Turkey Day

Well, to be more accurate, Turkey Slaughter Day. Instead of gathering the family together in the scenery of late fall, my friends and I rented a cabin on a tropical beach. The weather was hot and sunny on the scorching sand, but comfortable and shady under the coconut trees. We maintained a continual fire of coconut wood for the duration of our stay, building it up to large proportions after sunset. We surfed, drank batidos and beer, ate seafood, swam, hiked, and played american football.

The premise of Thanksgiving is of course family, friends, and food. Our perception of how to rightfully celebrate the holiday morphed along with our reconaissance of information. Before our arrival (and in the weeks leading up to it) we pictured fish and fried plantains in an open fire. To accomodate this fantasy, we stocked up on tinfoil at the grocery store in a larger coastal town. While this idea was valid and served us well for the first night of our retreat, the tinfoil ran out quickly and the owner of the cabin lent us a grill to place over the fire. This opened up a world of possibilities.

Idea number two came when we saw the fisherman bringing in the catch on our second evening. A few others and I ran over to their truck, which was loaded up and ready to head out. We figured on buying some smaller fish to cook that night. None of us were ready for the sight of that truck. Instead of the typical sea bass, flounder, and bagre, the fisherman had eels the width of telephone poles, weird fish with fins coming out of places I never would have imagined, and manta rays with 6-foot diameters. When asked how a manta ray may be cooked, a local woman told me breaded and fried. ´Muy rico´, she said. This sounded quite interesting as a thanksgiving day meal, although none of us had experience slaughtering anything close to a manta ray.

Idea number three came when we saw the owner of our rented cabin´s poultry raising operation. She had one main house with full-grown animals that roamed her beach front property, as well a separate building for the babies. In addition to the normal chickens, she also raised turkeys. Not only this, but she had a beautiful alpha male turkey ripe for the chopping block. This of course was our most appropriate option, but she would not sell it for less than $60. With our collective turkey appraisal experience, we deemed this pricing not extraordinary. After all, what are the chances that this lady would have such a unique turkey ready for us to eat?

The decision to buy took us another day. Once we woke up on Thursday morning, our minds and wallets were in acccordance. We walked over to turkey´s house, brought it over to our fire pit, laid its head on a makeshift chopping block, and took its head off with one smooth gesture of the machete. We then proceeded to defeather, clean the insides, and cut up for cooking. Without a rotisserie spit, it would have been difficult to roast a whole turkey over an open fire. So, we grilled as though it were midsummer in the northeast. Some of the tastiest and most unique turkey I have ever had, enjoyed under the shade of tropical coconut trees, with feet in the sand, hand on a beer, waves a-crashin´, and friends all around.

Slaughtering ones own animals surely induces an ambivalent feeling among many of my readers. While I understand the apprehension to embrace this aspect of the food chain, I will also repeat many people who have come before me and say: to all of you meat eaters, this death must occur for you to enjoy animal protein. No matter how far away it feels from your Peter Luger steak, your meat chili, your chicken burrito, or your thanksgiving turkey, this death is closely connected to your food. Modern society allows us to look away and forget this link in the chain of life, but it is still there, and we should all engage it when given the opportunity. One should feel the full karmic gravity and pay the emotional price of enjoying their food.

Click the link on the top right for more pictures of the events described herein.

Pondering Purpose

After almost 7 months at site, I have had a lot of time to reflect on my role as a Peace Corps volunteer. Without much of a mandate, starting projects has been hard and free time has been ample. As you may imagine, it can be difficult to find motivation when you have no fixed work plan and you rarely report to your superiors.

There are many days in which I find myself without a schedule. I wake up and must decide how to fill my time. On these days, I end up reading a lot, going into town for sundries, cooking an intensive meal, baking a pie, walking the countryside, talking with people in my village, working in my garden, handwashing laundry, taking care of my chickens, or playing soccer with local kids. Some of these days are supremely satisfying, especially when I make a new connection, learn something new and interesting, or at least not sit around and do literally nothing. Some of these days, however, I feel futile. What is my position here? What can these people really learn from me? Am I intergrating as well as I could be? Will my community be better off when I leave? Am I giving as much as I am getting out of this experience? These questions fill my mind on those days in which I feel purposeless. While that is a shame to ever think of oneself, Peace Corps work requires patience, persistence, and the ability to fail.

Instead of allowing these darker thoughts to permeate my person, I try to use them as a point of motivation. (What better than lack of purpose and futility as a means of motivation? Or what worse?)

On the days in which I have something scheduled, I of course feel much more purposeful and utilized. This may include english class at the school, working in the school garden with the kids (which is starting to look quite productive), or cooking class. Yup, my zuchinni, banana, and apple-carrot breads have enjoyed such wild popularity with the Ecuadorians with whom I have regular contact, I have begun a weekly cooking class. Wednesdays at 2 PM in Messi Astaya´s house, for any of my readers who may be interested.

