Before I even started thinking about applying to Peace Corps, before I landed here in Ecuador, two volunteers carried out their two years' service in Guasmo Sur. The first one arrived in 2006, and the second in 2008. Those were my freshman and junior/senior years of college, respectively. It's strange to think that before Peace Corps was on my radar, other volunteers were already here, living and working and meeting people.
People I would eventually come to meet and work with and live among. These volunteers paved the way for me, and I am very grateful to them. They did a fantastic job, working hard and coming up with creative ideas, so that by the time I got here, people knew what to expect from a volunteer.
Yesterday I got the chance to meet one of these wonderful women. We spent the afternoon together, comparing notes on our experiences as volunteers and walking the streets of Guayaquil. For me, it was as if I were looking at both my past and future in one person: she was able to recount for me the way things were three years ago when she was here, and she also described how her two years in Guasmo Sur shaped and changed her to become the person she is today, doing the work she is doing today. It was spine-tingling, I tell you.
As we walked towards my house, she exclaimed when she realized where I live - a mere block away from her old home. The store my host family owns used to be her go-to grocery stop. She rushed right in and greeted my host father, who greeted her right back.
It's amazing how she knows the same city I do, but in slightly different ways than I. And the city knows her, too.
At the end of the day, it was a relief to sink my head onto the pillow and fall asleep securely in the present. Being almost midway through our service, my training class will soon enough have to start thinking and planning seriously for next steps after Peace Corps. But for now I'm enjoying the luxury of taking one day at a time and not worrying too much about tomorrow...
Jordan in Ecuador Peace Corps Volunteer June 2010 - December 2012
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Chuzo!
In Ecuador, "chuzo" means "shish kebab." It also serves as an exclamation when something bad happens, denoting the general hopelesness of the situation.
Chuzos are exactly what we made to celebrate this July 4th, because ever since my parents visited, the grill has been sitting up here on the terrace, waiting patiently. And The Law Says that if there be a grill available on the 4th of July, it Must Be Used.
By the time I remembered to take pictures of the whole process, however, the food had already been cooked and eaten. (Chuzo!)
I did, however, manage to find the American flags that had been packed in my original luggage upon coming to Ecuador. Pure magic.
Our party consisted of 12 guests representing three countries: Ecuador, the USA, and Spain.
Ecuador provided the beer,
and the USA provided the cookie cake.
Spain provided funding for more beer when the supply got low.
PCV Amanda lives upstairs from me now that Molly has moved out, and it was she who initiated this celebration. Together we went to the market and haggled our way into a basketful of fresh vegetables; one pineapple; one watermelon the size of a small child; and one chicken breast we sincerely hoped was fresh. Then we lugged everything about a block. Then we took a taxi the rest of the way home.
Anyway, Amanda and I are good neighbors. We don't lend each other a cup of sugar; we share sugar out of the same tupperware container. What more is there to say?
Cookie cake, full of neighborly sugar, we salute thee. Que viva friendships both in and outside of the USA. ¡Viva!
Chuzos are exactly what we made to celebrate this July 4th, because ever since my parents visited, the grill has been sitting up here on the terrace, waiting patiently. And The Law Says that if there be a grill available on the 4th of July, it Must Be Used.
By the time I remembered to take pictures of the whole process, however, the food had already been cooked and eaten. (Chuzo!)
I did, however, manage to find the American flags that had been packed in my original luggage upon coming to Ecuador. Pure magic.
Our party consisted of 12 guests representing three countries: Ecuador, the USA, and Spain.
Ecuador provided the beer,
and the USA provided the cookie cake.
Spain provided funding for more beer when the supply got low.
PCV Amanda lives upstairs from me now that Molly has moved out, and it was she who initiated this celebration. Together we went to the market and haggled our way into a basketful of fresh vegetables; one pineapple; one watermelon the size of a small child; and one chicken breast we sincerely hoped was fresh. Then we lugged everything about a block. Then we took a taxi the rest of the way home.
Anyway, Amanda and I are good neighbors. We don't lend each other a cup of sugar; we share sugar out of the same tupperware container. What more is there to say?
Cookie cake, full of neighborly sugar, we salute thee. Que viva friendships both in and outside of the USA. ¡Viva!
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Media Maratón
Today some PCV friends of mine got up around 5am and took a taxi to the stadium - they were going to run a half marathon.
I was not running a half marathon.
So I, coldhearted person that I am, did not get up at 5am to see them off.
After sleeping in a couple extra hours - hours during which my friends were running, panting, sweating, battling amoebas, and praying for it to just be over - I got up in time to meet them at the finish line.
