Thursday, August 21, 2008
I Wanna Be Like Mike (Phelps, That Is)
One of my secret wishes in life is to be an Olympian. When I was eight-years-old, I saw Picabo Street bomb down the slopes in Nagano and decided that it was my dream to become a gold medalist in alpine skiing. As I grew older, my love for politics and music took over, banishing my dreams of skiing stardom to the realm of memories. Every two years, the Olympics invade my television screen, inspiring little Antigone’s athletic dream to escape its cerebral confines and revolt against big Antigone’s intellectualism and pragmatism. As the 2008 Summer Olympics come to a close, I need your help, dear reader. What sport can an aggressive but uncoordinated nineteen-year-old pick up and pursue all the way to the Olympic stage? Keep in mind that I am not fast, but I have a lot of endurance and an eight-year-old’s enthusiasm.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning to Be Freed of Injury. I Will Reject Them at the Doctor's Door.
I have never felt much passion for changing U.S. health insurance. Yes, I have rambled about the plight of millions of uninsured Americans. But have I ever made much effort to enact change? No. I come from an upper middle class family. Until the end of college, I will be covered by both of my parents' extensive health insurance plans. What do I have to worry about? As I discovered this week: plenty.
Last Wednesday, I broke my ankle at my summer job in Massachusetts. Early this week, I set about finding an orthopedist to monitor my care near my mother's home in New Jersey. Normally, I am able to call the doctor who has the best referral and quickly receive an appointment that does not even require a copay. This time was different.
(Please note that this was not our verbatim conversation.)
Receptionist: Do you have insurance?
Antigone: Yes. It's a Massachusetts Worker's Compensation case (since the injury happened at work, it is not covered at all by my personal health insurance).
Receptionist: Sorry. We do not handle Worker's Comp.
I tried another orthopedist. The second office was less elitist. They accepted Worker's Comp claims, but not from other states. I called office after office. Each receptionist gave me the same reply: they were not willing to treat a patient covered by Massachusetts Worker's Compensation. I called my insurance adjuster and asked for her advice. Her best recommendation: drive to Massachusetts for weekly x-rays and appointments.
In the end, I found care. My mother called in a favor from a friend who works at a major hospital. The same day, a pediatric orthopedist returned a message that I had left, saying that he might be able to help me. Even though I found a doctor, I am outraged. My ability to receive care from an orthopedist who has been trained to treat adult bones should not depend on who my mommy and daddy know. We really live in a country where it is the norm for doctors to refuse to treat major injuries on the basis of bureaucratic red tape.
Last Wednesday, I broke my ankle at my summer job in Massachusetts. Early this week, I set about finding an orthopedist to monitor my care near my mother's home in New Jersey. Normally, I am able to call the doctor who has the best referral and quickly receive an appointment that does not even require a copay. This time was different.
(Please note that this was not our verbatim conversation.)
Receptionist: Do you have insurance?
Antigone: Yes. It's a Massachusetts Worker's Compensation case (since the injury happened at work, it is not covered at all by my personal health insurance).
Receptionist: Sorry. We do not handle Worker's Comp.
I tried another orthopedist. The second office was less elitist. They accepted Worker's Comp claims, but not from other states. I called office after office. Each receptionist gave me the same reply: they were not willing to treat a patient covered by Massachusetts Worker's Compensation. I called my insurance adjuster and asked for her advice. Her best recommendation: drive to Massachusetts for weekly x-rays and appointments.
In the end, I found care. My mother called in a favor from a friend who works at a major hospital. The same day, a pediatric orthopedist returned a message that I had left, saying that he might be able to help me. Even though I found a doctor, I am outraged. My ability to receive care from an orthopedist who has been trained to treat adult bones should not depend on who my mommy and daddy know. We really live in a country where it is the norm for doctors to refuse to treat major injuries on the basis of bureaucratic red tape.
Antigone Cannot Wander
Last Wednesday, I broke/fractured my ankle. I will be in a plaster cast until mid-September. Having finished my 80+ hour per week summer job, I am spending most of my time sitting in bed with my leg propped in an upright position. My immobility leaves me with plenty of time to share my musings with you, dear readers. Check in for updates.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
''I Knew a Donkey... And You, Sir, Are No Donkey.''
I arrived in Chachapoyas planning on doing a day-trip to Kuelap (a pre-Incan site recently opened to tourists) and wound up signing up for a three-day jungle trek. I think that my family's Target disability has impacted my travel habits (we once went to Target to buy a blender and left with a full set of patio furniture). Big Box Syndrome aside, I do not regret my decision. How could I let myself be chauffeured to Kuelap after receiving the opportunity to hike through jungle for three days, stumbling upon obscure, vine-covered ruins, before falling at the feet of Kuelap's majestic, white walls?
Dear reader, I am going to torture you. I am not going to share most of the details of my trek with you. On Sunday, I will return to the States, at which point you will be able to pump me with questions. Until then, you will have to be satiated by a mere anecdote.
On the second day of the trek, my guide announced that I was going to ride a mule through the Andes for five hours. After eating breakfast, our host (we had spent the night on a coffee farm in an obscure Andean village, three hours away from the nearest road) led me to the front of his house and introduced me to Mula, my beast of burden. When I tried to pet my new furry friend, my host protested. He told me that Mula liked to kick. Then, he told me to mount the animal. I climbed atop Mula, making every effort to avoid his angry hoofs, and began my journey.
As I rode along, I discovered the Mula was no middle-of-the-road mule. No, he preferred to stick to the right edge of the path. This practice proved to be extremely hazardous for my face. I constantly had to duck under Peruvian tree branches, which was difficult because my hair was entangled in the jungle vines. Whenever the mule took my on a scratch adventure, his minder yelled at him in pitchy, ungrammatical Spanish mixed with indigenous colloquialisms that sounded like the language in the computer game "The Sims."
The anecdote ends here, my friends. Will Antigone survive her treacherous mule ride through the Andes, or will she come home severely disfigured? Find out at Newark Airport on Sunday!
Dear reader, I am going to torture you. I am not going to share most of the details of my trek with you. On Sunday, I will return to the States, at which point you will be able to pump me with questions. Until then, you will have to be satiated by a mere anecdote.
On the second day of the trek, my guide announced that I was going to ride a mule through the Andes for five hours. After eating breakfast, our host (we had spent the night on a coffee farm in an obscure Andean village, three hours away from the nearest road) led me to the front of his house and introduced me to Mula, my beast of burden. When I tried to pet my new furry friend, my host protested. He told me that Mula liked to kick. Then, he told me to mount the animal. I climbed atop Mula, making every effort to avoid his angry hoofs, and began my journey.
As I rode along, I discovered the Mula was no middle-of-the-road mule. No, he preferred to stick to the right edge of the path. This practice proved to be extremely hazardous for my face. I constantly had to duck under Peruvian tree branches, which was difficult because my hair was entangled in the jungle vines. Whenever the mule took my on a scratch adventure, his minder yelled at him in pitchy, ungrammatical Spanish mixed with indigenous colloquialisms that sounded like the language in the computer game "The Sims."
The anecdote ends here, my friends. Will Antigone survive her treacherous mule ride through the Andes, or will she come home severely disfigured? Find out at Newark Airport on Sunday!
Friday, May 16, 2008
Adventures in Transport
On Tuesday, I left dear Ecuador for the unknown territory of northern Perú. I am not kidding about northern Perú being a bit clandestine. Only one percent of all tourists who fly into Lima go north instead of south.
Before I arrived, I expected Ecuador and Perú to be similar. They are neighbors and, were both inhabited by the Inca. I was shocked when I walked across the bridge at the border and discovered a completely different accent, idiomatic vocabulary, and pace of life. Total culture shock!