The first week I put up flyers around town advertising a ¨Clase de Hornear con Jacobo¨. I had originally hoped to teach the village mothers how to bake these sweet breads. Their children would certainly be grateful. However, only three such mothers showed up for the first class. I instead got a nice slice of life (mothers, children, fathers, teenagers). The same group met up the following week to make pizza, and I mentioned the possiblity of turning this into a microenterprise. We would bake during the week and sell our product at the Sunday market in town. As momma always said, ¨We shall see¨.

Although I find myself pondering my real purpose here during slow times, I look around at the place in which I live and consider myself lucky. If all it takes is a few flyers around town to get a project started, there is nothing holding me back from making a real impact.

School Garden

The greatest challenge thus far in my Peace Corps service has been creating my own work. I was placed in my town of 400 people with no real counterpart to help me in the process of integration or give me direction in my work. So, I fill my days trying to get farmers excited about organic agriculture, talking to them abstractly about building a composting toilets, tending to my garden and chickens, as well as walking the countryside. Beyond this, I work with the school both teaching English classes and running the garden. Because it is a consistent obligation (rather than sporadic meetings with random campesinos), I get to work closely with kids, and I can directly view the results of my work, what I do with the school has given me the most satisfaction of anything yet.

The previous volunteer had a school garden as well, but only used a small portion of the land available. After negotiating with the town´s group of mothers, I have full license to use the land as I see fit.

Each 7th grade student gets their own plot of land, upon which they plant, tend, and harvest. I provide the seeds (some of which I got donated, some of which I bought) and help them with both techical knowledge and the physical labor. Anything harvested goes directly to the kitchen to feed the entire student body during lunch.

The degree to which they take pride in their own land is incredible. I expected to constantly provide motivation for them to work on their plot, since after class every afternoon, they find themselves working their family´s land as a chore. Yet, even when I am not present, they are out in the hot sun watering, weeding, or simply admiring their work. Must be either the spirit of competition or challenge of doing it all by themselves, but I have some good gardeners at my disposal.

Looking into the future on this project, I would like to make it sustainable. Instead of just a few students planting vegetables during the school year, I want to include more grade levels, build a greenhouse and composting toilet, as well as get some animals to 1) provide pest control, 2) manure, and 3) protein in the student´s daily lunch diet.

Unfortunately, these fine ambitions require money, the likes of which will not come from the Ecuadorian Ministry of Education. Therefore, in the next few weeks, keep your eyes out for a means of donating both to this school garden project and my composting toilet project.

Pictures Explained:

1) Me distributing seeds wearing my indigenous outfit.

2) 7th grade students showing the seeds they are about to sow.

3) Happy face.

-2 to 6 months

After requests for yet more pictures, I have created a Picasa photo album to link to this blog.
This album summarizes my first 8 months in country though the various events for which I had my camera. For your viewing pleasure.


http://picasaweb.google.com/schwarz.jacob/2To6Months?feat=directlink

Cotopaxi

Cotopaxi Volcano. 19, 344 ft above sea level. The second highest peak in Ecuador and among the tallest active volcanos in the world. A type example of a stratovolcano. In Kichwa, Cotopaxi means ¨Collar of the Sun¨. Aptly named for the shape the sun makes when it peaks its cone-shaped body.

Hiking this mountain was definitely among the top 5 most intense things I have ever done. Up there with summiting two Colorado fourteeners in one day while winter backpacking, biking over 90 miles per day across the Nevada summer desert, and skydiving.

Logistics:

Sunday afternoon - Gear check and hike to Refuge (4800 meters, 15, 800 feet.) Learn to walk on the glacier with crampons and an ice axe. Try to rest.

Monday morning - Wake up at midnight. Dress, eat breakfast, and begin climbing by 1 AM. Reach glacier at 2 AM. Begin ice climbing. Reach summit at 6 AM just as the sun is rising.

Here I show myself and my 5 companions doing our gear check before our hike to the refuge. I cannot decide whether Jack there on the left ruined the picture or enhanced it with the behind the legs crotch-grab.

I came highly equipped for this climb. Layers included 3 pair wool socks, two pair glove liners and one pair waterproof winter mittens, three layers on bottom, 5 layers on top, a scarf, a bandana for the face, and two hats. In my opinion, unless you are Sam Horstmann, no matter how many layers you wear, you will freeze your ass off.

Regardless of all these layers, most of my group neglected to bring along a sleeping bag. Not for the climb itself, but for easy resting in the Refuge before its start. With the temperature hovering around freezing, we lay spooning on top of bare mattresses wearing all of our layers. More than rest or relaxation, this was a period of mental preparation.