Smiling faces abounded.
And somewhere along the 13.1 miles (21 kilometers), friends were made. The kind of friends who pace with you. The kind of friends who grab your shirt and drag you along when you start to lag behind.
Check out the snazzy shirts the girls wore:
Very official. And on the back:
This pretty much holds true for running in the city as well as the campo (countryside), only substitute "buses, cars, and taxicabs" for "livestock."
And my inner grammarian must point out that "campo running" is not a verb; it is a noun. A gerund, to be exact. Nonetheless, it is for such a T-shirt that I desire to run the half marathon in Guayaquil come October. I must train...especially because everyone today finished right around 2 hours, and my delicate sensibilities would be forever ruined if I could not at least meet the same standards of these highly trained runners who take their sport COMPLETELY SERIOUSLY, no fun allowed.
I was not running a half marathon.
So I, coldhearted person that I am, did not get up at 5am to see them off.
After sleeping in a couple extra hours - hours during which my friends were running, panting, sweating, battling amoebas, and praying for it to just be over - I got up in time to meet them at the finish line.
Smiling faces abounded.
And somewhere along the 13.1 miles (21 kilometers), friends were made. The kind of friends who pace with you. The kind of friends who grab your shirt and drag you along when you start to lag behind.
Check out the snazzy shirts the girls wore:
Very official. And on the back:
This pretty much holds true for running in the city as well as the campo (countryside), only substitute "buses, cars, and taxicabs" for "livestock."
And my inner grammarian must point out that "campo running" is not a verb; it is a noun. A gerund, to be exact. Nonetheless, it is for such a T-shirt that I desire to run the half marathon in Guayaquil come October. I must train...especially because everyone today finished right around 2 hours, and my delicate sensibilities would be forever ruined if I could not at least meet the same standards of these highly trained runners who take their sport COMPLETELY SERIOUSLY, no fun allowed.
Friday, July 1, 2011
July 1st
Today as I was out and about in different parts of the city, I saw three different school parades. Girls were dressed up in the flounced, flowy coastal skirts in Guayaquil colors, and boys were dressed as Juan Pueblo.
Last year when I asked who Juan Pueblo was, all I understood was he's something of a mascot for the city. Kinda like this little guy for the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta.
The difference being that Juan Pueblo, unlike Izzy, is recognizably human. (I pledge to investigate Juan Pueblo further for your future enlightenment.)
Why all the fuss today? Because the 25th of July 1547 (or 1535, depending on who you ask) was the day Guayaquil was founded. And in true Ecuadorian style, ya gotta party all month leading up to the celebration date. It seems like every school and high school in the city had a parade today. One elementary school parade even had a cadre of young guerrilla warriors decked out in camo.
The high school behind my house put together a somewhat tamer presentation featuring a marching band.
I could hear them the whole time as they completed the circuit of side streets near the school, playing marching tunes and yelling "Que viva Guayaquil!"
Welcome to July.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Last Stop: Quito
The last stop on the parentals-and-Jordan vacation was the capitol, Quito. Quito’s a thriving city running the length of a valley that’s very high up in the Andes mountains. Because of the extreme altitude and narrow airspace (the airport is in the middle of the city), pilots have to have a special license to fly in and out of here. At least, that’s what I’ve been told; thus far I’ve found no corroborating evidence. What I did find was this excellent picture illustrating the airport itself and how it's situated in the city.
"Mariscal Sucre International Airport (IATA: UIO, ICAO: SEQU) is an airport in Quito, Ecuador, named after Antonio José de Sucre, a hero of Ecuadorian and Latin American independence. It began operations in 1960, and currently handles about 3.9 million passengers and 125,000 metric tons of freight per year. The airport, one of the highest located in the world (at 2800 meters AMSL) is located in the northern part of the city, in the Chaupicruz parish, within 5 minutes of Quito's financial center; the terminals are located at the intersection of Amazonas and La Prensa avenues."
-Courtesy of pilotoutlook.com
The good news is, a much larger airport is currently being built in a much more open area east of the city. The bad news is, this means yet another cab ride once your plane lands there.
Quito, unlike Cuenca, is so big that public transportation and taxi cabs are not an option, they’re a must. But if taking cabs five and six times a day was the worst part of visiting the city, we had it pretty good. It’s all part and parcel of getting to be a tourist for a few days – which I highly enjoyed.
