After weeks of checking the local post office for a package my parents had sent over a month before, I learned that it was most likely sitting in the Correos of the larger city, awaiting pickup on a Monday, the one day per week when the customs officer is present. I learned this fact last Tuesday.
I showed up diligently at 9:30 AM. After waiting in Line 1 to report myself present, I was promptly notified to go around the corner and photocopy my I.D., then wait Line 1 again. While waiting Line 1 the second time, I ran into two retired American couples who live in the town close to my site. Due to its forgiving climate, cheap cost of living, and custom-made leather goods (maybe?), this particular town has become a hotbed for retired folk.
Line 2 took much longer. Everyone with a package waited until their name was called, then the customs officer searched each package and declared an import tariff. Already a difficult system to hurry through, the customs officer spent over a half hour on each one. I chatted with the Americans for a while, and, after two hours, when their names were called, I stood waiting in the company of a large Ecuadorian family. During the 45 minute check of one American couple, the Ecuadorians began complaining. ¨¡Apurate!¨ ¨¡Vamos a estar tarde para recoger los niños a escuela!¨ ¨¡Todo la mañana por un paquete! ¡Qué bestía!¨.
I began joking to those around me that my wedding was at noon and the tuxedo was inside my package. ¨Oh, how angry my fiancé will be!¨ ¨Everyone is waiting, I can´t leave her at the altar!¨ The laughs kept going until the post office staff got wind of my predicament. The Ecuadorian family began calling me ¨El Novio¨, and used my situation to hurry along the entire process. I finally got called at 11:45, and with a few box cuts, tariff payments, and good luck wishes from the staff and my new friends, I was on my way.
English Class Update: I now teach English to sixth and seventh graders on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Although there is still some resistance to me as their teacher, the kids are warming up. Today was my first pre-planned lesson. (Previous impromptu ones have included saying our names and singing the Alphabet song.) I brought some fruits and vegetables into class to teach them the english names. After spending most of class throwing the produce to each other while saying the name, we played the game ¨Vegetable, Vegetable¨.
For those of you who have not attended HMI (and therefore learned this in the Colorado wilderness), it goes as such: 1) Everyone sits in a circle facing each other and chooses a vegetable. 2) Everyone covers up their teeth with their lips so they are not showing. 3) One person ¨calls¨ another using their vegetable names. For example: ¨Broccoli, broccoli calling swiss chard, swiss chard. 4) Swiss chard then calls another vegetable, all the while taking care not to reveal teeth. When you laugh, i.e. show your teeth, you are out.
They seemed to enjoy this game, and many others I have introduced, including Wah, Ninja, Ichi-Mini-Hoy, and Bumpety-Bump-Bump-Bump. I guess acting like a school kid and laughing over goofy games is a worldwide language.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Local and Locality
At two separate times, doing two different things, with two different groups of people, two seemingly different, yet related realizations occured to me.
The first came while eating corn for dinner with my family last night. This corn, some of the sweetest I have ever tasted, had been harvested about 10 meters away not more than an hour before, and boiled just before it was piled high on my plate. Realization #1: Everything I interact with on a day to day basis is local. The vegetables and grains I eat come from the fields around my family´s house, the eggs recently laid by chickens that roam around those fields. At the greatest distance, those products come from the weekly market in the larger town 8 km away.
I rarely travel more than a few kilometers in a day, usually walking. Most days are spent within 500 meters of my house. The greenhouse I recently built (in which I am raising 11 seedbeds for my garden) is constructed of eucalyptus wood harvested from forests I can see and walk through. ¿Qué más? My family rarely leaves the property around their house. There is plently of work to keep them occupied day in and day out, the work of maintaining a productive piece of land. In getting to know the community, it seems not only most of this generation´s parents were born in the small town in which they maintain residence, but their parents and grandparents as well. (This, of course, is part of the reason they solicited me. Many would leave, they claim, if not for economic factors.)