Hiking to Refuge from the parking lot below. You can see our equipment on our backs and the behemoth mountain towering above us.

The hike itself started out harmless enough. After an hour of hiking up scree, we reached the glacier. From then on, the going got easier with crampons and ice axes. Two climbers per guide connected by a rope. As it was dark most of the way up, we could neither see the large drop offs awaiting us below 8-inch-wide ledges, nor peer into the depths of the ice cravasses we so giddily jumped across. Say hello to our energetic 3 AM faces. One of the first stops, and not yet drained of energy or sick from altitude.

The sun came up as we were just below the summit. The entire night had been headlamps and lack of visibility. When the sun came up, and the colors of the sunrise replaced the darkness of stars and night sky, the beauty was tantamount to anything in my recent past. Out of this world.

The summit was invigorating, but not quite as climatic as one may expect. We got caught in a snow storm with zero visibility, not to mention temperatures far below zero Fahrenheit and piercing winds. After the obligatory yodeling, pushups, and summit photo, my two American companions and I started down. A few minutes down, we encountered the other three from our group. One was vomiting from altitude sickness, another hallucinating stars in the air and electricity flowing through his rope, and the third (we were told) passed out in the snow 30 seconds after our salutation. Regardless of the challenges, all six of us made it to the top.

I did not feel much altitude sickness. This I found strange, since it has affected me at 12,000 feet. The most I felt was some lightheadedness and dizziness walking down. Goes to show that it affects everyone differently and can be very unpredictable.

Once all down (at 9 AM remind you), the collective attitude was one of such miserable fatigue that although it was a great experience, we would never attempt such a crazy mountain again. An hour later, back in the van on our way to Quito, we decided to attempt Chimborazo (longer, taller, steeper, and with more ice, but 1) the point in the world both farthest from the center of the earth and 2) the point closest to the sun).

Smorgasbord

While sauntering recently, I stumbled upon a group of young boys at the irrigation reservoir. When full, they treat it as a swimming pool. None had gone in yet, so I agreed to go first if they all followed. We had some swimming races, caught a few fish, and basked in the sun. Afterwards, we searched the forest for wild blackberries, topping off the biggest event of my day.

For the past few months, I have cringed every time I buy a carton of milk. Costing the same (if not more) than in the U.S., warm in a box, and pumped full of hormones for preservation, milk was not my favorite thing to buy. My desire for calcium and vitamin D routinely overcame these other factors and I forked over the money. However, I recently found a family about 30 meters up the road who not only has a cow and milks every day, but also sells the milk. 5 liters for $2.50. Fresh out of the cow´s utter, I must boil it to kill any bacteria. The wholest of whole milk I have ever tasted.

5 AM. Coastal bus terminal. Post overnight bus trip. Weird black insect I've never seen before. Bite! My hand swelled so large I could neither see my knuckles nor make a fist. I took no comparative picture, so imagine a hand of the chubbiest little baby you have ever seen. Larger though.

I already showed you the style of houses built by those living at the highest altitudes in Ecuador (Reference: El Páramo entry). Here is a house built at the lowest possible elevation. Propped on stilts and made of wood, it is designed to monopolize the ocean front property while not drowning in the high tide. Next installment: the jungle hut.

After a few missed opportunities and misinformed attempts, I attended the weekly Animal Fair in Otavalo. Planning only to check prices and find the strangest animal for sale, I wandered through pigs, horses, goats, cuy, sheep, cows, ducks, chickens, roosters, and people making lots of noise. I succumbed quickly and bought 2 chicks and 2 ducklings. Bargained down from $6 to $5. They are currently set up in a little house outside getting accustomed to a lot more space than they have ever seen. When the ducklings get larger, I will install a small pond so they can to swim. The chicks should be fully mature in two months, while the ducklings will take about four. At which point my amigos and I will slaughter and eat them, while drinking and being merry. Mmm, duck.

I had trouble keeping these cute little birds in my hands for a proper picture. As you can see, they are timid and scared on their first morning in new housing. Coming from a crowded box with dozens of others of their own species, these two pairs had probably never seen any creatures beside their own kind. By the random choice of the vendors arm , I bought these two particular ducklings and these two particular chicks. The developing dynamic of this incipient group sparks my scientific curiosity. At first, the pairs maintained special (speecial) loyalty, huddling close to their partner. They then began exploring their new housemates, the smaller ducklings retreating behind the larger chicks when their scary new human owner entered their quarters. They now travel as a group, feeding together, drinking together, and yes, retreating into the corner when I show up.