One of the touristy things we did was take a day trip north to see some sights and visit the famous market at Otavalo. This place will bowl you over with the sheer variety and display of colors. Brightly woven blankets, sweaters, and scarves of wool and alpaca hair; paintings of every conceivable shape and size; purses and shoulder bags, woven or of leather; hand puppets; carved gourds; handcrafted jewelry; dolls; hats; and the list goes on. The stalls fill the square and filter into the side streets. This is the most famous indigenous market in Ecuador, and every Saturday and Sunday it is in full swing, with handicrafts in the square and food stalls lining the perimeter. Gringos stroll down the aisles, and the vendors invite them in. Then follows a whole song and dance based on eye contact, concealed interest, studious perusal of wares, and price haggling. There’s no better place to go to learn how to bargain, and you’ll probably learn the hard way (i.e., by overpaying and finding out later).
The people of Otavalo do not shop here, making their purchases instead closer to the source of the product. On the whole, they are a wealthy and well traveled people. As our tour guide told us, “You could meet an Otavalan anywhere in the world – but in the end, they always come home.” And when they return, they shed their travel clothes and don traditional dress. Otavalo is known for being one of the last big cities where residents still regularly wear traditional outfits, one of which can cost $120-$180, depending on the quality.
[Above are hammocks for sale]
An interesting fact: Because alpaca hair is so fine, it requires special machinery to be processed into weavable material. In the United States you will find alpaca hair, but only ever raw or homespun. This is because the North American alpaca industry lacks the volume of animals to justify the cost of such processing, whereas in South America (notably Peru and Ecuador), you will find all manner of goods woven from alpaca hair. It’s a very lucrative business, as much of these products are exported or sought after by tourists from the north. I didn’t make this up. It came straight out of the mouth of an alpaca farmer from Georgia, USA. No joke. I found myself sitting next to her waiting for a flight that turned out to be delayed until about 4am; I learned a lot about alpaca farming.
But I digress.
Back to being a tourist in Quito. The Old Town is one part of the city that requires a full day of lazy wandering punctuated by coffee & dessert breaks. That is, assuming you don’t get caught in the rain as we did. There is a lot to see, from historic homes to churches to museums to plazas, and the best way to take it all in is step by step.
The morning we spent there happened to be Father’s Day, which is more widely celebrated in Ecuador than in the US. We were pleasantly surprised to arrive to a dance festival featuring performances from various peoples around the country.
Above are some performers from the Sierran province of Azuay, where Cuenca is located.
Below are pictures of some sort of Spanish-influenced dance involving much twirling of skirts and handkerchiefs, followed by a performance in celebration of the harvest by one of the Oriente peoples.
And now, please humor me: I know there are lots of churches in the world, but I am still going to mention one here because of its direct contrast to the church we visited in Biblián (the one where the mountain forms one wall of the church). La Iglesia de la Compañía de Jesús is one of the most oft-visited churches in Quito. Here is a picture of it:
Do not be fooled by its commonplace appearance. Like so many things, it is not what is outside, but what is inside that counts. (Name that movie.)
Directly you walk inside those doors, you wonder if you’ve walked into a gigantic treasurebox. Or maybe you’ve shrunk, you’ve fallen down the rabbithole, it's actually you who are tiny, and you are in a normal-sized treasurebox. What I mean is, This church is molded, plastered, and carved to within an inch of its life – and then gilt in gold leaf to top it off.
Pictures don’t do it justice; you just have to walk inside and see it yourself. It's beautiful. There are so many comments I could make about this particular church being named “The Jesus Company” or “The Jesus Society”…but I will refrain.
Thank you for humoring me. And now, for a breath of fresh air.
A great way to get oriented to the city is to get a good view from up top. So, up we go.
Up the teleférico.
And over here to the left – er, north – we’ve got the Nevado Cayambe, the snowcapped mountain on the right hand side of the picture. During training, that is what I saw every morning when I stepped out of the house and looked down the street.
From up here, you can see two snowcapped peaks as well as the Volcano Cotopaxi. Cotopaxi is one of the highest active volcanoes in the world.
Below, in all its smog and glory, lies Quito.
Four days and sixty cab rides later, we were spent. Time for the parents to head back stateside, and time for me to go simmer in the Guayaquil heat. But there’s always time for one last meal with family before parting ways. Buen provecho, y'all.
"Mariscal Sucre International Airport (IATA: UIO, ICAO: SEQU) is an airport in Quito, Ecuador, named after Antonio José de Sucre, a hero of Ecuadorian and Latin American independence. It began operations in 1960, and currently handles about 3.9 million passengers and 125,000 metric tons of freight per year. The airport, one of the highest located in the world (at 2800 meters AMSL) is located in the northern part of the city, in the Chaupicruz parish, within 5 minutes of Quito's financial center; the terminals are located at the intersection of Amazonas and La Prensa avenues."