After I crossed the bridge, I was allowed to reboard the bus (for the record, I was on a bus from Loja, Ecuador to Piura, Perú). We had only been on the road for twenty minutes when we were stopped at a police checkpoint (one of three that we would encounter while leaving the border). At one checkpoint, the officer interrogated me for five minutes because he thought that I was an Ecuadorian travelling on a fake U.S. passport. He tried very hard to trick me into admitting my ''true'' nationality.
I finally arrived in Piura at 4:30 PM (the bus ride lasted ten hours). However, I did not get to enjoy the town because I had to transfer to a 6:00 PM bus to Chiclayo. I finally got to go to bed at 10:00 PM.
When I woke up the next morning, I discovered one sign of northern Perú's underdeveloped tourism industry: convoluted public transportation. Basically, the entire city of Chiclayo gets around in combinas, cars that are as small as mini vans or as large as VW busses. When a Chiclayoan wants to go somewhere, they flag down a combina with a sign for their destination or they go to the correct station (for the record, all of the stations are located in different corners of the city and have no infrastructure). You wind up with vans packed like clown cars travelling to neighboring towns.
I used the combinas to go to archaeological sites for two days. Then, it was time to move on. Last night, I boarded a 7:00 PM bus to Chachapoyas. What was supposed to be an eight-hour ride morphed into a fifteen-hour test of road block endurance. At midnight, we rolled to the stop on a windy road in the middle of the Andes. A group of local workers had shut down the highway to protest their meager wages. They only earned five soles per day (in other words, they had to clothe, shelter, and feed their entire families with fewer than two dollars every day). They threatened to keep us immobile for twenty four hours, but finally let us move on at 3:30 AM. As the bus sped up, I finally fell asleep. I had had trouble earlier because all of the men sitting around me had been snoring. Three hours later, we neared Chachapoyas and discovered another paro. The highway was closed until 7:00 PM for road repairs. A group of Spanish exchange students could not stand the wait. They staged a riot in front of the road blockade. Finally, the police agreed to let us pass. I arrived in Chachapoyas at 10:00 AM, feeling exhausted.
Before I arrived, I expected Ecuador and Perú to be similar. They are neighbors and, were both inhabited by the Inca. I was shocked when I walked across the bridge at the border and discovered a completely different accent, idiomatic vocabulary, and pace of life. Total culture shock!
After I crossed the bridge, I was allowed to reboard the bus (for the record, I was on a bus from Loja, Ecuador to Piura, Perú). We had only been on the road for twenty minutes when we were stopped at a police checkpoint (one of three that we would encounter while leaving the border). At one checkpoint, the officer interrogated me for five minutes because he thought that I was an Ecuadorian travelling on a fake U.S. passport. He tried very hard to trick me into admitting my ''true'' nationality.
I finally arrived in Piura at 4:30 PM (the bus ride lasted ten hours). However, I did not get to enjoy the town because I had to transfer to a 6:00 PM bus to Chiclayo. I finally got to go to bed at 10:00 PM.
When I woke up the next morning, I discovered one sign of northern Perú's underdeveloped tourism industry: convoluted public transportation. Basically, the entire city of Chiclayo gets around in combinas, cars that are as small as mini vans or as large as VW busses. When a Chiclayoan wants to go somewhere, they flag down a combina with a sign for their destination or they go to the correct station (for the record, all of the stations are located in different corners of the city and have no infrastructure). You wind up with vans packed like clown cars travelling to neighboring towns.
I used the combinas to go to archaeological sites for two days. Then, it was time to move on. Last night, I boarded a 7:00 PM bus to Chachapoyas. What was supposed to be an eight-hour ride morphed into a fifteen-hour test of road block endurance. At midnight, we rolled to the stop on a windy road in the middle of the Andes. A group of local workers had shut down the highway to protest their meager wages. They only earned five soles per day (in other words, they had to clothe, shelter, and feed their entire families with fewer than two dollars every day). They threatened to keep us immobile for twenty four hours, but finally let us move on at 3:30 AM. As the bus sped up, I finally fell asleep. I had had trouble earlier because all of the men sitting around me had been snoring. Three hours later, we neared Chachapoyas and discovered another paro. The highway was closed until 7:00 PM for road repairs. A group of Spanish exchange students could not stand the wait. They staged a riot in front of the road blockade. Finally, the police agreed to let us pass. I arrived in Chachapoyas at 10:00 AM, feeling exhausted.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Antigone Goes to Jail
On Saturday, I decided to spend my afternoon visiting a women's prison in Quito. At two o'clock, I hopped on a public bus, laden down with a bag of toiletries for the inmates and my passport. I took the bus to the northernmost stop. Then, I hailed a taxi. When I asked the driver to take me to El Inca, he became noticeably silent. Eager to make the situation less awkward, I unsuccessfully tried to chat him up. When we finally reached the street with the entrance to El Inca, the cabbie asked me if I wanted to be dropped off at the corner or the gate. I requested door-to-door service.
When I entered the prison, I had to give my passport to a receptionist. She proceeded to place two large, appropriately tattoo-like stamps on my arm. Then, she sent me to another woman. The second lady searched my bag of drug store goodies and placed her hand in between my breasts. I was about to shout in shock when I realized that she merely needed to frisk me. After I passed inspection, I was led inside.
When someone says the word prison, I think of monolithic, gray walls, ascetic accommodations, and orange jumpsuits. I was very surprised when I discovered a yellow alley lined with inmate-run tiendas and cafés. There were hundreds of women wearing street clothes. They were surrounded by friends and family who had come to celebrate Mother's Day. The prison employee left me with an inmate selling candy bars. I gave the vendor the name of a South African prisoner that I had received at my travel club, Leona. The vendor began to buzz about like a bee. ''¿Dónde está Leona? La gringa quiere hablar con ella.'' We eventually found Leona in the courtyard. She was participating in a Mother's Day dance party. As I walked up to my host, I began to ask myself why I had come. Why would this woman want to speak with me?
Leona ended up being very eager to talk. She shares a top bunk with he mother so that she can save on rent (yes, you have to pay for your berth in an Ecuadorian prison), so my new face was welcome. She showed me around the prison, told me about the schedule, and introduced me to her friends.
We spent a lot of time with Penny Lane, a Brazilian dancer who had been convicted of nacotrafficking. Penny was larger than life. Like a four-year-old, she participated in all activities with vigor until she became bored. Then, she flitted away. We would talk for ten minutes, then dance for ten minutes, then talk, then dance, and on and on. In between salsa lessons and techno dance-offs, Penny told me about some of the inmates' more gruesome crimes. She pointed to one woman and said, ''She filled an infant's corpse with cocaine and tried to carry it across the border, as if it were alive. We still don't know where the baby came from.'' She also told me that the majority of prisoners were Colombian, not Ecuadorian.
The saddest moment came when a severely mentally retarded, twenty-five-year-old woman, Lennie, joined our group. Leona explaind that Lennie was not a convict. When Lennie was a girl, her mother had been arrested. No one in her family or community had wanted to deal with her handicap, so she went to prison, where her mother could care for her. She had spent most of her life inside of El Inca's walls.
As the day wore on, Penny, Leona, and I talked a little more. I learned that the true source of injustice in the Ecuadorian penal system as the corrupt judiciary. Some women had been waiting three years for a trial. Then, we danced to Leona's favorite song, ''Love Generation.'' At 4:30, I had to leave. I bought one of Leona's hand-made cards. Then, she and Penny walked me to the gates. They invited me to come back, promising to make a huge Brazilian lunch. I said goodbye to the most hospitable hosts that I ever met and walked out into the free world.