My village is currently celebrating the three year anniversary of the church. While hanging around the festivities yesterday, I started talking to some teenagers from a nearby town. They had a few musical instruments and asked me to play with them. After running to my house to grab my guitar and harmonicas, we played two songs for the crowd praising God as ¨todo poderoso¨. After our performance, we established a weekly time for me to teach them music. Their knowledge is very basic, they cannot yet hold a rhythm, and they get nervous in front of an audience. They already have instruments, they enjoy playing together, and they want to learn. The potential is astounding.

Census

Integration into a completely new community which functions with its own set of established rules has proved difficult. To ease the process, our superiors gave us specific instructions to conduct interviews of as many people as possible in the community. The purpose of this is two-fold: 1) to get to know the people and community more intimately, and 2) to see what they want and get some ideas for projects. An intimidating prospect, but doable once the motivation is found.

Once started, my project became almost academic in nature. I walked from house to house for about 2 hours each day, speaking with at least one person per household, jotting down notes in my brown Moleskine notebook.

To put some figures on my experience - I walked past 22 cows and 54 pigs. I encountered 4 people too drunk to answer my questions and 3 women unable to communicate due to the Kichwa language barrier. I was bit by 1 dog (through my Carhartt work pants). I quickly learned to walk with an intimidation stick. The interview process took me 2 1/2 weeks.

The questions went as follows:

1) How many people live in this household?
2) How many years does each person have?
3) By what means do you earn money?
4) What do you have planted right now?
5) How do you dispose of trash? Burn or throw in the river?
6) Are you part of any community groups?
7) What is your house made of? Packed earth or concrete blocks?
8) Do you own a television? B&W or Color?
9) Do you use chemicals on your crops?
10) If you could raise your standard of living, what would you require?

_________________________

Please excuse the lack of figures, I tried many formats and my Excel graphs will not work on the blog.
_________________________

Population: 418
Average number per household: 6
Number of families: 27
Average number per family: 15.5
Number of interviews conducted: 69


-Trash Disposal-

Burn: 59 households
Throw in the river: 15 households


-Use of Chemicals-

Yes: 21
Sometimes: 18
No: 29


-Employment-

Agriculture: 50 households
Construction: 4
Store Owner: 3
Flower Plantations: 6
Misc: 17


-Television-

B&W: 26
Color: 30
None: 15


-Raise standard of living?-

Sewage system. As of now, there is no public sewage system in my village. They have running water and toilets, but the waste goes either into wells or into the drainages. The larger scale solution would be to install a public sewage system, but that is far outside of my control. I can however, teach them to make composting toilets. Two birds with one stone. No more sewage problem and copious organic compost.

Views from my house

I recently moved out from my host family to my own house. While I highly enjoyed living with them, the house was ready, I had culturally absorbed as much as I would from living there (in a concrete room with no windows and a roof that leaked), I looked forward to not getting woken up at 6 AM by crying babies, and I wanted to cook a little more protein into my diet. Ok, enough justification.

Here are the views looking west and east from my new house.

Picture 1 (looking west) you can see the corner of my house, the greenhouse, and part of the garden. In the middle I show the dirt road with no name as well as the Volcano Mama Cotacachi. It looks a lot bigger in real life.

Picture 2 (looking east) is much simpler, showing a recently-tilled field and the Volcano Papa Imbabura. Legend has it the mama and papa volcanos fornicated to form the valley below. This is technically the case, geologically, as lava mixing is the closest two volcanos can get to fornication.

El Páramo

Living over 2500 meters in a country where altitude completely determines climate and environment, I have the privilege of reaching really high altitudes and completely different environments with moderate effort.

This weekend I went on an excursion to the Páramo. Best described as a high-altitude grassland, it resembles the Tundra in many ways but the actual snow. It begins at about 10,000 feet, and is covered with tall grass and not much else.

Waking at 5 AM, 3 American friends, 5 Ecuadorian men, and I walked for about 7 hours while donkeys and horses carried our things. Before entering the official Cotacachi-Cayapas Reserve, we passed a few isolated houses located at about 10,000 feet. As you can see, these houses are constructed of wood or packed earth walls with straw roofs. It is comforting to see that globalization has not reached at least this tiny sector.

Note about our guides: This excursion was set up by a volunteer who works with this company on ecotourism, so he knew all the people accopanying us. When we showed up at their house at 6 AM, they had been up all night drinking and were singing songs with their arms around one another. Instead of hurrying to ready the horses, they jumped onto our pickup truck and began searching for the bottle of whiskey the volunteer had promised to bring. Upon confirmation, they began the process of preparing to leave.

We began so early in order to enjoy our time in this unfrequented place. After setting up camp at 2 PM, a heavy fog and light rain rolled in (as often happens on top of mountains, where rising air is forced to condense). The afternoon was spent playing cards, placing layer upon layer of alpaca sweater on our bodies, and walking around. Careful not to walk far, many people have gotten lost in the fog and vast uniform space. Here I show our camp when the fog weakened for a few fleeting moments. As you can see, the Páramo does not lend itself to biodiversity.