Although never a vegetarian, about 15 years ago, my father restricted his intake of produce to that growing in season, in the general area of northern New Jersey. He grasped and stood by the idea of "food miles" before it was a household term. He has long since abandoned that diet for his love of Italian food and gelato. In my current life, that diet is not only easy to maintain, but required and a little bland. It results in slight variations on corn and potatoes, all day every day. On the other hand, this also allows me to eat all the avocados my stomach will accept. I hope the romanticism holds its roots until I begin cooking for myself.
I bought my own hoe yesterday, having grown tired of borrowing from neighbors when a daily task required such a tool. Upon returning home, my madre told me the local adage ¨Once a man has his own tools, he is ready to marry.¨ I of course did not purchase my first campo tool with marriage in mind, but I was glad she enjoyed it for that reason.
That evening, I received news from a fellow PCV living on the coast that he planned to splurge on a surfboard. My response was simply "Vidas diferentes, amigo". Realization #2: Locality is everything. While I pass my leisure time working on the correct ventilation for my greenhouse, climbing mountains, and wearing pants, many friends harvest strange fruits with a machete and no shirt in the scorching Amazon jungle, and others fall asleep to the crashing Pacific waves in a comfortable position on their hammock. We are all part of the same Omnibus, in the same program, in the same country. The number of different experiences available, however, is quite daunting. Expand that view to Peace Corps worldwide and that number becomes both staggering and unknown to me.
While these two realizations had occurred to me multiple times before, their connection is what brings me to the old drafting room today. The variety of experiences thrust upon my compañeros and I rests on the fabric of the local. Each region of Ecuador (Coast, Mountains, Amazon) has distinct culture, and with minor intermingling, they almost seem like different countries. By nature of the local lifestyle, each assignment site offers its own unique set of experiences, evolved to fit that specific place. If not for the local lifestyle, we would not have the luxury of distinct locality.
The first came while eating corn for dinner with my family last night. This corn, some of the sweetest I have ever tasted, had been harvested about 10 meters away not more than an hour before, and boiled just before it was piled high on my plate. Realization #1: Everything I interact with on a day to day basis is local. The vegetables and grains I eat come from the fields around my family´s house, the eggs recently laid by chickens that roam around those fields. At the greatest distance, those products come from the weekly market in the larger town 8 km away.
I rarely travel more than a few kilometers in a day, usually walking. Most days are spent within 500 meters of my house. The greenhouse I recently built (in which I am raising 11 seedbeds for my garden) is constructed of eucalyptus wood harvested from forests I can see and walk through. ¿Qué más? My family rarely leaves the property around their house. There is plently of work to keep them occupied day in and day out, the work of maintaining a productive piece of land. In getting to know the community, it seems not only most of this generation´s parents were born in the small town in which they maintain residence, but their parents and grandparents as well. (This, of course, is part of the reason they solicited me. Many would leave, they claim, if not for economic factors.)
Although never a vegetarian, about 15 years ago, my father restricted his intake of produce to that growing in season, in the general area of northern New Jersey. He grasped and stood by the idea of "food miles" before it was a household term. He has long since abandoned that diet for his love of Italian food and gelato. In my current life, that diet is not only easy to maintain, but required and a little bland. It results in slight variations on corn and potatoes, all day every day. On the other hand, this also allows me to eat all the avocados my stomach will accept. I hope the romanticism holds its roots until I begin cooking for myself.
I bought my own hoe yesterday, having grown tired of borrowing from neighbors when a daily task required such a tool. Upon returning home, my madre told me the local adage ¨Once a man has his own tools, he is ready to marry.¨ I of course did not purchase my first campo tool with marriage in mind, but I was glad she enjoyed it for that reason.
That evening, I received news from a fellow PCV living on the coast that he planned to splurge on a surfboard. My response was simply "Vidas diferentes, amigo". Realization #2: Locality is everything. While I pass my leisure time working on the correct ventilation for my greenhouse, climbing mountains, and wearing pants, many friends harvest strange fruits with a machete and no shirt in the scorching Amazon jungle, and others fall asleep to the crashing Pacific waves in a comfortable position on their hammock. We are all part of the same Omnibus, in the same program, in the same country. The number of different experiences available, however, is quite daunting. Expand that view to Peace Corps worldwide and that number becomes both staggering and unknown to me.