-Courtesy of pilotoutlook.com
The good news is, a much larger airport is currently being built in a much more open area east of the city. The bad news is, this means yet another cab ride once your plane lands there.
Quito, unlike Cuenca, is so big that public transportation and taxi cabs are not an option, they’re a must. But if taking cabs five and six times a day was the worst part of visiting the city, we had it pretty good. It’s all part and parcel of getting to be a tourist for a few days – which I highly enjoyed.
One of the touristy things we did was take a day trip north to see some sights and visit the famous market at Otavalo. This place will bowl you over with the sheer variety and display of colors. Brightly woven blankets, sweaters, and scarves of wool and alpaca hair; paintings of every conceivable shape and size; purses and shoulder bags, woven or of leather; hand puppets; carved gourds; handcrafted jewelry; dolls; hats; and the list goes on. The stalls fill the square and filter into the side streets. This is the most famous indigenous market in Ecuador, and every Saturday and Sunday it is in full swing, with handicrafts in the square and food stalls lining the perimeter. Gringos stroll down the aisles, and the vendors invite them in. Then follows a whole song and dance based on eye contact, concealed interest, studious perusal of wares, and price haggling. There’s no better place to go to learn how to bargain, and you’ll probably learn the hard way (i.e., by overpaying and finding out later).
The people of Otavalo do not shop here, making their purchases instead closer to the source of the product. On the whole, they are a wealthy and well traveled people. As our tour guide told us, “You could meet an Otavalan anywhere in the world – but in the end, they always come home.” And when they return, they shed their travel clothes and don traditional dress. Otavalo is known for being one of the last big cities where residents still regularly wear traditional outfits, one of which can cost $120-$180, depending on the quality.
[Above are hammocks for sale]
An interesting fact: Because alpaca hair is so fine, it requires special machinery to be processed into weavable material. In the United States you will find alpaca hair, but only ever raw or homespun. This is because the North American alpaca industry lacks the volume of animals to justify the cost of such processing, whereas in South America (notably Peru and Ecuador), you will find all manner of goods woven from alpaca hair. It’s a very lucrative business, as much of these products are exported or sought after by tourists from the north. I didn’t make this up. It came straight out of the mouth of an alpaca farmer from Georgia, USA. No joke. I found myself sitting next to her waiting for a flight that turned out to be delayed until about 4am; I learned a lot about alpaca farming.
But I digress.
Back to being a tourist in Quito. The Old Town is one part of the city that requires a full day of lazy wandering punctuated by coffee & dessert breaks. That is, assuming you don’t get caught in the rain as we did. There is a lot to see, from historic homes to churches to museums to plazas, and the best way to take it all in is step by step.
The morning we spent there happened to be Father’s Day, which is more widely celebrated in Ecuador than in the US. We were pleasantly surprised to arrive to a dance festival featuring performances from various peoples around the country.
Above are some performers from the Sierran province of Azuay, where Cuenca is located.
Below are pictures of some sort of Spanish-influenced dance involving much twirling of skirts and handkerchiefs, followed by a performance in celebration of the harvest by one of the Oriente peoples.
And now, please humor me: I know there are lots of churches in the world, but I am still going to mention one here because of its direct contrast to the church we visited in Biblián (the one where the mountain forms one wall of the church). La Iglesia de la Compañía de Jesús is one of the most oft-visited churches in Quito. Here is a picture of it:
Do not be fooled by its commonplace appearance. Like so many things, it is not what is outside, but what is inside that counts. (Name that movie.)
Directly you walk inside those doors, you wonder if you’ve walked into a gigantic treasurebox. Or maybe you’ve shrunk, you’ve fallen down the rabbithole, it's actually you who are tiny, and you are in a normal-sized treasurebox. What I mean is, This church is molded, plastered, and carved to within an inch of its life – and then gilt in gold leaf to top it off.
Pictures don’t do it justice; you just have to walk inside and see it yourself. It's beautiful. There are so many comments I could make about this particular church being named “The Jesus Company” or “The Jesus Society”…but I will refrain.
Thank you for humoring me. And now, for a breath of fresh air.
A great way to get oriented to the city is to get a good view from up top. So, up we go.
Up the teleférico.
And over here to the left – er, north – we’ve got the Nevado Cayambe, the snowcapped mountain on the right hand side of the picture. During training, that is what I saw every morning when I stepped out of the house and looked down the street.