Differences between American and Ecuadorian camping: Americans carry gear on their backs, while Ecuadorians commission burros for the job. Americans carry lightweight stoves, mostly dry food, and a limited fuel supply. These Ecuadorians carried a full-size ¨cocineta¨ with 2 large burners, an entire tank of gas, an entire uncooked chicken, multiple pounds of beef, and lots and lots of potatoes. These differences of course have to with availability of certain foods and equipment.

All in all, it was a great trip. The 9 of us all sat in the largest tent late into the night making soup from chicken, potatoes, and minimal spices, while telling stories of the Duendes. Legend has it a group of lepers lives in this territory. If you camp too close to their land, they play an intimidating warning song. No Ecuadorian on the trip hesitated to affirm that they were real and they had heard the music first hand.

Basic Kichwa

Pronounced Keech-Wah. Every town meeting is conducted in Kichwa. Little kids lie in my hammock and laugh at my pronunciation. I am unable to communicate with some older people by language barrier. I miss many jokes when socializing.

For these reasons, I have been attending a tri-weekly basic level Kichwa class. I am here to help these people the best I can. After three months here, I see that to truly connect with them, I will have to speak their language.

Kichwa is indigenous to the Andean mountain people. It is spoken in Bolivia, Peru, Colombia, and Ecuador. There are two main ways of writing it (reflected as Kichwa and Quichua) but the permutations go far beyond those two. It is now spoken with intermittent Spanish words picked up upon the arrival of the conquistadores. Hacienda, basura, plastico. It does not contain the vowels E and O. When speaking, the accent is on the second to last syllable of the word.

As previously reported, it neither sounds nor is constructed like Spanish or English. For example, English: One, Two, Three. Spanish: Uno, Dos, Tres. Kichwa: Shuk, Ishkay, Kimsa.

While it is very different than any language I had previously encountered, it breaks down pretty simply. Many concepts are explained by connecting two basic ideas. Good: ali. Bad(or Not Good): mana ali. The key will be in the vocab.

Ali shamuksha. Ali chishi. Ñuka shutimi kan Jacobo. Ñukaka Ecuadorpi kawsani. Payka kaypi kawsaymi ali kan. Payka autobusmi kimsata shamunurka. Ñukanchik runakuna kanchik. Payka shuti mamami kan Sarah Jane. Payka shuti taytami Don Eduardo. Hataripay. Tiaripay. Kankuna blogta killkakatinkichik, mashikuna.

Welcome. Good afternoon. My name is Jacobo. I live in Ecuador. Life here is good. The bus came at three. We are human beings. My mom´s name is Sarah Jane. My dad´s name is Don Eduardo. Stand up! Sit down! You are reading my blog, amigos.

Garden Update

I spend a few minutes each day tending to my garden. Considering I had little to no experience before arriving here, things are going well. Radish, beets, carrots, lettuce, onions, zuchinni, cabbage, swiss chard, broccoli, cauliflour, basil, cilantro, sweet peppers, peas, and three types of tomatoes are squeezed into about 3x10 meters.

In training I learned about organic fertilizers, compost teas, BIOL, pesticides, etc, and have implemented many here. So far the only problem has been white flies on the zuchinni. Here I show an LL Bean boot next to a cauliflower plant. (Note for scale: This boot has 6 grommets.)

Inside the greenhouse I have put anything that climbs, so the peas and tomatoes. They are beginning to show flowers, but alas, the humidity fogs the camera lens.

My first harvest included 14 radishes and few leaves of basil. Most other plants should be month yet. Soon I will have fresh tomatoes and basil for pasta sauce, zuchinni for zuchinni bread, and cucumbers for pickling. Closeup of colorful beet leaves.

I am in a unique agricultural situation living on the Equator. Full sun, no frost, and moderate rain all year round. Once this garden begins really producing, I won´t have to go to market for vegetables.

Rollercoaster of emotions

The vocabulary for our feelings during the different stages of Peace Corps service is spelled out for us early in training. The concept of an ¨emotional rollercoaster¨ has been thrown around a lot lately among the volunteers I spend time with.

Frightened: Running among a frantic crowd from tear gas bombs released by the policia in order to control the Inti Raymi festivities.

Accepted: Dancing in circles with bandanas hanging from my pants pockets, playing guitar while others dance around me, serving food, and passing around used soda bottles full of moonshine until the early hours of the morn.

Bummed: Left my only and favorite baseball cap in the back of a pickup truck. Found the driver the next day who said someone must have taken it. Outlaw Productions hats are hard to come by in this country.

Lonely: Not finding the energy to dance day and night for an entire week, unable to understand those who continue, I miss my family, friends, and own culture.