When I entered the prison, I had to give my passport to a receptionist. She proceeded to place two large, appropriately tattoo-like stamps on my arm. Then, she sent me to another woman. The second lady searched my bag of drug store goodies and placed her hand in between my breasts. I was about to shout in shock when I realized that she merely needed to frisk me. After I passed inspection, I was led inside.
When someone says the word prison, I think of monolithic, gray walls, ascetic accommodations, and orange jumpsuits. I was very surprised when I discovered a yellow alley lined with inmate-run tiendas and cafés. There were hundreds of women wearing street clothes. They were surrounded by friends and family who had come to celebrate Mother's Day. The prison employee left me with an inmate selling candy bars. I gave the vendor the name of a South African prisoner that I had received at my travel club, Leona. The vendor began to buzz about like a bee. ''¿Dónde está Leona? La gringa quiere hablar con ella.'' We eventually found Leona in the courtyard. She was participating in a Mother's Day dance party. As I walked up to my host, I began to ask myself why I had come. Why would this woman want to speak with me?
Leona ended up being very eager to talk. She shares a top bunk with he mother so that she can save on rent (yes, you have to pay for your berth in an Ecuadorian prison), so my new face was welcome. She showed me around the prison, told me about the schedule, and introduced me to her friends.
We spent a lot of time with Penny Lane, a Brazilian dancer who had been convicted of nacotrafficking. Penny was larger than life. Like a four-year-old, she participated in all activities with vigor until she became bored. Then, she flitted away. We would talk for ten minutes, then dance for ten minutes, then talk, then dance, and on and on. In between salsa lessons and techno dance-offs, Penny told me about some of the inmates' more gruesome crimes. She pointed to one woman and said, ''She filled an infant's corpse with cocaine and tried to carry it across the border, as if it were alive. We still don't know where the baby came from.'' She also told me that the majority of prisoners were Colombian, not Ecuadorian.
The saddest moment came when a severely mentally retarded, twenty-five-year-old woman, Lennie, joined our group. Leona explaind that Lennie was not a convict. When Lennie was a girl, her mother had been arrested. No one in her family or community had wanted to deal with her handicap, so she went to prison, where her mother could care for her. She had spent most of her life inside of El Inca's walls.
As the day wore on, Penny, Leona, and I talked a little more. I learned that the true source of injustice in the Ecuadorian penal system as the corrupt judiciary. Some women had been waiting three years for a trial. Then, we danced to Leona's favorite song, ''Love Generation.'' At 4:30, I had to leave. I bought one of Leona's hand-made cards. Then, she and Penny walked me to the gates. They invited me to come back, promising to make a huge Brazilian lunch. I said goodbye to the most hospitable hosts that I ever met and walked out into the free world.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Airport
Having grown up in a post 9/11 world within site of Ground Zero, I am accustomed to hour-long security lines, multiple ID checks, and the like. Thus, I was very surprised when it only took me five minutes to check-in and clear security for a domestic Ecuadorian flight. I did not even have to show photo ID or take off my shoes!
At first, the lack of security made me nervous. Bush had gotten to my head. I wanted air marshalls and liquid bans, and to be told what color of danger I was living under. Then, I realized that no reasonable, publicity-minded terrorist was going to blow-up a flight going to Cuenca, Ecuador. Living in an obscure, developing country certainly has its benefits.
At first, the lack of security made me nervous. Bush had gotten to my head. I wanted air marshalls and liquid bans, and to be told what color of danger I was living under. Then, I realized that no reasonable, publicity-minded terrorist was going to blow-up a flight going to Cuenca, Ecuador. Living in an obscure, developing country certainly has its benefits.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday
Some people suffer from a case of the Mondays. Yesterday, I was inflicted with the Thursdays.
It all started when I had to take my students on a field trip. We went to the Ecuadorian equivalent of Discovery Zone. The kids jumped in a ball pit, climbed up and down twisty tube slides, and traversed the monkey bars. Of course, the wild games had to be accompanied by general chaos. Here are the highlights:
-One of the two-story twisty tube slides was hemorrhaging bolts and screws. We had to close it, sparking juvenile rebellion.
-I met the cheekiest male that I have ever interacted with in my entire life (and, living in Ecuador, that is saying something). He was ten-years-old and repeatedly tried to feel me up.
-One of my four-year-olds ran away. He decided that he wanted to cross a bunch of busy streets and go to his house to get ice cream. It took us twenty minutes to find him. I have seldom been so frightened.
My afternoon was relatively tranquil. I went to a Spanish class and checked my e-mail. In the evening, I went to a friend's presentation about hiking and climbing in Ecuador. There were four other audience members: a Ukrainian, a German, a cantankerous old Scot, and a man with a machete. Mr. Machete was attending the presentation for the third time. At the end, he pulled me aside and told me that my friend was very famous, that it was an honor to be in his presence. I left the room, only to hear him have a conversation with the crazed Scot. They discussed climbing, hiking, and criminal records. Then, they left together. As Mr. Machete walked out the door, he whipped out his weapon and announced that he would have no problems with muggers on public transportation. I ran to a corner and laughed so hard that tears spilled from my eyes.
It all started when I had to take my students on a field trip. We went to the Ecuadorian equivalent of Discovery Zone. The kids jumped in a ball pit, climbed up and down twisty tube slides, and traversed the monkey bars. Of course, the wild games had to be accompanied by general chaos. Here are the highlights:
-One of the two-story twisty tube slides was hemorrhaging bolts and screws. We had to close it, sparking juvenile rebellion.
-I met the cheekiest male that I have ever interacted with in my entire life (and, living in Ecuador, that is saying something). He was ten-years-old and repeatedly tried to feel me up.
-One of my four-year-olds ran away. He decided that he wanted to cross a bunch of busy streets and go to his house to get ice cream. It took us twenty minutes to find him. I have seldom been so frightened.
My afternoon was relatively tranquil. I went to a Spanish class and checked my e-mail. In the evening, I went to a friend's presentation about hiking and climbing in Ecuador. There were four other audience members: a Ukrainian, a German, a cantankerous old Scot, and a man with a machete. Mr. Machete was attending the presentation for the third time. At the end, he pulled me aside and told me that my friend was very famous, that it was an honor to be in his presence. I left the room, only to hear him have a conversation with the crazed Scot. They discussed climbing, hiking, and criminal records. Then, they left together. As Mr. Machete walked out the door, he whipped out his weapon and announced that he would have no problems with muggers on public transportation. I ran to a corner and laughed so hard that tears spilled from my eyes.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Coastal Saga Continues
If you thought that the fun ended in Jipi Japa (I still love that name), you were wrong.
Lorelai and I arrived in Puerto Lopez around 11:00 AM. The air was full of salt and the beach was in sight, but we still could not go swimming. Since arriving in Ecuador, Lorelai had developed an allergic reaction. I will spare you most of the medical details. It suffices to say that she could not poop without feeling excruciating pain. As a result, our first priority in Puerto Lopez was finding a doctor. I had spent the past day calling the International Association for Medical Assistance to Travellers and assorted American consulates. When we were on the bus, the American Consulate in Guayaquil finally called with the name of a doctor down the street from our hostel in Puerto Lopez.
After checking in, Lorelai and I shuffled down the street to the doctor (apparently, walking fast was also very painful). We climbed up two flights of stairs and were greeted by Doctor Developing Country, decked out in scrubs and flip-flops. Dr. DC did not speak any English and Lorelai did not speak any Spanish, so I got to translate. After sitting down in a dark office with blood stains and a used syringe on the floor, Lorelai began to describe her symptoms.
