Joined the Dark Side

Okay folks, here's the deal:

 

After 2.5-ish years on Blogger, I have run out of space for photos.  I have to pay $2 and something-or-other cents per month in order to get more storage space.  That's about as much as a lunch here costs, and, as much as I love you, dear readers, I am not prepared to sacrifice my last seco de pollo in Ecuador for you.  A girl's gotta eat.

 

So.

 

I defected.

 

I crossed the line.

 

I joined the Dark Side.

 

If you want to read about the remainder of my time in Ecuador, you can go here, to http://jordanenecuador.wordpress.com
I hear there's already a post up there.

 

*Note that the spelling is slightly different; this time it's the Spanish en versus the English "in."  I'm fancy like that.

 

My WordPress blog isn't as pretty, but it has 3GB of free space for photos - triple the amount than Blogger - which should be more than enough to get me through the home stretch (finish line: December 18th, when I'll be homeward bound).  Also, it's called "WordPress," which sortof makes it sound like when I sit down in front of my computer to write a blog post I'm benching words and doing exercise.  It's a great ego boost.

 

Goodbye forever,

Jordan

For Which Guasmo is Named

This is the fruit of the guasmo tree, for which Guasmo - the marginalized urban sector that's been my home for the past 2.5 years - is named.  Back in the 1970's, when Guasmo was a growing area, these trees were so abundant as to become the moniker for the entire vicinity that now houses over 500,000 people.  40-odd years later, I've never seen one of these trees in Guasmo itself, whose blocks are jammed with houses and whose streets are now (for the most part) paved.  Back then, Guasmo was a backwater estuary community, unincorporated into the Guayaquil municipality and lacking in amenities.  Now, it's a bustling developed area, and practically speaking is a city unto itself.

Today some of the girls I work with accompanied me to a part of Guasmo I am less familiar with.  I'm always amazed at how different the atmosphere can be once you walk the length of a few blocks, the nearly palpable sensation of crossing the invisible barrier from one neighborhood into the next.  Guasmo truly is a labyrinth, in the sense that with every twist and turn of the streets one must also sort out all senses of sight, smell, taste, touch, and sound.

Ironically, the guasmo tree is nowhere to be found in Guasmo.  The one pictured here grows in the city cemetery, an hour away.  The fruit are like spiny pods or nuts, and they smell tantalizingly of some kind of tangy berry; they would be a good ingredient to a mulled cider or wine.  Inside are housed tiny seeds.

 

I may or may not have picked this guasmo fruit up off the ground and put it in my mouth.

 

It's all in the name of science, and being a rebel.

 

Guasmo Love,

Jordan

Photo of the Month

Remember those colored parachutes they used in lower school gym class?

The one pictured above has been through three generations of Peace Corps Volunteers: my sitemate passed it on to me when she ended her service, and I have now passed it on to some newer volunteers.  They recently inaugurated an arts center to work with children in their beachside town. 

Looks like they are already putting the parachute to good use.  Hopefully it will continue to encourage smiles (and photo opps) in the years to come.

Día de los Difuntos

Every year on the 2nd of November, families across the country come home.  The bus terminals crowd over as children and grandchildren who have moved away travel back to be with the older generations in the places they all grew up.

Each hometown is slightly different in the customs its residents observe on this Day of the Dead.  The indigenous populations in and around Otavalo gather the family at the gravesite of a deceased loved one, spread a blanket, and unpack a full picnic, turning the cemetery into a festive, if solemn, outing that unites the entire community.  Cuenca is known for the candlelight vigil that parades through the streets on the eve of the holiday, as well as for offering the best of the foods - colada morada and guaguas de pan (bread in the shape of swaddled babies) - traditionally associated with Day of the Dead.

Guayaquil, in many ways set apart from the rest of the country, does neither of these things.  Perhaps this is due to its large transient populations; many who live here associate elsewhere with "home," and so end up leaving the city for the holiday.  Those who do have their roots here often come from different backgrounds as well, meaning that in the end, there is no one custom for Guayaquilenians to follow when it comes to Day of the Dead. 