Embarrassed: Passed on the one street in my town by those heading to the day´s Inti Raymi dances, I lied by saying I could not drink due to parasites in my stomach. (I do, however, most likely have something living in there.)

Integrated: An Ecuadorian restaurant owner asked me from which part of Ecuador I was from. No joke, even with my blonde hair and beard.

Gluttonous: Eating more than a few servings of ice cream and french fries, drinking more than a few Cokes and beers.

Knowledgeable: Helping train the new group of volunteers on organic agricultural practices. I surprised myself about how much I know.

Successful: Having found multiple surrounding communities, I taught them how to make a compost pile, and was emphatically asked to return and teach more about manure teas, BIOL, and organic pesticides.

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.

Notes on Cultural Integration

The Catholic world has spent the entire last week celebrating Semana Santa, or Holy Week. As most Ecuadorians practice Catholicism, Easter pervades the culture not with painted eggs and sugar bunnies, but with symbolic soups and reenactments of the crucifixion of Christ.

Ever since I was young, my Mom led my siblings and I to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. For a family of Jews, this broadened our understanding of culture and diversity through direct experience. Early conditioning has taught me to embrace whatever culture I find around.

Completely embracing a Christian tradition would not produce ambivalent feelings normally, but it happens that Passover falls in the exact same time frame as the Semana Santa. My family in the Unites States is currently together in my home town eating matza and reading from the Haggadah. Although it is important to maintain my own cultural identity, the childhood-midnight-mass in me wants to experience local tradition in the Ecuadorian manner.

The attached picture shows my alacritous face as I stir Fanesca, a soup that contains 12 different vegetables, each representing one of Jesus´ disciples. Figleaf gourd, pumpkin, fava beans, choclo, abas, lentils, peas, corn, zuchinni, green beans, cabbage, and onions. The entire family spends the better part of a day preparing all the ingredients. The final product is hearty, creamy, and tasty. Luckily it does not carry any leavened bread.

All of today was devoted to baking bread, a food we all know represents the body of Jesus in Catholic tradition. Again, the entire family participated, and again I felt strange. Baking leavened bread of Jesus during Passover? We started a fire in our large adobe oven at 7 AM to begin baking around noon.

Instead of simply joining the festivities, I mentioned the idea of matza and my desire to bake it. I recounted the story of Passover with my best Spanish accent. Sure enough, I had enthusiastic participants. We used wheat flour grown and ground less than 100 meters away by those who bake with it. The picture below shows me taking matza (they call it ¨Pan de Jacobo sin levadura¨) out of the oven with bread going in. Tastes just like a cracker but could use more salt, according to my family.

Sometimes integration brings us to a crossroads. At what point do we relinquish our own culture to fit into another? Where can we find middle ground, a place for cultural intercambio to learn from each other? When do we finish blog posts with idle philosophical sentiment?

Digestion

I ended my site visit this morning as I ran down the hill to catch the bus. I should have anticipated that the 8 AM does not come until 8:20. Four hours and four buses later, I find myself back in Olmedo. We spent the afternoon watching the usual Sunday soccer games at the town cancha. It is nice to have my friends around again.

Some people speak of unbearably hot Amazon towns surrounded by dense jungle. Others tell of high humidity, bug nets, and towns so poor they have mud streets and bathe in the river. Others yet have hot showers, cold beer, and offices. The number of totally different experiences compares to the number of malaria strains present in Ecuador. Luckily I live above the government standard altitude requiring malaria pills. 1500 meters, if you were curious.

Highlights from the rest of my site visit:

1) During my first walk around the area, I ran into a guy wrestling a pig on a leash. I couldn´t figure out exactly what he was doing, even after I asked.

2) More than just a few meals consisted of a plate full of whole potatoes and potato soup (whole peeled potatoes in a thin broth). Good thing I have multivitamins.

3) The entire elementary school spent Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday playing a soccer tournament. I served as referee for multiple games.

4) I met with some of the women whom I will be helping with a large community garden. Within the first ten seconds of meeting them, they began complaining the municipio will not allow them access to the irrigation canal that runs under the street next to the garden. Seeing as the rainy season has not arrived in full capacity in two years, a large scale garden would be a challenge without irrigation. This led to my first meeting with the town president.

5) He asked if I could give him guitar lessons.

All in all, I come back excited from my site visit. Preliminary project ideas include the family gardens, community banking, and an afterschool youth group for the supposedly dangerous jovenes in the next town over. I´ve already got a contact who might be able to help with dance classes. I would teach music and take care of organization.

It is still early to tell many things about how daily life will function, but I can already see I don´t mind doing laundry by hand with a ginormous volcano staring me in the face.