After asking Lorelai to diagnose her ailment (I thought he was supposed to be the doctor), Dr. DC began asking about the affected area. I translated the questions and responses and, I admit, elicited my fair share of nervous giggles. In the end, Dr. DC sent me to buy urine and stool sample cups at the pharmacy down the street. He told Lorelai that she had an hour to poop because he wanted to be out of the office by 1:00. Lorelai and I went out to lunch and made our best effort to order stool-friendly food.
1:00 PM rolled around. Lorelai could not do number two. We returned to the office. I explain to Dr. DC that Lorelai had not met the poop deadline.
Antigone: Would you please look at her condition and make a diagnosis based on what you see?
Dr. DC: No. I am too embarassed. However, I will give her a prescription. Tell her to take these four medicines and stop using her anti-malarials.
Antigone: Why should she stop taking anti-malarials?
Dr. DC: Because they're the root of her problem.
Antigone: But she's only been on anti-malarials for two days. Her condition started two weeks ago!
Dr. DC: Oh, well, she should still stop taking them.
Lorelai and I left the office, confounded by Third World medicine, but finally free to go to the beach. We bought daquiris from a nearby stand and plopped down on the shore. The next two days were very relaxing. We swam, stared at fishing boats, ate fresh fish, and visited Isla de la Plata, ''the Poor Man's Galapagos.''
On Wednesday, we decided to move onto Montañita, the surfing capital of Ecuador. When we first arrived, Montañita was a cute, little beach town filled with chiseled men in board shorts. Lorelai and I read on the beach, played in massive waves, and made friends with surfer dudes. When the weekend came, our mundo was turned up-side-down. President Correa had declared Thursday, May 1 a national holiday. By Friday, the beach was filled with umbrellas, and downtown Montañita seemed more like a partying theme park than a village. At night, music spilled from all of the clubs and bars, and dance parties spontaneously generated in the streets. Most people gave up sleeping. Clubs blasted music until 6:00 and construction projects began at 8:00. I celebrated my youth for practically 45 hours straight (granted, I managed to squeeze in a 2-hour long nap). Then, I boarded a bus to Guayaquil at 5:00 AM on Sunday morning, the beginning of a thirteen-hour trek back to Quito.
My journey home was an exhaustion-induced mind trip. I crashed as soon as I sat down on the quiet bus, only to be shaken awake by the driver.
Driver: Two gringos are trying to run onto the bus. They say that you have their tickets.
I had originally planned to travel home with Chad and Whiny, two Americans studying abroad in Quito. Lorelai wanted to stay in Montañita to take Spanish classes. After buying tickets for the bus to Guayaquil (the first leg of the trip), Chad and Whiny had met a random girl on the beach who offered to let them go directly to Quito in her car when she overheard them mention their destination. I had elected to stick with the bus. Hitchhiking in Ecuador sounded like a bad idea, even if it would save me four hours. At 5:00, Chad and Whiny realized that they could not find their ride. Thus, they decided to chase after the bus. When they finally boarded, I was very tired and confused. I started talking loudly at them in a Spanish and English. Then, we all crashed in our seats after I gave the driver our shared ticket.
We arrived in Guayaquil at 8:00, spent an hour in the terminal going to the bathroom and eating breakfast. Then, we hopped on a nine-hour bus to Quito. When I finally got home at 6:30, I was smelly and spent.
Lorelai and I arrived in Puerto Lopez around 11:00 AM. The air was full of salt and the beach was in sight, but we still could not go swimming. Since arriving in Ecuador, Lorelai had developed an allergic reaction. I will spare you most of the medical details. It suffices to say that she could not poop without feeling excruciating pain. As a result, our first priority in Puerto Lopez was finding a doctor. I had spent the past day calling the International Association for Medical Assistance to Travellers and assorted American consulates. When we were on the bus, the American Consulate in Guayaquil finally called with the name of a doctor down the street from our hostel in Puerto Lopez.
After checking in, Lorelai and I shuffled down the street to the doctor (apparently, walking fast was also very painful). We climbed up two flights of stairs and were greeted by Doctor Developing Country, decked out in scrubs and flip-flops. Dr. DC did not speak any English and Lorelai did not speak any Spanish, so I got to translate. After sitting down in a dark office with blood stains and a used syringe on the floor, Lorelai began to describe her symptoms.
After asking Lorelai to diagnose her ailment (I thought he was supposed to be the doctor), Dr. DC began asking about the affected area. I translated the questions and responses and, I admit, elicited my fair share of nervous giggles. In the end, Dr. DC sent me to buy urine and stool sample cups at the pharmacy down the street. He told Lorelai that she had an hour to poop because he wanted to be out of the office by 1:00. Lorelai and I went out to lunch and made our best effort to order stool-friendly food.
1:00 PM rolled around. Lorelai could not do number two. We returned to the office. I explain to Dr. DC that Lorelai had not met the poop deadline.
Antigone: Would you please look at her condition and make a diagnosis based on what you see?
Dr. DC: No. I am too embarassed. However, I will give her a prescription. Tell her to take these four medicines and stop using her anti-malarials.
Antigone: Why should she stop taking anti-malarials?
Dr. DC: Because they're the root of her problem.
Antigone: But she's only been on anti-malarials for two days. Her condition started two weeks ago!
Dr. DC: Oh, well, she should still stop taking them.
Lorelai and I left the office, confounded by Third World medicine, but finally free to go to the beach. We bought daquiris from a nearby stand and plopped down on the shore. The next two days were very relaxing. We swam, stared at fishing boats, ate fresh fish, and visited Isla de la Plata, ''the Poor Man's Galapagos.''
On Wednesday, we decided to move onto Montañita, the surfing capital of Ecuador. When we first arrived, Montañita was a cute, little beach town filled with chiseled men in board shorts. Lorelai and I read on the beach, played in massive waves, and made friends with surfer dudes. When the weekend came, our mundo was turned up-side-down. President Correa had declared Thursday, May 1 a national holiday. By Friday, the beach was filled with umbrellas, and downtown Montañita seemed more like a partying theme park than a village. At night, music spilled from all of the clubs and bars, and dance parties spontaneously generated in the streets. Most people gave up sleeping. Clubs blasted music until 6:00 and construction projects began at 8:00. I celebrated my youth for practically 45 hours straight (granted, I managed to squeeze in a 2-hour long nap). Then, I boarded a bus to Guayaquil at 5:00 AM on Sunday morning, the beginning of a thirteen-hour trek back to Quito.
My journey home was an exhaustion-induced mind trip. I crashed as soon as I sat down on the quiet bus, only to be shaken awake by the driver.
Driver: Two gringos are trying to run onto the bus. They say that you have their tickets.
I had originally planned to travel home with Chad and Whiny, two Americans studying abroad in Quito. Lorelai wanted to stay in Montañita to take Spanish classes. After buying tickets for the bus to Guayaquil (the first leg of the trip), Chad and Whiny had met a random girl on the beach who offered to let them go directly to Quito in her car when she overheard them mention their destination. I had elected to stick with the bus. Hitchhiking in Ecuador sounded like a bad idea, even if it would save me four hours. At 5:00, Chad and Whiny realized that they could not find their ride. Thus, they decided to chase after the bus. When they finally boarded, I was very tired and confused. I started talking loudly at them in a Spanish and English. Then, we all crashed in our seats after I gave the driver our shared ticket.
We arrived in Guayaquil at 8:00, spent an hour in the terminal going to the bathroom and eating breakfast. Then, we hopped on a nine-hour bus to Quito. When I finally got home at 6:30, I was smelly and spent.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
How I Got To the Beach
This week, I decided to go to the beach with Lorelai, an Americorps vet who is traveling for three months before pursuing a Psy. D. Lorelai and I have only known each other for one week. However, we get along extremely well. We feel totally comfortable talking about our bodily functions and bowel movements. It is like I am at home.