Nevertheless, some friends and I made the trip out to the city cemetery on November 2nd to see what was what and to pay our respects.  We encountered more people in the cemetery on that one day than I have seen all the other days of the year put together.  Most families simply tended their loved ones' graves, clearing off overgrowth, touching up paint, and adorning headstones with flowers.  A few had brought blankets and food (eating the deceased family member's favorite dishes at their gravesite on this day is a way to remember, honor, and share with them).  Many families or individuals were lost in prayer or contemplation, standing in front of the burial sites of their loved ones.

I am thankful to have had the opportunity to join these people in reflecting on past presences and memories.  It seems fitting to gather our thoughts with a glance backward, carrying them with us as we prepare to finish out the year and look toward the future.

It's that time of year again...the time for...

THE TIME FOR WHAT???

Here's your first clue:  It's purple.

Here's your second clue: It's not a dinosaur.

Here's your third clue: I went to the market today.  The basket was so heavy I nearly got hit by cars several times on the way home.

Ladies & Gentlemen, may I now present...the cast of Colada Morada 2012!!!!!!

 

[applause, applause]

 

This is Black Corn Flour, the star of the show.  Miss Flour's personality is perfect for the role: poised and subtle in demeanor until, out of the blue, she stuns you with a breathtaking moment of pure brilliance.  Everyone agrees that she imbues any production with a rich color that would otherwise be lacking.  We eagerly await her performance.

Señorita Naranjilla hails from the exotic tropics.  She's a feisty one; she and the director suffered some creative differences, leading to a number of public arguments, broken nails, and hurled stiletto heels.  Now that she's mastered the basics of anger management, Srta. Naranjilla adds some much needed zest to the ensemble.

 

 

The perfect counterbalance to Srta. Naranjilla, Señor Panela is all sweetness.  Rumor has it that the ring is bought and the only question is when he will pop The Question.



Piña is a funky dude who doesn't let his hair get in the way of his work: he is 100% dedicated and will throw his entire self, from the skin to the core, into any professional endeavor.



Herbs.

Spices.

Herbs and Spices are the rival factions of supporting roles in this production.  The constant petty antogonizing between the two groups will make you feel like you're back in high school.  When threatened by a common enemy, however, Herbs and Spices are the first to agree that, in this play, There are no small parts, only small actors -- and then forget about the common enemy and turn to look accusingly at each other.

It's no secret that Mr. Mortiño feels somewhat out of his element among this cast of highly skilled, highly experienced actors.  He is content to play his part with emphasis and meaning, ever serious and always seeking to serve his fellow castmates out of a strict sense of duty.  People tend to wonder whether he ever goes out and has fun.

Miss Mamey plays the unassuming matron who's got more than one surprise up her sleeve, and she fits her character to a tee.

The first of several redheads to join the cast, Señorita Frutilla is a down-home country girl, but she's not without her quirks.  (Tell me, do you know of any other fruit whose seeds are on the outside?)

Señorita Ciruela lives up to the stereotype: yes, she's got a taste for sass, but she's also got a heart of gold.

 

Doña Mora, the reigning redhead of the bunch, practically oozes emotion and evokes strong responses from every audience.  An experienced and versatile performer, she commands respect in any role.

So that's that. Basically what you do is boil a bunch of stuff in one pot, and a bunch of other stuff in another pot. 

Herbs and Spices come into play here, Spices being cinnamon; cloves; and allspice, and Herbs being the things on the left, only two of which I can positively identify (citronella and orange leaves).  Of the other two, one smells lemony, and one is, I am fairly certain, colloquially called a "monkey tail."

Thank you for your interest in herbology, and yes, there will be a test.


So after you've boiled your monkey tails, &tc.; and boiled your berries; and strained both mixtures separately, this is what you've got:

A bowl of pineapple-sugar-spice-and-herbs water, a bowl of berries, and the pièce de résistance: the black corn flour.  Watch the transformation when we take a bit of the mulled spice liquid and mix it with the flour...

...et, voilà: jewel tone purple.  This is where colada morada (purple colada) gets its name.  Colada morada is a traditional Ecuadorian drink consumed on the Day of the Dead (November 2).  In the week or so leading up to the actual day, you can find it sold on the streets and in restaurants, or even from family owned shops and private homes, and if you go to the market you'll see sacks of black corn flour, piles of ciruelas, bricks of panela, little bags of mortiños, rows of mamey, and bundles of herbs every which way you look.