First Impressions

My last post contained many raw emotions, ones I had not been prepared to sustain. However, as they said to us in a speech just before they handed out sites, its a deck of cards and we all receive one. The cards have been dealt, and I'm here in my tiny indigenous town in the North Country (that is, the Northern Sierra of a country straddling the equator; hardly North Country in the Acadian Driftwood sense).

I met the volunteer whom I will replace in the larger city near our site, and she took me to our town. We spent the afternoon getting to know my home for the next two years. I live with a host family for the initial three months. Yes, they recently put walls on my bedroom. The family consists of a mother, father, and five children (that I've counted so far). The town is tiny. It has many spread out houses, all with their own land and crops. Picture white or earth-colored walls with loosely-placed red shingles slowly growing moss under the rain and sun. The town sits between two inactive volcanos, and overlooks rolling hills covered with family farms. There are three small tiendas and a school in the center of town. I haven't explored much yet, but it seems like that is the majority of the infrastructure. No Internet, so this is my first post via Blackberry.

The current volunteer will be leaving before I arrive for the longevity, so she is tying up many loose ends. I accompanied her to her last community bank meeting, during which she insisted upon collecting the money she had contributed. A reasonable request since she will be leaving. The meeting was held outside of a bank member's house in the intense sun, with chickens running around and women breast feeding whenever the need arose. The only thing accomplished in the two hours we sat on the ground was her money collection. Literally, this took two hours. That, my friends, is the Ecuadorian sense of time.

The entire bank meeting was held in Quichua, a language that is dawning on me in two major ways. 1) It does not sound, nor is it constructed, anything like Spanish, and 2) I will spend a lot of time trying to comprehend it. Yes, everyone speaks Spanish, but Quichua between each other. I really had hoped to become fluent in Spanish, but it may not be the case. Oh well, at least I won't be speaking English.

Besides the language issue, I get a great first impression of this community. The indigenous experience will be very different than anything I know. The surroundings are breath-taking. Having had a previous volunteer to break the ice, the people understand why I am here and are ready to work with me. The climate is perfect: warm and sunny during the day and pleasantly cool at night.

I just had dinner with my new host family. Although they are not as adept at correcting my Spanish as native speakers, they still make a point to speak it with me. We spent a few minutes writing down basic Quichua phrases. If I'm really going to do this, I've gotta start making a concerted effort with my Quichua. To all my readers: buenas noches. To all the Quichua speakers among you: Ali tuta.

Site Assignment

Today was a rollercoaster of emotions. I woke up excited to learn about my home for the next two years. My entire Omnibus collected at our usual meeting spot for the news. We entered the room to see a large map of Ecuador outlined in roses on the floor. One of the trainers pulled our names out of a hat and read off our site assignments. Once read, the person ran through a line of people throwing roses and slapping our hands.

The suspense was more intense than my skydiving experience last Spring. Sitting in the plane before the jump, at least I knew I would land safely on the ground within a few minutes. I had no idea where I would be placed, and the suspense was almost unbearable.

Towards the end of the names, I was finally called. I´m not sure why I gave myself expectations, but my site was exactly the opposite of what I had hoped. I had asked for the Coast or Amazon region, and I was led to the top of the map. The Northern Sierra mountainous region. The more I learned about it, the more upset I got. Beyond regional preference, I had asked for a small community, Spanish speaking, rural, very low level of services (no running water, electricity, etc), and to be the first volunteer in the site. My site is in the mountains, has way over a few hundred people, is indigenous (the majority of the inhabitants speak Quichua), is very close to a larger city, has running water and electricity, and is only about an hour by bus from my training site. I was devastated.

In going through my paperwork, I noticed a few strange things on my housing form. Most of boxes explaining required aspects of my host family house were checked. However, when I got to 1) personal room, 2) locked room, and 3) ability to change locks, only the word PENDING. Upon further scrutiny, the section entitled ¨Required Improvements to Living Quarters¨ read ¨WALLS ON BEDROOM¨. I couldn´t exactly figure out what that meant, but for my $40-per-month rent, I should hope I have walls on my bedroom.

Meanwhile, I had friends in my same program assigned to a site on the beach in a town of fisherman and cacao farmers. Others were given sites deep in the jungle surrounded by Amazon rainforest. I couldn´t believe how insensitive the placement staff was of my preferences. I still can´t believe it.

However, as the day wore on, my attitude began to change. I reminded myself that I joined Peace Corps because I was willing to go anywhere and do anything. Even though I had hoped for a more exotic experience, I have to admit that I love mountains. Maybe I would have gone crazy on the coast dreaming of huge volcanos towering overhead. I called the volunteer whom I will replace, and she made me feel a lot better. She had the same doubts about the site for her first few months, but now loves it. I don´t need to learn Quichua (everyone speaks Spanish as well), she claims my house is amazing, and there is plenty of meaningful work to be done.