From up here, you can see two snowcapped peaks as well as the Volcano Cotopaxi. Cotopaxi is one of the highest active volcanoes in the world.
Below, in all its smog and glory, lies Quito.
Four days and sixty cab rides later, we were spent. Time for the parents to head back stateside, and time for me to go simmer in the Guayaquil heat. But there’s always time for one last meal with family before parting ways. Buen provecho, y'all.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Next Stop: Cuenca
We took a 4-hour bus ride from Guayaquil, as I didn’t want my parents to miss out on this integral experience of being a PCV in Ecuador. They had the opportunity to be entertained by bus vendors, be heckled by bus vendors, and try to use the tiny back-of-the-bus bathroom, all while winding our way slowly up and through the cloud-enshrouded mountains and valleys of Cajas National Park. At the end of the journey, we arrived in Cuenca.
The best thing about our time in Cuenca was the food. With a variety of restaurants featuring cuisines from different parts of the world, there was much to choose from. Especially considering that I was no longer constrained by a PCV budget. We pretty much stuffed ourselves every single night. And all during the day, too. If you want to know where to get the yummiest Colombian food; the best pitcher of canelazo; the most delicious passionfruit mousse dessert; or the 5-star hands-down all-time best family restaurant in the city, ask me. They’re state secrets, and I will not reveal them here. Actually, it would probably be best that I accompany you to Cuenca and physically point these establishments out, and perhaps accompany you into the restaurants as well…strictly as a matter of security.
But Cuenca is most famous for its churches and museums. One morning we took a trip just outside the city to visit the church at Biblián, which sits overlooking the town below and is built right into the side of the mountain. As you walk in, you see that behind the altar the wall is raw mountain rock – awe-inspiring in a different sort of way than the ornately decorated interiors of most Catholic churches one sees here.
I wanted to revisit the Museo de Arte Moderno, so Mom and I walked over to see the new exhibition of Cuenca artist Catalina Carrasco’s work. Her painting below is somewhat representative of the collection:
Dark hues, geometric patterns in the background, and a technique involving digital art and oil paint combined on canvas.
The most comprehensive museum we visited in Cuenca was the Museo del Banco Central “Pumapungo.” It offered an extensive exhibit on the history and culture of each of the three mainland regions of Ecuador (coast, Sierra, and Oriente).
One belief that has persisted through generations in the countryside is the one illustrated in the painting above: During the feriados or annual solstice celebrations, when a man passes out from alcohol consumption, it means that his soul is wandering, and his wife must stand watch over his body so that his soul can find its way back. The women in such communities traditionally do not drink.
Above is the traditional male dress for such solstice celebrations in the Sierra. And here’s some more from last year with my host family in Tabacundo, for both male and female.
I took this photo of a photo of an indigenous Oriente man about two seconds before the security guard stepped forward and politely informed me that photography is not allowed in the museum. So all those photos you just saw are a once-in-a-lifetime chance, folks. Unless you travel to Cuenca yourselves, in which case you must alert me so I can be your gastronomic tour guide.
The museum also includes extensive grounds with a botanical garden,
a bird exhibit,
and Incan ruins. Who should we run into at the archaeology portion of the tour but Menchie, absorbing the culture as always.
And also Indiana Jones, who will tell you that Panama hats are actually not from Panama at all. They are made in Ecuador. Betcha didn’t know that. Go tell all your friends.
The best thing about our time in Cuenca was the food. With a variety of restaurants featuring cuisines from different parts of the world, there was much to choose from. Especially considering that I was no longer constrained by a PCV budget. We pretty much stuffed ourselves every single night. And all during the day, too. If you want to know where to get the yummiest Colombian food; the best pitcher of canelazo; the most delicious passionfruit mousse dessert; or the 5-star hands-down all-time best family restaurant in the city, ask me. They’re state secrets, and I will not reveal them here. Actually, it would probably be best that I accompany you to Cuenca and physically point these establishments out, and perhaps accompany you into the restaurants as well…strictly as a matter of security.
But Cuenca is most famous for its churches and museums. One morning we took a trip just outside the city to visit the church at Biblián, which sits overlooking the town below and is built right into the side of the mountain. As you walk in, you see that behind the altar the wall is raw mountain rock – awe-inspiring in a different sort of way than the ornately decorated interiors of most Catholic churches one sees here.