To finish brewing our colada, we throw everything together into a pot and then add in whatever fruit hasn't already been boiled. This includes more pineapple, as well as the ciruelas, which are a type of plum.


It also includes the mamey.

I'd never cut one of these open before, but if you've ever cut a mango, then you know what it's like, what with trying to navigate around the pit.


Only the mamey has not one...not two...but three separate egg-sized pits.  Oh, joy.

Throw it all in the pot, let it simmer, and give it a stir.

 

You've got yourself some colada morada.

 

Happy Halloween!!!

The Garden is Ba-aaaaack

This year has been a challenging one for the garden.

 

Twice, we lost our seedlings.

 

Once, someone broke in and tore up part of the fencing and some of the beds.  (As evidenced by the lengths of cane resting against the trunk of a nearby mango tree, the mystery hooligans were using the cane slats to knock down mangos.)

 

And now, finally, we have something to show for the work we've put into the garden - planting and replanting and re-replanting seedlings, and lots of repairs - :

 

Green things are growing!  Callooh, callay!

Here, we have our bell peppers.

And loads and loads of radishes.

The determination of the handful of people from the garden group who have stuck with it thus far is inspiring and will, I hope, see at least a partial harvest before the rains come.  Keep growing, little green guys, and bring us some veg to eat!

This, That, The Other, Their Twin Sister and Their Mother

Life is all about being frazzled.  That's how the saying goes, right?  ...Right?

1. It's been two months since my trip to Peru and Machu Picchu.  Many of you have started to make sneaking comments that you would like to hear about it, or at least see pictures.  I will get right on that (which in my language means maybe a week?).

2. One of my kids gave me a flower! which I promptly brought home and set up for a still life photo shoot.

This one I call "Flower."

This one I call "Flower II."

This one I call "Flower III."

This one I call "Bob's Yer Uncle."

This one I haven't decided what to call yet, so if you think of something, let me know.

 

2. I got a hole in my jeans, again. 

Remind me to tell you about my experience with holey jeans getting exponentially holier with every passing day; after that, I got this pair patched right up.

3. There are too many cats in my life lately.

So I gave one away. 

Does this make me heartless?  Answer: Only with respect to my friend who took the cat in and has been rewarded with consecutive nights of interrupted sleep as my former pet frolics among the rafters.

4. Biggest news in Ecuador: There's a new beer!

 

It wasn't actually on the news; the last thing I actually saw on the news was a recap of the United States presidential debates with a ticker-tape at the bottom of the screen reading "Obama won the debate."  Hmm, I wonder how they figure that?


More importantly, there's this new beer!  On the scale of Ecuadorian beers (which, generally speaking, runs from Option #1 all the way to Option #2), it falls right smack dab in the middle.

5. The best part about a trip is...

 

 

...crossing the Río Guayas into the lovely evening view of downtown Guayaquil. 

Love & Fried Plantains,
jordan

On the Playlist: Yo No Sé Mañana

Here's some salsa for ya.  This song by Nicaraguan singer Luis Enrique is something of a standard.  I have fond memories of it, as it's one of the songs that's frequently featured in the soundtrack of daily life - played on buses, tinny-sounding store radios, blared at bars on the weekend, etc. - over the past 2,5 years I've spent in Ecuador.  It's about love, and hope, and the past, and the future.  Mostly, though, it's just darn fun.

 

Making Chocolate

Ecuador was once famous for its cacao (cocoa).  It still is, to a degree.  From the mid-nineteenth to the early twentieth century, Ecuador was one of the world's largest producers and suppliers of cacao.  Then, in the 1920's, the cacao crisis hit, bringing with it a larger economic downturn.  Since then, Ecuador has not regained the same level of cacao production it once had.

That's not to say, however, that the farmers aren't trying.  Many of the PC-Agriculture volunteers here have worked with cacao farmers, cooperatives, and other organizations.  I could delve much deeper into the topic, talking about the different types of plants, the pros and cons of each, etc.  But I won't bore you with that.  Instead, I will show you simple proof that chocolate is indeed being made in Ecuador!  I witnessed the process; I tasted the final product; and it was good.  Amen.