Lorelai and I began our journey on Saturday with a ten-hour bus ride to Guayaquil. Highlights:
Movies: An Italian porno followed by a docudrama about the Cambodian Genocide.
Creep: A food vendor who stepped into the seat behind me and stroked my scalp.
Confused: A woman who, believing that I was indigenous, tried to strike up a conversation in Kichwa with me in the bathroom. She was shocked to learn that I spoke Spanish.
Cute: A cop who boarded the bus and ordered all of the men to get off with their luggage. As soon as they disembarked, he ordered them to get back on.
When we arrived in Guayaquil at 8:30 PM, we discovered a three-story bus terminal with every fast food chain imaginable. I felt like I was back at O’hare Airport. Since Kate and I had arrived late, we were glad that we had already booked a hostel. We hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take us to Hotel Ecuador, which had been recommended by a prestigious guidebook. Planning does not always help you get ahead. We were greeted by cement walls, bugs, hot, stagnant air, yelling neighbors, and a pubic hair on my towel. Unwilling to search for another establishment and satisfied with Hotel Ecuador’s security, we stayed the night.
The next day, Lorelai and I woke up at 9 AM, breakfasted on chocolate croissants at a luxury hotel (even backpackers need to indulge), and hit up Guayaquil’s hot spots. My favorite was Parque Bolivar, a public park infested with iguanas, pigeons, and tortoises. Lorelai and I altered between taking flirtatious photos with the lizard life and screaming as we dodged swarms of pigeons and falling iguana poop (apparently, iguanas like to sit in trees). We also tried to avoid the small children who like pulling the iguanas´ tails. Nothing festers with disease like a huge, angry, biting iguana who hangs out with pigeons in a public park.
At five, Lorelai and I decided to go to the bus terminal to find a bus to Puerto Lopez. I say ¨find¨ because it is virtually impossible to obtain an Ecuadorian bus schedule. It is best to go to the terminal and tell one of the screaming bus representatives where you want to go. I have always been able to find a vehicle leaving within fifteen minutes of my arrival. Guayaquil’s terminal was too advanced to have screaming bus reps. It had fancy restaurants, maps, and electronic ticketing systems. Consequently, we were forced to figure out which companies went to Puerto Lopez and find our way around by ourselves. Progress had not led to a better system. When we finally found the right ticket counter, we found out that the last bus to Puerto Lopez had already left. However, we could ride to Jipi Japa (pronounced hippy-hoppa), where, the ticket lady promised, we would be able to hail a bus to Puerto Lopez.
One stressful ride later (we watched a loud action movie while breaking the sound barrier in the rain), we arrived in Jipi Japa. Lorelai and I ran into the bus terminal, eager to make our connection, only to have a group of locals tell us that there would not be another bus to Puerto Lopez until 5 AM. Lorelai and I decided to pow wow. We came to the conclusion that we were stranded in a town so obscure that it was excluded from our guidebook. Best of all, it was named ¨Jipi Japa¨ (Say it aloud. I promise that you will have fun.). We approached a sympathetic teenage girl who directed us to Hostal Agua Blanca, calling it the ¨safest¨ option. It turned out to be incredibly clean, cool, and friendly. Lorelai and I fell asleep watching a Michael Jackson impersonation contest on TV. The next morning, we woke up and took a brief tour of Jipi Japa. It had absolutely no tourism or beautification industry. We had spent the night in an authentic Ecuadorian town.
At 8:45 AM, we caught a bus to Puerto Lopez, our beach destination. One hour later, we arrived without incident. Sea at last. Sea at last. Thank God almight, we had sea at last.
That covers the first 48 hours of my relaxing beach vacation. I cannot wait to see what the rest will bring.
Lorelai and I began our journey on Saturday with a ten-hour bus ride to Guayaquil. Highlights:
Movies: An Italian porno followed by a docudrama about the Cambodian Genocide.
Creep: A food vendor who stepped into the seat behind me and stroked my scalp.
Confused: A woman who, believing that I was indigenous, tried to strike up a conversation in Kichwa with me in the bathroom. She was shocked to learn that I spoke Spanish.
Cute: A cop who boarded the bus and ordered all of the men to get off with their luggage. As soon as they disembarked, he ordered them to get back on.
When we arrived in Guayaquil at 8:30 PM, we discovered a three-story bus terminal with every fast food chain imaginable. I felt like I was back at O’hare Airport. Since Kate and I had arrived late, we were glad that we had already booked a hostel. We hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take us to Hotel Ecuador, which had been recommended by a prestigious guidebook. Planning does not always help you get ahead. We were greeted by cement walls, bugs, hot, stagnant air, yelling neighbors, and a pubic hair on my towel. Unwilling to search for another establishment and satisfied with Hotel Ecuador’s security, we stayed the night.
The next day, Lorelai and I woke up at 9 AM, breakfasted on chocolate croissants at a luxury hotel (even backpackers need to indulge), and hit up Guayaquil’s hot spots. My favorite was Parque Bolivar, a public park infested with iguanas, pigeons, and tortoises. Lorelai and I altered between taking flirtatious photos with the lizard life and screaming as we dodged swarms of pigeons and falling iguana poop (apparently, iguanas like to sit in trees). We also tried to avoid the small children who like pulling the iguanas´ tails. Nothing festers with disease like a huge, angry, biting iguana who hangs out with pigeons in a public park.
At five, Lorelai and I decided to go to the bus terminal to find a bus to Puerto Lopez. I say ¨find¨ because it is virtually impossible to obtain an Ecuadorian bus schedule. It is best to go to the terminal and tell one of the screaming bus representatives where you want to go. I have always been able to find a vehicle leaving within fifteen minutes of my arrival. Guayaquil’s terminal was too advanced to have screaming bus reps. It had fancy restaurants, maps, and electronic ticketing systems. Consequently, we were forced to figure out which companies went to Puerto Lopez and find our way around by ourselves. Progress had not led to a better system. When we finally found the right ticket counter, we found out that the last bus to Puerto Lopez had already left. However, we could ride to Jipi Japa (pronounced hippy-hoppa), where, the ticket lady promised, we would be able to hail a bus to Puerto Lopez.
One stressful ride later (we watched a loud action movie while breaking the sound barrier in the rain), we arrived in Jipi Japa. Lorelai and I ran into the bus terminal, eager to make our connection, only to have a group of locals tell us that there would not be another bus to Puerto Lopez until 5 AM. Lorelai and I decided to pow wow. We came to the conclusion that we were stranded in a town so obscure that it was excluded from our guidebook. Best of all, it was named ¨Jipi Japa¨ (Say it aloud. I promise that you will have fun.). We approached a sympathetic teenage girl who directed us to Hostal Agua Blanca, calling it the ¨safest¨ option. It turned out to be incredibly clean, cool, and friendly. Lorelai and I fell asleep watching a Michael Jackson impersonation contest on TV. The next morning, we woke up and took a brief tour of Jipi Japa. It had absolutely no tourism or beautification industry. We had spent the night in an authentic Ecuadorian town.
At 8:45 AM, we caught a bus to Puerto Lopez, our beach destination. One hour later, we arrived without incident. Sea at last. Sea at last. Thank God almight, we had sea at last.
That covers the first 48 hours of my relaxing beach vacation. I cannot wait to see what the rest will bring.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Time I Told Shirley Temple That I Would Not Take Her To Meet Pablo Escobar
A girl at work is mad at me. ¨Why?¨ you ask. Because I will not accompany her to the jungle surrounding the Ecuadorian-Colombian border.
About one month ago, Shirley Temple (this name is only appropriate because the girl in question was a child star) told me that she was looking for a travel partner for a jungle tour. She had already done all of the research. All she needed was a companion. I signed up.