I wanted to revisit the Museo de Arte Moderno, so Mom and I walked over to see the new exhibition of Cuenca artist Catalina Carrasco’s work. Her painting below is somewhat representative of the collection:
Dark hues, geometric patterns in the background, and a technique involving digital art and oil paint combined on canvas.
The most comprehensive museum we visited in Cuenca was the Museo del Banco Central “Pumapungo.” It offered an extensive exhibit on the history and culture of each of the three mainland regions of Ecuador (coast, Sierra, and Oriente).
One belief that has persisted through generations in the countryside is the one illustrated in the painting above: During the feriados or annual solstice celebrations, when a man passes out from alcohol consumption, it means that his soul is wandering, and his wife must stand watch over his body so that his soul can find its way back. The women in such communities traditionally do not drink.
Above is the traditional male dress for such solstice celebrations in the Sierra. And here’s some more from last year with my host family in Tabacundo, for both male and female.
I took this photo of a photo of an indigenous Oriente man about two seconds before the security guard stepped forward and politely informed me that photography is not allowed in the museum. So all those photos you just saw are a once-in-a-lifetime chance, folks. Unless you travel to Cuenca yourselves, in which case you must alert me so I can be your gastronomic tour guide.
The museum also includes extensive grounds with a botanical garden,
a bird exhibit,
and Incan ruins. Who should we run into at the archaeology portion of the tour but Menchie, absorbing the culture as always.
And also Indiana Jones, who will tell you that Panama hats are actually not from Panama at all. They are made in Ecuador. Betcha didn’t know that. Go tell all your friends.
A Visit. Some Pictures. Thoughts on Guasmo.
Mom and Dad came to visit me this month. I’d been preparing during the weeks leading up to their arrival on June 11th: watering plants, organizing bookshelves, sweeping and mopping floors. I went so far as to get down on my hands and knees with bleach and a scrub brush (even though my parents are well aware that on the spectrum of neat to sloppy living habits, I fall markedly on the sloppy side).
And after all the cleaning and hiding random objects in the refrigerator, how did I get repaid for my efforts? On the very first day my parents got here, this dog peed all over my floor:
C’est la vie; Nobody died; Moving on.
We had a cookout, or parrillada, on the terrace. Ronald manned the grill, and Fernando assumed the responsibility of ensuring everyone had access to beer.
Then we took many, many pictures with all possible combinations of the people in attendance. In my experience, Ecuadorians are fastidious about photographing all possible combinations (or is it permutations?) of people in attendance at an event. Here, however, I will spare you.
The best part of their visit was when Mom and Dad got to see where I work and met some of the kids and teachers. They jumped right in helping out with English homework.
It was amazing to see that, despite the language barrier, communication took place. And friendships were made.
A reminder that if one is creative and resourceful and humble enough to find other ways of speaking, and if one is not afraid of looking the fool from time to time, that…well, those are the basic tools you need to talk with someone, not vocabulary and grammar.
When they asked Mom’s age, everyone was invariably stunned at the answer. Responses ranged from astute observation of every move Mom made (e.g., “Look, she’s not eating her rice, that’s why she’s so thin”) to misconceptions about life expectancy in the United States (e.g., “Oh, I see, so if you are 100 years old in the United States, you are still very, very young, right?”).
Mom, thank you for being a testament to the benefits of good nutrition and exercise. You have singlehandedly ensured participation in our upcoming gardening and nutrition classes.
And now I have a confession to make. It is this: I’m unsure of how to represent Guasmo Sur, the barrio where I work, to people who have never been there. Guasmo Sur has a reputation for being the most dangerous area of Guayaquil, a city already infamous for crime. Statistically speaking, perhaps Guayaquil does have more violent crime than other cities in Ecuador; but there are areas of the city that are relatively safe. And I am not convinced by any means that Guasmo Sur merits the superlative of “most dangerous.” Yes, there is great personal and economic insecurity in Guasmo. Yes, gangs and violence continue to be a part of everyday life. Yes, the piling of garbage on the street and lack of access to potable water cause health problems. Yes, many people do not have regular access to a doctor and live with existing health problems.
But apart from all this, there are many smaller, tight-knit communities within Guasmo that work to better the well-being of their friends, families, and children.
In many ways, Guasmo is its own city. It is so big that it is divided into different sectors: Guasmo Norte, Guasmo Central, and Guasmo Sur. Each has a downtown and an outskirts, with different demographics in different locales. Downtown Guasmo Sur has paved roads, businesses, and a market. The further outward you go, the more dire the living conditions: unpaved roads, shanty houses, no sewage systems, let alone potable water. Closer to the river you will find the cangrejeros, men who ply the contaminated waters for crab to sell at market. They are supposed to have a license, enabling them to set up their crab lines only in certain areas. But licenses are expensive, and the areas where crabbing is allowed do not yield much.