It all starts with the seedlings.  The seedlings grow into plants.  The plants grow really big.  They produce pods the size of your face.  And when you split a ripe cacao pod open, here's what it looks like:

 

 

There's a column of seeds nestled inside, covered in a filmy white coating.  If you pop the seeds into your mouth, you'll find that the coating is tangy and tasty -- but make sure not to bite into the bean itself, which is extremely bitter.  This is the part that is used to make chocolate.

 

The next step is roasting and drying the seeds:

 

In the streets of Guayaquil cacao beans are spread in the sun to dry.  They make great rectangular patches of brownish orange color.  In the heat they diffuse a subtly exotic perfume ... Occasionally the natives walk among the beans, stirring them about with their bare feet that all may have a turn in the sunshine.

 

That description was written by Blair Niles and published in her book Casual Wanderings in Ecuador in 1923, nearly one hundred years ago.  If you are riding through coastal Ecuador today, you will see the same thing, albeit with some subtle differences.  The great rectangular patches are still there, laid out on cement patios in the golden light of the afternoon sun.  Nowadays, they're tended to with rakes instead of bare feet.  And while you'll see yards filled with cacao in the countryside, you won't find them in Guayaquil.  In Blair's day, so clean a little city is Guayaquil that the fragrance of drying cacao clings to our memory of it, uncontaminated by anything more gross.  I am sad to say (and my olfactory sense is likewise sad to confirm) that this is no longer the case.

 

When the drying and roasting process is complete, the cacao beans look like this.

Next up: grinding the beans.

For the demonstration we saw, a small hand grinder was used.  Specifically, we made one of the little boys do the hard work while we stood back and snapped pictures.  The cacao beans went in the top, and after being grinded, they dropped out onto the plate below as a lumpy, oily paste.

At this point, you have the option of implementing various methods to refine your cacao paste.  You can remove the oil.  You can add sugar.  You can mix it with milk.  You can set the paste into molds to form bars.  You can do combinations of the above.

Rather than bother with carrying out these minutae, however, our hosts ushered us over to a table that had been prepared before our arrival:

On it were various fruits native to Ecuador (all of which, I am happy to report, pair exceedingly well with chocolate), as well as chocolate in its various stages -- on the left, the cacao pods; in the center, roasted cacao beans; and on the right, molded chocolate.

The chocolate we tasted was very dark and bitter.  If you like dark chocolate, I recommend roasted cacao nibs for a crunchy, savory snack.  The drink we were served was pure, unrefined cacao paste mixed with hot water - another type of hot chocolate, if you will (we would, and we did).  If you let it sit long enough, you could see the oil separate and rise to the top of the glass.

My favorite version of the chocolate we tried, however, was the ganache, made by mixing cacao paste with milk.  We drizzled it all over various tropical fruits - papaya, mamey, melon, and starfruit.  Add a sprig of mint and you're good to go.

 

Que viva el chocolate!  Say it with me now...Vivaaaaaa!

The Mench Strikes Again

Menchie's been MIA lately.  For about a year, I'd say.  Maybe more.  He first appeared in Ecuador two years ago come November, and from there he started popping up in place after exotic place.  He's quite the little traveler.

His latest trip was one step more adventuresome: he braved the cold and windy slopes of Mount Chimborazo.  Chimborazo is an inactive volcano whose peak (approximately 20,500 feet) is the furthest possible point from the center of the earth.  This is due to the way the earth bulges and to the mountain's position on the globe (very close to the equator).

Summiting requires guides, climbing skills, and crampons, seeing as the top of the mountain is completely covered by glaciers.  We set our sights a little lower: making it to the bottom of the glacier. 

Day 1: We hiked from the base of the mountain, which is surrounded by fields and livestock, and made it past the first hut and up to the second by mid-afternoon.  The change in altitude was dramatic.  Immediately upon reaching the hut, we put on more layers, unrolled our sleeping bags, and climbed in to wait until dinnertime.

Upon which we woke up, cooked, ate, and promptly hunkered back down in our sleeping bags for the cold night ahead.

