something along the lines of, protests about the rights of the indigenous people, it makes sense. On our walk, a sign is pointed out: “Horas Nocturna”. And indeed, it says something about this neighborhood, 7 pm, and it looks official with a logo that looks like its from el gobierno. Adrienne, who majored in Spanish at Temple, glances at the sign and nods. It’s confirmed. Curfew. Which is a bummer because apparently Quito has a lively night life with coffee shops, movie theatres, and restaurants. Fast forward 6 hours later, when we return to our homestay and lament about this strange protest-induced curfew. Curious, Adrienne asks Francia, who, very wise at 78 and leaning against her baston (cane), gives us a puzzled look, “Ehhh, que se dice? Donde ve?” Then suddenly, both of us remember seeing “basura” on the sign and we run out to the street (the sign is just around the corner) to make sure. No, no curfew. But now we do know that trash is collected at 7 pm every night.
3. Dolor y Dollar are pronounced very differently (which I am apparently not doing well enough) because a women corrected me in el mercado. Fair enough, but when I say it really fast, it sounds the same to me! Must fix this. I can’t be telling a guy I’ll pay 10 hurts for his painting.
4. Question, what is with the ku klux klan statues and posters everywhere? To be clear, nothing is racist about these except for our own knowledge of its connotation in the US. They are simply men (maybe women?) in klan hoods and robes in blue or black. Perhaps it is a religious thing?  
5. Security guards for parking lots carry guns. Just small pistols. I’ll let you guess what the police men/tourism security carry. (Hint: shotguns). It’s a little disconcerting to say the least.
6. And now, to the stunning finish. I would have thought that someone would have mentioned that the pipes in Ecuador are muy delgado, or skinny. Meaning that, when Adrienne attempted to use the facilities this evening, to her dismay, the toilet would not flush. I only find out because she walks into my room, wide eyed and asks, “Sarah, have you been flushing the toilet paper down the toilet?” I reply yes, of course. “Francia just said we’re not supposed to do that. I’ve been doing that this whole time!” O dios mio. There is no plunger. Francia is not fazed, she says that she’s been meaning to put up a letter in the bathroom so people know. Adrienne and I are sitting in the kitchen, mortified and so sorry that we had clogged this poor woman’s toilet with toilet paper.  She disappears for a moment and comes back with a wire hanger, determined to fix the problem. Her nieta, Monteserra, (la hermana de Constanza) who has visited with her Grandmother for the evening, is quite handy, opening up the upper tank of the toilet and declaring that the piolo has been cut. She fishes out plastic string from the courtyard and fixes the problem. Adrienne and I are relieved, but still feel very bad. Then I ask Adrienne, “So. Then. Where are we supposed to put the toilet paper?” In the trashcan. This raises other issues for me, mainly about sanitation, but I’m not going to judge. That’s just the way it is here. 

El Hospital IESS

Today, or rather, very early this morning, Adrienne, James, Eve (the other students with me in the group, more on them in another post) and I grabbed a taxi to our first clinic visit.

I still need some time to process everything and will most likely have more to say at a later time, but for now, I want to tell you what I saw. I want to be able to remember tomorrow, because I suspect that even 24 hours will find me caught in another new experience, another whirlwind.

The taxi quickly takes us past la puerta de urgencia (where we are supposed to meet Dr. Jimenez) and drops us off unceremoniously at the wrong door. Our first task: navigate the hospital and meet our doctor at the correct door, on time.

It is surprising how far a white coat and a name tag will take you in an Ecuadorian hospital. There are police and security everywhere, but they merely step aside and allow three grigos and one asian girl to pass. We try some doors--no luck. In a second attempt, we turn a corner, down a long hall and are met with possibly the longest line of people I have ever seen, waiting patiently for a clinic to open. As much as I look at them and wonder what they are doing, what problems they have, and how long they´ve been waiting, they look at me with an equal amount of curiousity.

We take the back way and end up inside the emergency room(s). No Dr. Jimenez. Confused and overwhelmed, what I remember most about the hospital, in this moment, is the smell. I know people remark on the unique smell of hospitals all the time, but there was this strange stale musty-ness to the place. I didn´t know if I could last the four hours.

We wait and, as our group sticks out SO much, Dr. Jimenez finds us before we find him. Greetings, nervous laughter, we follow him up to the third floor: surgery.

He only has two patients today and as such, our visit will only be for about an hour rather than 4.

A side note here: medical spanish is NOT like conversational spanish (much like medical english is not like conversational english).

So, Dr. Jimenez, an extremely generous man, lifts up the first patient¨s gown to reveal a bloated belly with a bandage and a colonstomy (sp?) bag. I don´t know what I was expecting, but my stomach turned a little. This first patient didn¨t really bother me so much, but what else would I be seeing? What else would I be asked to touch, to feel?

Overwhelming to say the least...

(I will continue this later, as I am with some other students, visiting Mariscal today.)

Ñ=

The title of this post, dear friends, was intended to be a happy face. Unfortunately, the keyboards in Ecuador are a bit different from the ones at home. Question marks and @, for example, require some work on my part. :) As do smilely faces.

This being said...please forgive me for los typos. It isn´t me, it´s the keyboard. I promise!

Quito is a Sausage.

¡Claro que si! Constanza, la nieta de me homestay abuela (se llama Francia) dice que la ciudad de Quito parece una salchicha. Como un "hot dog".

I laughed when I heard this, and, as nervous as I was, began to relax na little as Constanza and her Brazilian boyfriend, Marcos, pick me up from the airport. They assure me that my SPanish is, in fact, very good, seeing as how this January, Francia had two students from Australia and Hong Kong, neither of whom spoke a lick of español.