The street around the corner from the shoe shop is where many people of Asian descent live; across the main road and further south you will find largely Afro-Ecuadorian families; along the road lining the market are the shops and homes of numerous campesinos, Sierran folk who’ve moved in from the country looking for better business and who still wear their long skirts and long sleeves despite the coastal heat. This is just the small part of Guasmo that I am familiar with—it sprawls outward and outward to reaches that I will most likely never visit. Because I spend most of my time in one corner of Guasmo Sur. It’s in what may be considered “downtown,” with the paved roads and electricity, cement block houses and, usually, plumbing.
One PCV friend came to visit me and was prepared for the worst. When we stepped off the bus, she surveyed her surroundings and observed with a tinge of disappointment in her voice, “This is just like — ,” the small urban center she lived in. This unsettled me. I wanted to impress upon her the dangers and realities of the place. I wanted to scream, “It’s worse than you think!”
And what, pray tell, do I mean by that? It doesn’t do any good to walk around shaking in one’s boots (or flip flops). I can't speak as an Ecuadorian living in Guasmo, but as a gringo, it has something to do with the fact that we stand out. This fact, which used to be at the forefront of my mind when I walked through the barrio, had sunk into my subconscious until a few weeks ago, when I wore jeans and a tank top instead of my usual baggy T-shirt and capris. While I was walking down the block with one of the kids, she suddenly grabbed my arm and whispered in a nervous, urgent tone, “Everyone’s watching you!” This gave me chills, because not only was I not anticipating being observed, but when more eyes than usual were trained on me, I didn’t notice it.
So on the one hand there’s the visitors who come and want to walk around the block by themselves, or take pictures on their iPhones, which makes my shoulders tense and my left eye start to twitch. On the other hand, there’s the people whose anxious questions and visible tension as we walk down the street make me want to impress upon them the fact that hundreds of people go about their daily lives in this community, that make me want to scream, “It’s not as bad as you think!”
And what, pray tell, do I mean by that? I don’t care if you’re an Ecuadorian, a gringo, or from the planet Mars, ’twould be folly to traipse blithely about Guasmo with no thought of safety whatsoever. The thing to remember is that real people and real families live in Guasmo Sur, and they exist in this environment of insecurity. It’s possible to become a part of the community as an outsider, to make contributions and then to benefit in return from personal connections and the protection those connections afford. I am evidence of this.
Of all the crimes that could befall a gringo in Guasmo Sur, robbery is the most likely. No matter how well integrated I am into the community, there remains the very real possibility that I will be robbed at some point over the next year. I try to remind myself of this when I walk down the street. I try to settle into that reality and go about my daily life along with everyone else. In the end, if I’m robbed, it will hopefully be just another story to tell. Most people I know in Guasmo, even in Guayaquil, have a story like this. So I’ll probably get robbed, and I imagine it’s a real nuisance. Something akin to a dog emptying its giant bladder all over the floor you just cleaned. To which the appropriate response would be, C’est la vie; Nobody died; Moving on.
And after all the cleaning and hiding random objects in the refrigerator, how did I get repaid for my efforts? On the very first day my parents got here, this dog peed all over my floor:
C’est la vie; Nobody died; Moving on.
We had a cookout, or parrillada, on the terrace. Ronald manned the grill, and Fernando assumed the responsibility of ensuring everyone had access to beer.
Then we took many, many pictures with all possible combinations of the people in attendance. In my experience, Ecuadorians are fastidious about photographing all possible combinations (or is it permutations?) of people in attendance at an event. Here, however, I will spare you.
The best part of their visit was when Mom and Dad got to see where I work and met some of the kids and teachers. They jumped right in helping out with English homework.
It was amazing to see that, despite the language barrier, communication took place. And friendships were made.
A reminder that if one is creative and resourceful and humble enough to find other ways of speaking, and if one is not afraid of looking the fool from time to time, that…well, those are the basic tools you need to talk with someone, not vocabulary and grammar.
When they asked Mom’s age, everyone was invariably stunned at the answer. Responses ranged from astute observation of every move Mom made (e.g., “Look, she’s not eating her rice, that’s why she’s so thin”) to misconceptions about life expectancy in the United States (e.g., “Oh, I see, so if you are 100 years old in the United States, you are still very, very young, right?”).
