Inti Raymi

Ever since my site visit, the people in my town have asked me if I planned to dance for Inti Raymi. Posters from the previous year's festivals appear in the houses of many families. Some of the first questions asked by people in the various communities where I work usually have something to do with dancing for Inti Raymi. As I explained in my previous post about the road blocks, I live in the heart of indigenous culture in Ecuador. It was no wonder that on the first day of this week-long, indigenous, country-wide festival, a moving party of townspeople passed by my house and collected the unsuspecting gringo.

My understanding of this tradition is not very extensive. Inti Raymi is Quichua for 'Sun Festival'. It dates back to the Inca Empire and exists to honor the sun god Inti. People all over the country dress in what resemble leather cowboy chaps covered with animal hide, colorful scarfs, masks, and bandanas, and proceed to dance.

When my townspeople came by my house at about 4:30 PM, they had been partying for hours. We walked a few minutes to someones house where we were given ample food and drink. They explained that this party would move from house to house, dancing, eating, and drinking, until 2 AM. We would then bathe in the river and get hit by stinging nettle, a traditional indigenous bathing ritual. It either has something to do with maintaining youth or getting rid of bad spirits. I couldn´t figure it out.

The following day, a similar party came to my house at 12 noon. This time we marched to the next town over to dance in the town center. Other towns were there in a similar fashion. Dressed in the traditional garb, I paraded through the streets, making circles with a simple three-step dance, and yelling things in Quichua. They say a dedicated dancer will stomp his feet so hard that his toes begin to bleed, all to show the superiority of one´s own town.

After about an hour, the party´s leader brought us to a bar where the dancers fed eachother and me beer, peach wine (a favorite here), and homemade cane liquor. This, they explained, helps keep the dancers more animated. The drinking lasted just over an hour, and then we continued dancing. While these Ecuadorians seem to have limitless energy for this suprisingly simple dance ritual, I had to quit early, suffering from the previous late night.


Upon their return at about 6 PM, they came to my house to collect me again. We continued parading from house to house, dancing the same dance, screaming things in Quichua, receiving food, and again, homemade cane liquor. Puzzled as to why the residents would provide such alimento to a band raucous dancers, I later learned a visit by this group during Inti Raymi brings good spirits to the house. One must provide food and drink in return.

The dancing continues for just over a week throughout the entire region. In the larger city where I come for groceries, the proving of each town´s superiority apparently gets so dangerous that people sometimes fight to death.

I write this blog from that very town center while communities dance with the greatest of fervor. In an area not bigger than a soccer field, there are hundreds of highly armored police with gas masks in case the crowd must be controlled. I hope it stays peaceful enough.

I have heard from many that you would like to see more pictures. Picture #1: A member of my town dancing for Inti Raymi with the traditional dress. Picture #2: My family at the dinner table. Picture #3: Piglets feeding in the street next to my house. Picture #4: My little brother Francisco playing in the field outside our house.

Post Office and English Class

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.

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.

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.

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.

Inch by Inch, Row by Row

Classic.

First Days at Site

I have recently pondered days in my life that I can confidently mark as milestones, without which my life would be wholeheartedly different. They can easily be counted on one hand: high school and college graduation, the first time my mom allowed me to ride my bike alone to town, my first road trip. (Omissions: loss of virginity and first taste of alcohol.) However, my life as a Peace Corps trainee and my life as a volunteer will be so different that I must add this transition to the slowly growing list.

My trip to site lasted only 3 hours. My travel companions and I caught the bus up north and hopped off at our respective stops. Instead of riding the final bus to my site, I splurged for the five-dollar pick up truck. Surrounded by my possessions in the cool breeze, I rode in the back to my new home as the sun set over the mountains.


The following is a blend of my first two days at site:

8:00 Wake up. Eat breakfast of bread, rice, and juice.
9:00 Leave house for a walk.
9:15 Follow the sound of sheep to find a herd of over 500 in the local hacienda.
9:30 Walk past two dead dogs on the side of the road.
10:30 Borrow a hoe and begin work in my garden.
12:30 Lunch.
1:00 Siesta time.
2:00 On way back to garden, pass host brothers and sisters holding a pitchfork and laughing over a box. Receive explanation. Aid in slaughtering eagle inside box (yes, eagle).
2:10 Resume work in garden.
3:00 Receive help from 5-7 year old kids in turning land and pulling weeds.
3:30 Buy ice cream for 35 cents from passing pick up truck.
6:30 Dinner. (Eagle is tasty when fried. Not as tough as rabbit, but red like beef.)
7:00 Pass out and sleep like a rock.