Every time I find myself in this type of sleeping situation, I say a special prayer that I will not have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night: it is pretty darn cold.

Usually though, I have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Which was the case on Chimborazo.

Despite the discomfort of forcing yourself out into the dark, windy night, the blessings of the situation always include a breathtaking view: dark shadows of the Andes rising up all around, perhaps with a pocket of light in the distance denoting a bigger city, and the sky above that looks so deep you can see layer upon layer of stars.  And then turning away from all the vastness and wriggling back into your own warm sleeping bag.

Day 2: In the morning, we woke to blue skies and a clear view of Chimborazo behind us:

Despite the strong winds (see photo above), we made it to the glacier and back in one piece.  Incidentally, did you know that if a piece of volcanic ash blows into your eye, it solidifies and cements itself to your eyeball?  ...But that's another story for another time.

Birds, and the Noises They Make

Not too long ago, a group of songbirds made it their habit to sing me awake in the morning.  (Well, I doubt that was their intent, but it was certainly their effect.)  Every morning for about two weeks, they'd alight on the shared terrace outside my apartment and warble away to their hearts' content. 

The first day it happened, I awoke confused: the reverberating chorus had an unearthly quality about it, as if it were playing inside my head, a surprising melody emanating from some unknown place within me, rather than coming from an external source.

I hopped out of bed and rushed to the window.  There were five of them perched on the windowboxes, and when they sang they threw back their heads - beaks pointing straight into the air - and bent their legs as if the gathered effort of the entire body were required to release the song inside.  And it may well have been; I saw images of my high school chorus instructor admonishing us to give ourselves "good support" and sing "from the diaphragm!"

The birds faced inward, throwing their song into the sound-amplifying space towards my door.  Apparently they liked to hear themselves sing.

 

Alas, one morning they failed to appear.  I was forced to drag my own sorry self out of bed, taking a bleary look out the window before resorting to coffee: No sign of them.  I felt a fleeting moment of regret at the absence of my morning songbuddies and then went about the business of waking up (which, for me, is slow and tedious).

 

Little did I know that fleeting moment would come back to haunt me.

 

Four or five nights ago, I woke up around 3:30am to a strange sound coming from the street outside.  It was a kind of hoarse, throaty sound somewhere between a moan and a hacking cough.  Strangely, it repeated at intervals.  That last sentence probably clued you, dear reader, in on what the sound actually was.  Later, around 6am, I would realize that the conjectures floating through my mind at that earlier, groggier hour - drunk guy retching; person with stomach ulcers; woman giving birth - made no sense in connection with the sound itself.  At the time, I simply pulled the pillow over my head and went back to sleep.

 

Lucidity at 6am, when the hacking sound renewed itself with a vengeance.  My eyes flew open.  It couldn't be.  Not here.  I live in the largest city in Ecuador.  There is an extensive bus system, about 20 different shopping malls, and if I really wanted to I could, for my own entertainment, pay money to bounce around inside a giant inflatable hamster ball floating on a pond.  What I'm trying to say is, There's infrastructure! commercialization! and something resembling culture!

 

YET.

 

Guess what else there is in Guayaquil?

 

I'll tell you what else there is in Guayaquil, there's roosters in Guayaquil.  Live roosters.  The kind my colleagues who live in rural areas complain about.  The kind that wake you up at all hours of the night and morning.  I should know, there's one living right down the street from me and he's been announcing his presence at the worst moments all week.

 

In a frenzy of research on how to get roosters to can it, I came across something helpful in the trusty advice column of a back issue of our Peace Corps-Ecuador volunteer magazine:

 

Do you know anything about training a rooster to crow at 6am instead of 3am?
Sleep Deprived in Súa

So here is the thing about roosters: they usually crow when they wake up.  If your rooster is crowing at 3am without any sign of dawn, I say there is a problem with its circadian rhythm.  One’s circadian rhythm is pretty much an internal clock dominated by a light exposure, namely the sun.  Nicknamed the “Third Eye,” the superchiasmatic nucleus is responsible for the functioning of the circadian rhythm in humans.  I’m not that familiar with avian neuroanatomy, but I would guess the rooster has some analogous nucleus which operates in a similar fashion.