Mom, thank you for being a testament to the benefits of good nutrition and exercise. You have singlehandedly ensured participation in our upcoming gardening and nutrition classes.
And now I have a confession to make. It is this: I’m unsure of how to represent Guasmo Sur, the barrio where I work, to people who have never been there. Guasmo Sur has a reputation for being the most dangerous area of Guayaquil, a city already infamous for crime. Statistically speaking, perhaps Guayaquil does have more violent crime than other cities in Ecuador; but there are areas of the city that are relatively safe. And I am not convinced by any means that Guasmo Sur merits the superlative of “most dangerous.” Yes, there is great personal and economic insecurity in Guasmo. Yes, gangs and violence continue to be a part of everyday life. Yes, the piling of garbage on the street and lack of access to potable water cause health problems. Yes, many people do not have regular access to a doctor and live with existing health problems.
But apart from all this, there are many smaller, tight-knit communities within Guasmo that work to better the well-being of their friends, families, and children.
In many ways, Guasmo is its own city. It is so big that it is divided into different sectors: Guasmo Norte, Guasmo Central, and Guasmo Sur. Each has a downtown and an outskirts, with different demographics in different locales. Downtown Guasmo Sur has paved roads, businesses, and a market. The further outward you go, the more dire the living conditions: unpaved roads, shanty houses, no sewage systems, let alone potable water. Closer to the river you will find the cangrejeros, men who ply the contaminated waters for crab to sell at market. They are supposed to have a license, enabling them to set up their crab lines only in certain areas. But licenses are expensive, and the areas where crabbing is allowed do not yield much.
The street around the corner from the shoe shop is where many people of Asian descent live; across the main road and further south you will find largely Afro-Ecuadorian families; along the road lining the market are the shops and homes of numerous campesinos, Sierran folk who’ve moved in from the country looking for better business and who still wear their long skirts and long sleeves despite the coastal heat. This is just the small part of Guasmo that I am familiar with—it sprawls outward and outward to reaches that I will most likely never visit. Because I spend most of my time in one corner of Guasmo Sur. It’s in what may be considered “downtown,” with the paved roads and electricity, cement block houses and, usually, plumbing.
One PCV friend came to visit me and was prepared for the worst. When we stepped off the bus, she surveyed her surroundings and observed with a tinge of disappointment in her voice, “This is just like — ,” the small urban center she lived in. This unsettled me. I wanted to impress upon her the dangers and realities of the place. I wanted to scream, “It’s worse than you think!”
And what, pray tell, do I mean by that? It doesn’t do any good to walk around shaking in one’s boots (or flip flops). I can't speak as an Ecuadorian living in Guasmo, but as a gringo, it has something to do with the fact that we stand out. This fact, which used to be at the forefront of my mind when I walked through the barrio, had sunk into my subconscious until a few weeks ago, when I wore jeans and a tank top instead of my usual baggy T-shirt and capris. While I was walking down the block with one of the kids, she suddenly grabbed my arm and whispered in a nervous, urgent tone, “Everyone’s watching you!” This gave me chills, because not only was I not anticipating being observed, but when more eyes than usual were trained on me, I didn’t notice it.
So on the one hand there’s the visitors who come and want to walk around the block by themselves, or take pictures on their iPhones, which makes my shoulders tense and my left eye start to twitch. On the other hand, there’s the people whose anxious questions and visible tension as we walk down the street make me want to impress upon them the fact that hundreds of people go about their daily lives in this community, that make me want to scream, “It’s not as bad as you think!”
And what, pray tell, do I mean by that? I don’t care if you’re an Ecuadorian, a gringo, or from the planet Mars, ’twould be folly to traipse blithely about Guasmo with no thought of safety whatsoever. The thing to remember is that real people and real families live in Guasmo Sur, and they exist in this environment of insecurity. It’s possible to become a part of the community as an outsider, to make contributions and then to benefit in return from personal connections and the protection those connections afford. I am evidence of this.
Of all the crimes that could befall a gringo in Guasmo Sur, robbery is the most likely. No matter how well integrated I am into the community, there remains the very real possibility that I will be robbed at some point over the next year. I try to remind myself of this when I walk down the street. I try to settle into that reality and go about my daily life along with everyone else. In the end, if I’m robbed, it will hopefully be just another story to tell. Most people I know in Guasmo, even in Guayaquil, have a story like this. So I’ll probably get robbed, and I imagine it’s a real nuisance. Something akin to a dog emptying its giant bladder all over the floor you just cleaned. To which the appropriate response would be, C’est la vie; Nobody died; Moving on.
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