During the ensuing weeks, I asked Shirley about our jungle plans a few times. She said that I should not worry. All of her German friends had been to the jungle lodge in question. I said, ¨Okay,¨ and agreed to take the trip this coming weekend.
Fast forward to today. Shirley Temple finally agreed to go to the tour company’s office and book our arrangements.
Shirley: So, when would you like to go sign up for the tour?
Antigone: I have to run to a Spanish class. Could give me the company’s address? I think that it would be easier to visit the office separately.
Shirley: I would rather go with you. Would you mind waiting five minutes and going there with me on the way to your class?
Antigone: Fine. My class starts in hour.
Five minutes became twenty. When Shirley finished sending her e-mail, she realized that she did not know where to find the tour company’s office, and would have to track down a more knowledgeable friend. We eventually caught a bus, only to get stuck in traffic. As we went, Shirley told me about how she wanted to book that tour that starts on Thursday morning, meaning that we would have to leave on Wednesday night.
Antigone: But I told you last week: I cannot leave until Thursday or Friday.
Shirley: I thought that you meant you wanted a tour that started on Thursday when you said, ¨I cannot go until Thursday.¨ That’s a problem. I have to be back in Quito on Monday (this was news to Antigone). Maybe they will be able to cut out a day or two out of the tour for us.
A few minutes later, I looked at my watch and realized that I would not be able to go to the tour company’s office and arrive at class on time. I asked Shirley to go without me and text message me the details. I also suggested that she look into other options in case the company was not able to accomodate our schedule. She began to throw a temper tantrum of child star proportions as aroused Ecuadorian men stared, thinking, ¨Yes! Gringa gato fight!¨ Shirley accused me of abandoning her. She told me that she did not need any information about the tour. She had only come to help me (nevermind that she did not know where the office was, or that I was perfectly capable of collecting information on my own). I finally agreed to go to the office for five minutes just to make her shut up.
At the office, Shirley and I found out that we could indeed stay in the same place, but start our programs on different days. Shirley was not interested in this option. It turns out that she really wanted me to go because she was too frightened to take the bus by herself. Next, the friendly company representative showed me a map with the lodge’s location. If my knowledge of cartography served me correctly, it was a charming ecological reserve located deep in the jungle, mere kilometers from the Colombian border and the site where the Colombian military bombed a FARC stronghold, sparking diplomatic controversy (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6178007.stm). I started to have serious misgivings. Not only would I have to survive three days in the middle-of-nowhere with a screaming child star. No. I would also have to spend the entire trip worrying about meeting Pablo Escobar and becoming the next Ingrid Betancourt. I told Shirley that I needed time to think.
In the end, I sent Shirley a tactful e-mail saying that I could not go to the jungle with her this weekend. I have not seen her since the electronic communication and can definitely wait to see her throw a hissy fit in front of our three-year-old students tomorrow.
About one month ago, Shirley Temple (this name is only appropriate because the girl in question was a child star) told me that she was looking for a travel partner for a jungle tour. She had already done all of the research. All she needed was a companion. I signed up.
During the ensuing weeks, I asked Shirley about our jungle plans a few times. She said that I should not worry. All of her German friends had been to the jungle lodge in question. I said, ¨Okay,¨ and agreed to take the trip this coming weekend.
Fast forward to today. Shirley Temple finally agreed to go to the tour company’s office and book our arrangements.
Shirley: So, when would you like to go sign up for the tour?
Antigone: I have to run to a Spanish class. Could give me the company’s address? I think that it would be easier to visit the office separately.
Shirley: I would rather go with you. Would you mind waiting five minutes and going there with me on the way to your class?
Antigone: Fine. My class starts in hour.
Five minutes became twenty. When Shirley finished sending her e-mail, she realized that she did not know where to find the tour company’s office, and would have to track down a more knowledgeable friend. We eventually caught a bus, only to get stuck in traffic. As we went, Shirley told me about how she wanted to book that tour that starts on Thursday morning, meaning that we would have to leave on Wednesday night.
Antigone: But I told you last week: I cannot leave until Thursday or Friday.
Shirley: I thought that you meant you wanted a tour that started on Thursday when you said, ¨I cannot go until Thursday.¨ That’s a problem. I have to be back in Quito on Monday (this was news to Antigone). Maybe they will be able to cut out a day or two out of the tour for us.
A few minutes later, I looked at my watch and realized that I would not be able to go to the tour company’s office and arrive at class on time. I asked Shirley to go without me and text message me the details. I also suggested that she look into other options in case the company was not able to accomodate our schedule. She began to throw a temper tantrum of child star proportions as aroused Ecuadorian men stared, thinking, ¨Yes! Gringa gato fight!¨ Shirley accused me of abandoning her. She told me that she did not need any information about the tour. She had only come to help me (nevermind that she did not know where the office was, or that I was perfectly capable of collecting information on my own). I finally agreed to go to the office for five minutes just to make her shut up.
At the office, Shirley and I found out that we could indeed stay in the same place, but start our programs on different days. Shirley was not interested in this option. It turns out that she really wanted me to go because she was too frightened to take the bus by herself. Next, the friendly company representative showed me a map with the lodge’s location. If my knowledge of cartography served me correctly, it was a charming ecological reserve located deep in the jungle, mere kilometers from the Colombian border and the site where the Colombian military bombed a FARC stronghold, sparking diplomatic controversy (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6178007.stm). I started to have serious misgivings. Not only would I have to survive three days in the middle-of-nowhere with a screaming child star. No. I would also have to spend the entire trip worrying about meeting Pablo Escobar and becoming the next Ingrid Betancourt. I told Shirley that I needed time to think.
In the end, I sent Shirley a tactful e-mail saying that I could not go to the jungle with her this weekend. I have not seen her since the electronic communication and can definitely wait to see her throw a hissy fit in front of our three-year-old students tomorrow.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Ethics
I have spent the past 13 years of my life sitting in classrooms, thinking theoretically. In September, I am going to start a block of at least four more years of intellectual existence (Parents, do not worry, I am not on the five-plus year plan. I am just leaving room for grad school.). In class, when teachers proposed moral dilemnas, I always said that I would take the high road. I said that I would intervene if I saw a man beating his wife, but that I would also try to respect the autonomy of foreign cultures. I wanted everyone to think that I was a hip, enlightened liberal.
Now, I am working in a developing country with people who live on less than one dollar per day and am having to accept that there often is not a clear, moral answer. Four of my students have reported being physically abused by their parents. I am confident that at least two of them are being habitually abused for reasons that exceed castigation. Teenage parents living below the poverty line do not always handle their emotions well. Each time, I have told the social worker at my organization what the children have said; each time, the social worker has spoken to the parents; and each time the parents have claimed that they have not layed a finger on their children, prompting the social worker to do nothing. Apparently three-year-olds who do not know how to imagine magical pairs of shoes can fabricate elaborate stories about their parents pouring boiling water on them and hitting them until they bleed. I asked my boss if Ecuador had a system for intervening in domestic abuse: foster care, counseling, anything. I was told that child abuse is illegal in Ecuador, but that I would be invited to leave the country if I were to report anything to the police.
Normally, when I face a problem or obstacle, I put it on my check-list, deal with it, and then cross it off. Now, I am in the midst of one of the most emotionally painful experiences of my life, and there is absolutely nothing that I, the ultimate get-it-doner, can do. The only solution is to change the system and the culture´s tacit acceptance of domestic violence. But let's be honest: I am a gringa hanging out in Ecuador for six months. The mob will not listen to me.
Feeling powerless in the face of injustice sucks.