While these two realizations had occurred to me multiple times before, their connection is what brings me to the old drafting room today. The variety of experiences thrust upon my compañeros and I rests on the fabric of the local. Each region of Ecuador (Coast, Mountains, Amazon) has distinct culture, and with minor intermingling, they almost seem like different countries. By nature of the local lifestyle, each assignment site offers its own unique set of experiences, evolved to fit that specific place. If not for the local lifestyle, we would not have the luxury of distinct locality.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Road Blocks
Everyone from school children to mothers to teachers has constantly been asking me, ¨¿Usted va a enseñar Inglés?¨. Initiation of one of my major projects (a school garden) required a meeting with the school director. When he explained to me that the children must pass an English exam to attend high school, I caved. My first classes were difficult, to say the least, as I apparently waived my right to the students´ attention when I walked in.
For the past week indigenous groups all over Ecuador have been protesting the upcoming vote of a new water allocation law. They have stopped all highways and many smaller roads with felled trees, people, and burning tires. I live in the heart of indigenous culture in Ecuador, so it feels very local. In fact, my whole community met on Tuesday night to discuss their stance on the issue and whether or not to join the protests.
It has been strange watching the news report on road blocks, protests, and police involvement. I see smoke bombs shoot out of guns toward people who look exactly like those with whom I live, in places that look exactly like the place in which I live. Virtually stuck in my community with no public transportation running, I climbed up a mountain one morning to get a better view of the main highway in the valley below. Through my binoculars I could see a long line of stopped cars, as well as plumes of smoke from burning tires. Although I have no official opinion on the matter and it doesn´t really involve me, I do feel affected. The people with whom I live and work are intimately involved, in fact it is them attending these protests and stopping these roads.
These events have made me think about how we as Americans react when we disagree with our government. Instead of mounting large-scale protests to show our unity, we either complain and do nothing or call our senators. I am torn when watching the effectiveness of such protests (which apparently happen somewhat frequently here). Of course, it would not be productive to constantly protest every controversial law, but a little spice in our soup would be nice every once in a while.
Doors are beginning to open with my other projects. After two weeks of missed meetings and misunderstandings, my women´s group finally met and began work yesterday on our organic vegetable garden. Just me and a few old ladies preparing land for planting. I found a non-profit organzation in the larger city willing and able to donate seeds. I met with the director of the local youth group, who showed great excitement when I explained my ability and desire to teach music. Developments on the library built by the previous volunteer are slow coming, but coming nonetheless.
For the past week indigenous groups all over Ecuador have been protesting the upcoming vote of a new water allocation law. They have stopped all highways and many smaller roads with felled trees, people, and burning tires. I live in the heart of indigenous culture in Ecuador, so it feels very local. In fact, my whole community met on Tuesday night to discuss their stance on the issue and whether or not to join the protests.
The Paros had not affected my life very intimately for the first few days, as I could get back and forth from my community to the larger town. However, on my way home last Wednesday, the bus stopped suddently at a random point. Sure enough, the road was blocked by indigenous men and women sitting on a pile of logs. From there, my feet were the most efficient means of transport.
It has been strange watching the news report on road blocks, protests, and police involvement. I see smoke bombs shoot out of guns toward people who look exactly like those with whom I live, in places that look exactly like the place in which I live. Virtually stuck in my community with no public transportation running, I climbed up a mountain one morning to get a better view of the main highway in the valley below. Through my binoculars I could see a long line of stopped cars, as well as plumes of smoke from burning tires. Although I have no official opinion on the matter and it doesn´t really involve me, I do feel affected. The people with whom I live and work are intimately involved, in fact it is them attending these protests and stopping these roads.
These events have made me think about how we as Americans react when we disagree with our government. Instead of mounting large-scale protests to show our unity, we either complain and do nothing or call our senators. I am torn when watching the effectiveness of such protests (which apparently happen somewhat frequently here). Of course, it would not be productive to constantly protest every controversial law, but a little spice in our soup would be nice every once in a while.
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