Bueno. ¿Porque Quito parece una salchicha? (I am guessing that salchicha also doubles as slang for something else, because Marcos gives a huge guffaw to hear his adopted city described as such). Constanza chuckles.

She explains in the dark, as we drive past buildlings and signs (which remind me of downtown LA) that Quito is surrounded to the East and West by a large mountain range and volcanoes. Pichincha is the name of the mountain range and the volcano is called Guagua Pichincha (guagua is pronounced wa-wa and means ¨baby¨in Quicha, an indigenous language). Because of Pichincha, the development of the city has stretched along the North and the South, como una salchicha. Quite narrow and long!

Marcos and Constanza give me a small tour of the city or, at least, the part of the city that I need to know to maneuver myself through the next few days. There is not much I can see in the dark, except for the illuminated signs of the McDonald´s, KFC, TGI Fridays, and yes, Tony Roma´s. Ecuadorians apparently love their American franchises. Also there is a Chinese restaurant (Chifa) that is owned by Koreans. Note to self: will eat here later.

Finally, I arrive ¨home¨. The neighborhood is quiet--everyone here apparently sleeps, as Constanza puts it, from 10 to 10. Marcos grabs my bags, assuring me that they are not too heavy (they are). ANd the three of us make small talk about the practicality of my two bags as we wait for Francia to answer the door.




She doesn´t.



Constanza peeks through the window and giggles to herself. She says something in very fast spanish to Marcos and he, again, guffaws. ¿Que tal? I ask.

Francia has fallen asleep in the back room, in her chair, with the TV on. I look for myself and see the tiniest old woman stooped over. When standing, she reaches the bottom of my chest. Adorable.

We let ourselves in, I introduce myself and share photos of my family. (Mom and Dad, they all think you look too joven to have a daughter as viejo as me. In fact, Francia asks me, ¨Tienes tres hermanos? D0s hermanos (Dad and Jon) y una hermana?¨) We laugh a lot.

And then, I feel incredibly dizzy. La altitud, Constanza says.

Yep, I have altitude sickness. Just some nausea and light headedness so far, nothing too severe. Walking up the steep hills of Quito and Old Quito are not just daunting because of the necessary leg work, but, due to the altitude, I feel like an 80 year old woman, winded and heart pounding. This, of course, is getting better with each passing day.

Walking up and down the streets is an experience in and of itself, by the way. The other students keep telling me about the huge asian population they read about in their guidebooks, but, gathering from my non-encounters and the looks of people off of the street, that doesn´t seem to be the case. Little kids on the street shout out, ¨Grrrrriiiiiiiiiiingoooos!" to the other students, but only stop to give me stares. It was alarming at first--I had wanted to ¨fit in¨, but clearly, that is NOT going to happen. So now, I´m embracing my super-tourist persona. It´s much easier to impress people with my Spanish and (thank God) everyone speaks much more slowly. I know I have to be extra careful, because I stick out like a sore thumb, but so far, no problemas.

While the altitude sickness and the asian invasion were bummers, my room is cheerful and bright. It is painted a peachy yellow with a dresser and mirror and a large clost. I do have my own room, though there are two beds. When I lay down, I feel as though I am in a hammock. There are daffodils on my sheets--they make me smile.

And perhaps, friends, this is where I should leave you for the time being. There is much more to say and write, but another time.

--Sarita.

Antes de Ecuador.

This morning, I was awakened by the sound...of my own voice. Speaking in really bad Spanish.

It's a first, but it comes as no surprise since the small, quiet moments of my days this week (showers, dishwashing, staring blankly at the computer screen, etc.) have been dominated by one-sided conversations (this sounds better than "I talk to myself") designed to ease my nerves about speaking en espanol y solo espanol por dos meses. These conversations go something like this:

Hola.
Me llamo Sarah.
Como esta?
Mucho gusto!

And then, getting braver...
El vuelo fue muy largo pero bueno, gracias por preguntar.
Perdoname, repita por favor? Mi espanol es todavia no muy bueno.
Este pais es muy hermosa y la gente son muy agradables.
Ojala que...

And this is where I start to panic, because I know that I have to conjugate into el subjuntivo, but I've completely forgotten how. Then I remember that I'm forgetting MUCH MORE: mandatos y imperativos, el preterito y imperfecto, los pronombres, basically, dios mio.

So, that's how I've been for the last week, in between packing, overpacking, repacking, looking at pictures of Ecuador, and realizing how surreal it all is as I'm washing down my first malaria pill with a swig from my portable water purifier (which tastes slightly of iodine).

Six months ago, two months in Ecuador seemed like a cake-walk. Now that my flight is tomorrow, I'm a 5'8" bundle of nerves, excitement, hope, fear, and vaccinations.

Nerves: What if everyone makes fun of my Spanish? Let's be honest, it'll get an A in class, but it is "le suck" for the real world.
Excitement: I can't believe I'm going on this incredible adventure. I've always wanted to travel alone and now, I am! My Spanish is going to be so much better! I'm going to meet so many people and try so may new things!
Hope: I hope I learn a lot about the Ecuadorian healthcare system. I hope I get a really good feel for clinic work. I hope to come back changed. I hope the sights take my breath away.
Fear: Don't get malaria, don't get malaria, don't get malaria. I hope I don't do something that will completely offend my homestay family. I better not lose my passport. What if I get pickpocketed?
Vaccinations: Hep A, Hep B, Flu, Typhoid, Yellow Fever, Rabies. Check.

Deep down, I know that everything will be okay. And I've grown used to the fact that I have no idea what to expect...except that I will miss my family and loved ones terribly. In fact, I miss you already.

So this is me, in all my earnest, before Ecuador. Wish me luck and I'll see you when I get back!

In the meantime, some fotos of where I'm going, even before I get there. 

Besos y abrazos, 

Sarita