Now, I am working in a developing country with people who live on less than one dollar per day and am having to accept that there often is not a clear, moral answer. Four of my students have reported being physically abused by their parents. I am confident that at least two of them are being habitually abused for reasons that exceed castigation. Teenage parents living below the poverty line do not always handle their emotions well. Each time, I have told the social worker at my organization what the children have said; each time, the social worker has spoken to the parents; and each time the parents have claimed that they have not layed a finger on their children, prompting the social worker to do nothing. Apparently three-year-olds who do not know how to imagine magical pairs of shoes can fabricate elaborate stories about their parents pouring boiling water on them and hitting them until they bleed. I asked my boss if Ecuador had a system for intervening in domestic abuse: foster care, counseling, anything. I was told that child abuse is illegal in Ecuador, but that I would be invited to leave the country if I were to report anything to the police.
Normally, when I face a problem or obstacle, I put it on my check-list, deal with it, and then cross it off. Now, I am in the midst of one of the most emotionally painful experiences of my life, and there is absolutely nothing that I, the ultimate get-it-doner, can do. The only solution is to change the system and the culture´s tacit acceptance of domestic violence. But let's be honest: I am a gringa hanging out in Ecuador for six months. The mob will not listen to me.
Feeling powerless in the face of injustice sucks.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
The Latest
THERE'S A HOLE IN THE STREET, DEAR QUITO, DEAR QUITO, A HOLE IN THE STREET, DEAR QUITO, A HOLE
Whereas in the good ole U.S. of A. we have four seasons, Quito only has two: really rainy and not really rainy. Right now I am slogging through the really rainy season. On Monday, all of the rain caused the most important local highway to develop a 40-meter wide hole at one of its most important junctions. Fortunately, no one died. Unfortunately, there are now copious amounts of traffic. This morning, I spent almost two hours taking a normally 25-minute bus ride to work. It was enough time to make friends with guy whose job it is to stand in the bus's doorway and scream out the intended route (do not worry if you have no idea what I am talking about; it is an Ecuadorian thing). He was nineteen, enjoyed volunteering for the Ronald McDonald Foundation, and had a penchant for tongue twisters. I hope that the Ecuadorians fill up the hole soon. This traffic is driving me nuts. Tomorrow it will only get worse. Students and teachers will be back on the busses, going to school after a 2-day, hole-induced break.
I WORK FOR THE UN!
I just became a United Nations Online Volunteer. The UN has a website where people from all over the world can sign up to do Internet-based projects for NGOs and UN bodies in every continent. Right now, I am updating a database (in Spanish) for a Brazilian NGO with an English name. Go figure... I really enjoy being a UN Online Volunteer because it means that I will be able to work in Spanish after I return to the States and network with nonprofits from all corners of the globe.
OTHER EXCITING NEWS
I just got an apartment. I have a bedroom (with faux hardwood floors), walk-in closet, and bathroom just off of a large, rooftop garden overlooking Quito (needless to say, if this apartment were in NYC, the rent would be ten to twenty times as expensive and I would not be able to afford it for a very long time). I share a sizable kitchen with several other tenants. The set-up is perfect because I have plenty of my own space. However, if I want to eat a meal with someone else, I do not have to worry about being lonely.
My university released its fall course catalog yesterday. I think that you can all guess what I did for two hours.
Whereas in the good ole U.S. of A. we have four seasons, Quito only has two: really rainy and not really rainy. Right now I am slogging through the really rainy season. On Monday, all of the rain caused the most important local highway to develop a 40-meter wide hole at one of its most important junctions. Fortunately, no one died. Unfortunately, there are now copious amounts of traffic. This morning, I spent almost two hours taking a normally 25-minute bus ride to work. It was enough time to make friends with guy whose job it is to stand in the bus's doorway and scream out the intended route (do not worry if you have no idea what I am talking about; it is an Ecuadorian thing). He was nineteen, enjoyed volunteering for the Ronald McDonald Foundation, and had a penchant for tongue twisters. I hope that the Ecuadorians fill up the hole soon. This traffic is driving me nuts. Tomorrow it will only get worse. Students and teachers will be back on the busses, going to school after a 2-day, hole-induced break.
I WORK FOR THE UN!
I just became a United Nations Online Volunteer. The UN has a website where people from all over the world can sign up to do Internet-based projects for NGOs and UN bodies in every continent. Right now, I am updating a database (in Spanish) for a Brazilian NGO with an English name. Go figure... I really enjoy being a UN Online Volunteer because it means that I will be able to work in Spanish after I return to the States and network with nonprofits from all corners of the globe.
OTHER EXCITING NEWS
I just got an apartment. I have a bedroom (with faux hardwood floors), walk-in closet, and bathroom just off of a large, rooftop garden overlooking Quito (needless to say, if this apartment were in NYC, the rent would be ten to twenty times as expensive and I would not be able to afford it for a very long time). I share a sizable kitchen with several other tenants. The set-up is perfect because I have plenty of my own space. However, if I want to eat a meal with someone else, I do not have to worry about being lonely.
My university released its fall course catalog yesterday. I think that you can all guess what I did for two hours.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
My Trek Through Indigenous Ecuador
On Monday, I left the cosmopolitan hills of Quito with one mission: to learn about rural Andean life. My friend, Heathrow, and I went to the Terminal Terrestre and caught the first bus to Latacunga. The Trolébus ride to the terminal was an advenutre in-and-of itself. Heathrow and I both had large backpacks and came very close to taking out the shorter Ecuadorians.
Three hours of philosophical discussion later, Heathrow and I arrived in Latacunga, a small, Andean city which has as many barbershops as Manhattan has Starbucks franchises. We checked into a cute hostel which offered cappuccinos, homemade cookies, and crayons, only to discover that some of our friends from Quito were also there. After we unpacked, we went for a walk around town. Downtown Quito may be a UN World Heritage site, but Latacunga and Ibarra are both more beautiful.
The next morning, Heathrow and I woke up early to catch a bus to Laguna Quilotoa. The three hour ride was surreal. We zoomed past stunning, green scenery as locals chatted away in Quichua. I tried to ask a few women questions, only to discover that they did not even speak Spanish. When we finally arrived in Quilotoa, a small town of fewer than 15 buildings, we booked into a hostel (the only one with hot, running water), ate lunch, and embarked on a hike around the laguna.
Laguna Quilotoa is one of the most stunning sites in all of South America (please Google it). It is an old volcano that has turned into a large, green lake. The edges are surrounded by mountains. Heathrow and I hiked around the top. It took us 4.5 hours and drained us of our energy. Not only were we hiking around a precarious ridge with perpetually changing elevation. We were at an altitude of roughly 12,000 feet. When I looked down the mountain, I saw clouds.
Heathrow and I got back to the hostel just in time for dinner. We met a taciturn Swiss couple and three dishy European boys who were willing to debate politics and history for three hours. After dinner, I went to bed. As you can probably imagine, I was very cold. Being near the equator does not keep you warm when you are up, above the clouds.
On Wednesday morning, Heathrow and I took a bumpy, wet camioneta ride to Chugchilán, another small Ecuadorian town. We spent the day relaxing, and the evening debating with the dishy Europeans. Just before dinner, we realized that we would have to catch a 3 am bus so that we would be able to visit a famous indigenous market in Saquisili.
At 2:30 AM, I climbed down from my bunk bed to get ready for the bus, only to discover that Heathrow had never returned to the bunk room. I spent fifteen minutes getting dressed, brushing my teeth, and packing my backpack. Still no Heathrow. At this point, I was concerned. What if Heathrow had been kidnapped in the Andean cloudforest? Would it be better to continue on to a town with cell phone reception, or stay put and look for my friend? Was I, his travel partner, also vulnerable? I threw on my backpack and went to find Heathrow. First, I asked three drunk Swiss tourists if they had seen Heathrow or our European friends. Surprisingly, they were no help whatsoever. I finally found Heathrow in the common room. He had fallen asleep on the couch while talking to the Europeans.
