At the risk of being mundane, I will now attempt describe un día típico:
Step 1: Breakfast
I eat oatmeal every single day for breakfast. My host family thinks this exceedingly strange.
Step 2: Head to the barrio
This entails a ride on the Metrovía, Guayaquil’s public transit system. I walk four blocks from my house and pay 25 cents, the flat rate for all buses in the city, to ride one of those double buses with the accordion middle. This is probably the safest mode of transport in the city, including private car (riding in one of those, your life flashes before your eyes every fifteen seconds). I take the Metrovía all the way south, to the end of the line, and transfer to the Alimentador (literal translation: “the feeder”), a bus that services my barrio, Guasmo Sur. It’s gotten to the point that I know which drivers are really really bad at the whole stop-and-go thing and which ones realize ahead of time that they will be stopping at the next corner.
Step 3: Casita de Chocolate
When I first heard that INNFA’s (the organization I work with) community center is known as the “little chocolate house,” I wondered whether I were living in a fairy tale. No one quite knows why it is called the Casita de Chocolate; the likeliest explanation thus far is that it was at one point painted brown. If anyone has theories they’d care to share, I am willing to entertain them (read: willing to be entertained).
To get from the bus stop to the casita, I walk through a street market. Vendors set up tents lining both sides of the road. Stalls are filled with plastic tupperware, vegetables piled in pyramids of color, and fish dripping wet from the sea (or maybe just from the buckets of water periodically splashed over them to keep them glinting silver and fresh under the hot sun). A couple blocks down, on the corner, I can see the compound with the casita and the health center, surrounded by mango and lime and papaya trees.
When I get to the casita, Nelly, Rosa, and Sylvia are there. I touch my cheek to each of theirs and greet them Buenos días. As usual, they have the TV on and are watching their morning soaps as they go about organizing files and receipts. Rosa, being the guardian and unofficial inhabitant of the casita, doesn’t touch the paperwork, but sits and beams at me as if I were her six-year-old daughter and had just given her a fingerpainting resembling nothing in particular that she is now going to display on the refrigerator.
Most mornings I stay in the casita and hold refuerzo, small group tutoring sessions with children in the INNFA program who are behind in math and reading. We play math games, have spelling contests, and generally wind up playing soccer the last 10 minutes of class.
On occasion, María José, who is my age, picks me up, and we walk to where she works at one of INNFA’s preschools. The children here crave attention – emotional, nutritional, hygienic. I’m reminded of something my friend George wrote upon getting to his own site: “What Guangaje needs is a massive investment of money, and the experts to make that money work. What it will get is a medley of government organizations, international nonprofits, and me, a twenty-five year old volunteer with a background in writing and architectural theory.” Coming face to face with the bare need in Guasmo Sur makes me question whether I am qualified to address it: “Hello, Need, I’m Jordan. So…have you heard of the Oxford comma?” Somehow I don’t think the Oxford comma is going to make much of an impact in the barrio. What George goes on to point out, though, is that Peace Corps and its volunteers focus on the sustainability of a project, “whether it will have a life of its own after the volunteer goes home and the money runs out…That’s why so many of the volunteers’ projects in Ecuador are focused on education; the belief is that by spreading accurate information, people will be capable of initiating their own projects, and continuing existing ones.” Let’s not forget that the volunteers are not the only ones learning. Last week I was reminded all over again of the enthralling power of a story when the kids crowded around to listen and watch and touch the pages of Curious George and the Firefighters. En español, of course.
Step 4: Almuerzo
Usually I find myself catching the Metrovía back out of the barrio for lunch: the casita ladies don’t make time to eat, and it would be more than a little rude to eat in front of them. Since it’s not the best idea for me to eat alone in the barrio, I’ll chow down in a restaurant closer to home – or, if I’m lucky, Lupe will have fixed me a treat.
[Above: Caldo de broccoli con canguil / broccoli soup with popcorn]
[Above: Ecuador's national dish - arroz con pollo]
[Above: Fresh-squeezed OJ to wash it all down]
Step 5: Por la tarde
Afternoons in Guayaquil are hot. Thank goodness I put on 70spf sunscreen this morning. The Metrovía at this time of day is crowded, too, with kids getting out of class (schooldays here run from 7am-12:30pm or from 2pm-7pm) and people heading home for almuerzo.
Some afternoons are repeats of the morning routine, with students who have school in the morning coming to the casita for extra help in the afternoon.
Just as often, I head down the street to visit one of INNFA’s other refuerzo centers. When I walk through the doorway of CAE 1, the kids all shout my name and smile, and I feel like a celebrity. Due to issues with the previous building in which this particular center was run, Maritza has been hosting the after-school program in her own home, cooking lunch every weekday for 20 children and clearing out her living room so they have a space to eat and do homework. When I arrive, Maritza asks me if I’ve eaten yet and hands me a plate before I can answer. I greet Enriqueta and Evelyn, the volunteer teachers, and they call me tía, making me feel right at home.
For the next three hours, I help the kids with their homework and lead them in educational games and activities once they’ve completed their assignments.
This month, I’ve been working with the kids at CAE 1 and in the casita to complete encuestas, interviews about their lives that will eventually help me write a community diagnostic. Every Peace Corps Volunteer is required to do this diagnostic in their first three months at site. “So how have you diagnosed your community?” one friend asks. “Sore throat and runny nose? Prescription of take two and call me in the morning?” Ah, if only it were that simple. The idea is for us to integrate into the community, familiarize ourselves with its people, resources, and needs, and draw up a plan of action that will be a foundation for the work we do over the next two years. In mid-November, my entire PCV training group will convene to present our findings to the group, share our experiences, and help each other plan future projects at site.
Step 6: Heading Home
It’s the end of the day, and Enriqueta, Evelyn, and I leave CAE 1 and walk through the barrio to the bus stop. Evelyn’s youngest son, David, runs ahead of us, darts to grab a stick out of the road, then drops it and experiments with twining his legs together and hopping as a mode of transportation, gives up, and jumps about screaming just for the fun of it. Across from the bus stop, Enriqueta treats me to a snack of grilled sheep guts with banana. The tough, stringy intestines wreak havoc on my gums, but the flavor is so good...
Step 7: Back at the Ranch
As I get off the Metrovía and walk the blocks homeward, the sun is already low in the sky. Everyone on this street has a dog, and I note them all in my head as I pass by their gated yards: the hyperactive black collie, the sleepy mutt who curls up in the corner of the garage, the yappy twin terriers, the mopey mastiff who stares wistfully out through the gate. And then a parakeet, just to liven things up.
I walk in the convenience store and grocery my host family owns, up the back staircase, and change into my running gear: time to train for the 5k I’ll be running this weekend. The park near my house is one of my favorite places, and I’ve found quiet there many times already with a book or an ice cream cone, and now in my jogging shorts. Perhaps my favorite part of the run, though, is turning the corner home: Peter’s official job is to sit on the balcony of my family’s house and keep watch for ladrones (burglars), but I like to think of him as my own personal cheerleader. “Eso!” he shouts when he sees me coming, pumping his fist in the air, "That's right!"
Now it’s time for a shower (only cold water here), dinner (omelette, anyone?), perhaps a game of cards or helping Marcelo and Andrés with their homework. Prepare a lesson plan for tomorrow, curl up with a book…or a blog post…lights out;
wake to my alarm clock at seven;
get out of bed;
repeat.