So what do you do?  If the answer isn’t obvious enough, you simply need to blindfold your rooster.  When?  The best time to nab your male chicken is when it’s asleep, BUT don’t remove the blindfold until around 6am, or whatever time you want for that matter.  After a week or two of blindfolding, your rooster’s biological clock will start to adjust to this new schedule.  The only thing you’ll have to worry about is that you may have obviated its use as an alarm clock because you’ll be waking up before he does.

By the way, I knew all that stuff about circadian rhythms BEFORE I fact checked myself with various web-based resources.

This pearl of wisdom comes to us from Ronald, long-time advice columnist and our in-house expert on Everything.  Practically speaking, here is what Ronald's advice means for me:

 

Step 1 Find the rooster's house

Step 2 Sneak in and blindfold the rooster every night

Step 3 Sneak in and unblindfold the rooster every morning

 

As for a contingency plan...  Despite the fact that I've never harmed an animal in my life, I really would love to get my hands on this one. I'm sure I could manage.

Un poco picante

Ají is the name of the spicy peppers that grow in profusion in this part of the world.  At the market, the pepper vendor points them out to me in order of más picante (the stunted, unripened green ají) to medio picante (the ripe yellow, orange, and red peppers the size of my little finger) and then on to the other, bigger pepper species.  "Poco pica," he says of this last group, shaking his head despondently.

I ask for the ripe peppers and he hesitates, inquires don't I want the más picante?  I shake my head no, knowing from firsthand experience just how spicy the green ají are: last year, one of my more mischievous students picked one off a bush near the community center and offered it to me, he and his friends shrieking in laughter at my reaction (which was to spit it out rather violently).  Oftentimes it seemed that my students and I were there to entertain each other at each other's expense, me laughing at their childish shenanigans and they at my bumbling efforts to speak and act as an Ecuadorian.  It certainly made for an interesting atmosphere in the community center classroom, and I think one that was on the whole more productive than in their normal school classrooms, where they are expected to sit still, copy from the board, be silent unless called on, and behave.  In any case, we were all learning together, which made us more of a team than anything else.

Nowadays, I work less with the kids at the community center, but I still try to avoid the green ají.  The pepper vendor grabbed a plastic bag and scooped some peppers into it for me, tied it with a flourish, and accepted my quarter with a Gracias, que le vaya bien.  Frankly, I don't know how he makes a living.  The Ecuadorian palate generally abhors food that is even remotely spicy.  He must work hard to move the ají along, but the good-sized handful I bought for a mere 25 cents still left me wondering how in the world he makes a profit.

The one thing ají is used for on a common basis here is in a salsa of the same name.  Any restaurant will have a small bowl of ají on each table, and it's commonly made and kept in the house as well.  It goes with basically any dish you can imagine: empanadas, soups, stews, fried eggs...sortof like some people use ketchup in the States.  There are a few staple ingredients (the ají peppers, tomato, onion, cilantro, lime juice, salt), but aside from those it is up to whoever's making it to decide what other ingredients to add, how to make it, and the level of picante they want it to be. 

I tend to get excited when I find a restaurant where the ají is actually spicy, and I'm routinely disappointed by the watered-down versions that are more popular.  So, in the spirit of being self-sufficient and adventuresome, I decided it was time to adopt the habit of making my own ají and keeping it at home.  Which is how I found myself buying a whole 25 cents worth of ají peppers at the market.

There are different types of ají; the recipe I use was found on this website, which features quite a few gems of Ecuadorian cuisine. 

The gist of it is, you squeeze the lime, mince up the rest of the ingredients, and throw everything in the blender with a bit of potable water.  It comes out looking something like the goo the Swamp Monster might live in (not too appetizing).

Typically, the ají you find here is heavily tomato based and will be red in color.  But this kind - this is the seriously spicy kind, sans tomato.  Like most other ají, it's fairly watery (so it doesn't compare much to Mexican-style salsa, probably what the majority of Americans are familiar with in the way of salsas), which simply means it soaks up well in rice, plantains, or whatever it's mixed with.  Dee-lish.

Best things about this ají sauce: you can tweak it however you want, and it gives a healthy dose of zing to pretty much everything.  My eyes are watering in anticipation.