At 3:00 AM, the bus arrived. Heathrow, our European friends, and I all jumped on board. We were greeted by the smell of feces and awful Andean-Ranchero-Electronica fusion music. At 6:30, we arrived in Saquisili. We visited the animal market (a cacophony of squealing pigs and bleating goats) and several fruit stands. Then, we decided that it was time to go home. We hopped on a bus and returned to Quito.
Three hours of philosophical discussion later, Heathrow and I arrived in Latacunga, a small, Andean city which has as many barbershops as Manhattan has Starbucks franchises. We checked into a cute hostel which offered cappuccinos, homemade cookies, and crayons, only to discover that some of our friends from Quito were also there. After we unpacked, we went for a walk around town. Downtown Quito may be a UN World Heritage site, but Latacunga and Ibarra are both more beautiful.
The next morning, Heathrow and I woke up early to catch a bus to Laguna Quilotoa. The three hour ride was surreal. We zoomed past stunning, green scenery as locals chatted away in Quichua. I tried to ask a few women questions, only to discover that they did not even speak Spanish. When we finally arrived in Quilotoa, a small town of fewer than 15 buildings, we booked into a hostel (the only one with hot, running water), ate lunch, and embarked on a hike around the laguna.
Laguna Quilotoa is one of the most stunning sites in all of South America (please Google it). It is an old volcano that has turned into a large, green lake. The edges are surrounded by mountains. Heathrow and I hiked around the top. It took us 4.5 hours and drained us of our energy. Not only were we hiking around a precarious ridge with perpetually changing elevation. We were at an altitude of roughly 12,000 feet. When I looked down the mountain, I saw clouds.
Heathrow and I got back to the hostel just in time for dinner. We met a taciturn Swiss couple and three dishy European boys who were willing to debate politics and history for three hours. After dinner, I went to bed. As you can probably imagine, I was very cold. Being near the equator does not keep you warm when you are up, above the clouds.
On Wednesday morning, Heathrow and I took a bumpy, wet camioneta ride to Chugchilán, another small Ecuadorian town. We spent the day relaxing, and the evening debating with the dishy Europeans. Just before dinner, we realized that we would have to catch a 3 am bus so that we would be able to visit a famous indigenous market in Saquisili.
At 2:30 AM, I climbed down from my bunk bed to get ready for the bus, only to discover that Heathrow had never returned to the bunk room. I spent fifteen minutes getting dressed, brushing my teeth, and packing my backpack. Still no Heathrow. At this point, I was concerned. What if Heathrow had been kidnapped in the Andean cloudforest? Would it be better to continue on to a town with cell phone reception, or stay put and look for my friend? Was I, his travel partner, also vulnerable? I threw on my backpack and went to find Heathrow. First, I asked three drunk Swiss tourists if they had seen Heathrow or our European friends. Surprisingly, they were no help whatsoever. I finally found Heathrow in the common room. He had fallen asleep on the couch while talking to the Europeans.
At 3:00 AM, the bus arrived. Heathrow, our European friends, and I all jumped on board. We were greeted by the smell of feces and awful Andean-Ranchero-Electronica fusion music. At 6:30, we arrived in Saquisili. We visited the animal market (a cacophony of squealing pigs and bleating goats) and several fruit stands. Then, we decided that it was time to go home. We hopped on a bus and returned to Quito.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
You know that you need to get back to school when...
...you write a nine page paper about urban agriculture for a World Bank scholarship competition because you think that the question sounds like fun.
Friday, March 7, 2008
International Women's Day
Tomorrow is International Women's Day. Today, we celebrated at work by parading through the streets of Quito with banners that said, ''Mujeres, tu puedes,'' (women: you can) and other feminist slogans. Guess what my boss said on Monday, immediately after she announced that we were going to have a parade. ''So, we are going to need five strong men to carry a giant female doll along the parade route.'' Ironic?
Sunday, March 2, 2008
¡Soy de la U!
Last night, I went to my first Ecuadorian soccer/football game. Watching football in Latin America is amazing not because of the action on the field, but because of the fans. I spent 90 minutes standing in the middle of a singing, dancing, screaming, drinking mass of quiteños who had shown up an hour early to decorate the stadium with signs and streamers. They even had their own drumline. The crowd was electric for the duration of the game. However, they went nuts whenever La Liga Deportiva Universitaria (the team from Quito) scored a goal. In the end, La Liga won (3-1) and I knew three fight songs.
Football ticket: $4.50
La Liga jersey: $5.00
Going to a football game in Latin America: Priceless
Football ticket: $4.50
La Liga jersey: $5.00
Going to a football game in Latin America: Priceless
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Time Out
Ladies and gents, I just got a promotion at work. I am now Market Secretary. That means that I am the boss of my market nursery school. One of the first changes that I have instituted is an increase in discipline. In the past, the kids wreaked havoc because no one enforced rules. I now give time outs. At first, the kids all wanted time outs. The question, ''¿Quieres un 'time out?'' sounded so exotic. Now, they are starting to realize that it is not fun to sit in corners by themselves.
In addition to augmenting discipline, I have tried to develop more creative activities. This past week, we studied the parts of the body. On Ear Day, we made musical instruments, and on Stomach Day, we decorated cookies.
In addition to augmenting discipline, I have tried to develop more creative activities. This past week, we studied the parts of the body. On Ear Day, we made musical instruments, and on Stomach Day, we decorated cookies.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
In Case You Were Wondering What It Is Like to Swim In Rapids
Yesterday I went white water rafting with South American Explorers in Santo Domingo. The trip was a blast. We hit awesome waves, fell on top of eachother inside of the boat, and got sore from paddling.
At the end of the trip, I got to have my own adventure. We were braving the last section of rapids when I fell out of the boat. Suddenly, I found myself underneath the raft. I pulled myself out, only to be propelled 20 feet away from the boat by the water. I attempted to swim back to the raft, only to get dunked by three massive waves. I swallowed so much water that I felt like I was going to pass out. Fortunately, I did not. I met back up with the raft and my friends pulled me inside.
At the end of the trip, I got to have my own adventure. We were braving the last section of rapids when I fell out of the boat. Suddenly, I found myself underneath the raft. I pulled myself out, only to be propelled 20 feet away from the boat by the water. I attempted to swim back to the raft, only to get dunked by three massive waves. I swallowed so much water that I felt like I was going to pass out. Fortunately, I did not. I met back up with the raft and my friends pulled me inside.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Extra, Extra
Right now, I am sitting in an Internet café next to a man who cannot sing. The owner is watching TV with the volume on high. In spite of all the chaos, I cannot resist the temptation to tell my readers about my latest Ecuadorian discovery: quality broadcast news. That's right. Rupert Murdoch is yet to takeover the equator!
My favorite newscast occurs at 7 am on Equavision. Carlos Vera, the anchor, uses the program as a forum for discussion about Ecuador's in-progress constitution. On the past two mornings, Vera's guests debated the definition of ¨sovereignty¨ and ¨nationality.¨ My politically-active heart is singing. There is a place in this world where it is okay to discuss philosophy on broadcast television!
My favorite newscast occurs at 7 am on Equavision. Carlos Vera, the anchor, uses the program as a forum for discussion about Ecuador's in-progress constitution. On the past two mornings, Vera's guests debated the definition of ¨sovereignty¨ and ¨nationality.¨ My politically-active heart is singing. There is a place in this world where it is okay to discuss philosophy on broadcast television!