This is my house. This is Francisco, Saywa, and Alberto. They call me Jacobito. This is the eagle we ate for dinner.

Never before have I been given such liberty and encouragement to explore. My job for the next few months consists of integrating into the community by finding my way around, building relationships, and basically just hanging out. When else will I have the time to wander down that river as far as I please? Or lie in the shade under the swaying eucalyptus trees? Or spend six hours in my vegetable garden pulling out weeds?

Now that I am at site with all this time, I would be curious to see who is reading. If you have the time and so desire, leave me a comment. I would love to hear from you.

Se Acaba de Entrenar

The last few weeks of training were very different than the first. Instead of language training and cultural immersion, I have traveled around the Central Sierra region visiting organic farms, turning land with a hoe and rake, and finally getting my hands dirty.

Due to the altitude of my site (2500 meters) and others in my region, we spent a few days learning about greenhouses. Up in the paramo (high altitude grass lands) it takes 10 months to produce a head of broccoli. Construct a simple greenhouse out of fresh-cut trees and cheap plastic, and your vegetables will grow in 3 -5 months.

We (those on my technical trip) spent one morning constructing one such greenhouse. With 10 people, a hammer, saw, machete, and some rope, we hoisted logs far above head height and layed cross beams 25 feet in the air. It is truly incredible to construct such a simple yet large and functional building with such few tools.

At one point I found myself in a thick mist at 4,000 meters watching traditionally-dressed indigenous Ecuadorians walk alpacas as I rode in the back of a pickup truck.

The attached picture shows me charlando with 6th graders about recycling. On the technical trip we had to give a practice charla (directly translated as "chat", but really meaning presentation or workshop). It has been over 4 months since I left my teaching job in Colorado, and I almost forgot how much I enjoy standing in front of a classroom. Or, in this case, outside picking up trash and having little Ecuadorian kids repeat the words "Reducir, Reutilizar, Reciclar".


This morning I became an official volunteer. No more of this trainee nonsense. The swear-in ceremony was held at the ambassador's house in Quito. About a month and a half ago a friend and I shook hands, saying we would grow mustaches for swear-in. Today we had no less than 15 guys wearing collared shirts, ties, ironed pants, and well-trimmed, presentable mustaches.

Now that training has finished and I leave Quito tomorrow for my site, it is high time to analyze the things I have learned and how I have changed since my arrival in-country.

I had no expectations of knowing everything agriculture after two months, but I did think we would receive more technical training on the subject. I now have a respectably limited bank of agricultural knowledge and a different perspective. My job is not to bring in outside ideas that may disrupt local custom or tradition. I am here to integrate in the community, find out what change is both feasible and desired, and facilitate that change.

A few small differences I have noticed in myself:

1) It feels more natural to eat fruits like babaco, tomate de arbol, grenadilla, and taxo than it does to bite into an apple or orange.

2) My Spanish ability is now at the point where I do not even think about it. I have had deep conversations about religion, managed complicated bureaucratic situations, and given impromptu speeches to native speakers. More than I recognize, the Spanish word or phrase pops into my head before its English equivalent.

3) I barely feel strange using my own hands to end the life of a small animal. So far I have killed and freshly prepared chickens, rabbits, and guinea pigs, each time paying mental respects to the animal I plan to consume.

4) I have gotten positive feedback on my dancing. Those of you who have witnessed me dance in the past may think dubiously of that comment. I assure you, my hips are no longer attached to the rest of my body and salsa/merengue steps are easy to learn.

Maybe its on a bus driving past a snow-capped volcano, maybe its dancing with Ecuatorianas until the early morning, maybe its climbing a 16,000 foot volcano, maybe its paying 1.50 for lunch on a street corner, or maybe its washing my laundry on a rock, but there are many moments when I stop to appreciate my situation and surroundings. I wake up most mornings not knowing where my day will take me. Only two months has passed, but I already feel comfortable here.