I had hoped for a site as far outside of my comfort zone as possible. At first glance, this site did not seem to fit that mold. Por otro mano, when else will I get to live at 2,500 meters and still have summer weather all year round? When else will I have two volcanos in my backyard? When else will I have the opportunity to learn an indigenous language?

Rest assured that the end of my day was a lot better than the beginning and middle. I can´t judge this place before I even set foot there. I can´t set myself up for failure like that. I´m still trying to process that I landed such a place, but I am keeping an open mind. No one ever said Peace Corps would be easy.

Comiendo Cuy con la Familia

Culture, Camisetas, and Cuyes

We took a trip this weekend to Cotocachi for more cultural exposure. Some activities included visiting a leather factory, swimming in a waterfall, and listening to live traditional Andean folk music. Friday night we split up and stayed at the houses of some indigeneous Ecuadorians. Some PC trainees stayed down the road from me at the house of one of the members of the folk band. All of the other members came over that night and we jammed together, sharing American and Andean music. I played Phish and the Grateful Dead while they sang in Quechua.

I came away from this party with an interesting cultural perspective. At one point, we got on the topic of the Spanish language, where us Americans had learned to speak, etc. This opened up a discussion about how they despise Spanish. In fact, they speak Quechua between each other and Spanish only when they must communicate with foreigners. It almost pains their tongues. I had never before fully understood the cultural implications of this alien and imposed language on these indigenous members of society.

The central square of Otavalo on Saturdays is allegedly the largest flea market in all of South America. Although I would not have come to that conclusion myself, it was daunting in scope and rich in diversity. Haggle, haggle, haggle. I came away with two camisetas, an Alpaca wool sweater, and a leather sombrero, most sold by the people who made them. Second Sima reference: I got the hat down from $25 to $13.

WARNING/AVISO: The rest of this post may not be suitable for the faint of heart.

Guinea pigs are surprisingly hard to catch. After 45 minutes of chasing them around the pen this morning, Mama Iness and I decided that eight would be enough. My first guinea pig or cuy (pronounced coo-ee) experience proved a test of the nerves for the next two years of my assignment in Integrated Farming and Animal Production.

When I woke up and asked what our Sunday activity would be, my madre said she would be preparing cuyes for lunch tomorrow. When asked if I could help, she replied it was something only the women do. My thoughts: 1) I don´t care, and 2) The women here are badass.

Once caught, we set a big pot of water over a wood fire. When she (remember Iness has 82 years) bent the head into the chest and proceeded to break the neck, my stomach wretched. I almost walked out of the smoky room to escape the reality of my situation. Instead, I found that my decision to enjoy meat on my dinner plate on a regular basis could only be justified if I was willing to look death in the face. In short, I broke the necks(a sound so similar to the cracking of knuckles that a knuckle crack in Ecuador is actually called a cuy), removed the eyes, skinned the hair with boiling water, removed intestines, and set to dry for the kitchen tomorrow. Comfort zone = expanded enough for today.

View from my patio: Cayambe Volcano

The terrible cramp I reported a few days ago turned into two full days of intense food poisoning (and all the unpleasant bodily functions that accompany such an affliction). Good thing I was sick on Sunday and didn´t miss class.

Once that passed, I got right back into the swing of things around Olmedo. It turns out that my Mama Iness has many small properties right around our house. I´ve been helping tend to the corn, chickens, and guinea pigs. I spent a few hours the other night helping her grandson Raúl tend to one of her corn fields. When he asked me to come with him, I thought we were just going to see them, so I didn´t change out of my shorts and sneakers. After moving the active sprinklers multiple times and chasing goats away, I found myself soaked in water and covered in luscious, black dirt. Together we watched the sunset among the mountains. Almost too romantic. Almost.

New Town, No English

Over a week in country and I already feel like I am getting a hold of things. We moved out our summer camp-style hacienda and in with our host families. It was sad to say goodbye to the large training class, but now we are finally living like Ecuadoreans.

I live in the small town of Olmedo (over 10,000 feet in elevation) with five other volunteers at my language level. My host family consists of my madre and padre who have 82 and 78 years, respectively. My madre has six children just like my grandma Sima, so I feel right at home. She operates a small clothing store in front of our residence, where we spent hours last night chatting about her life since birth in this same town. One of her daughters, and her three daughters, live in the house with us, so there is always gossip going on at the dinner table. My room opens up to a patio with a beautiful view of the snow-capped Cayame volcano.

This morning I had to be in class by 8 AM, so after a breakfast of rice, tomatoes, and fried something, I went to take a shower. During my initial house tour, Iness (my madre) explained that we had hot water. Neglecting to consider the overnight cooling of the water tank, my shower was not only cold, but at a surprisingly high pressure that I could barely escape clean.

Two hours of class today was devoted to describing the differences between the idea of time in the States and in Ecuador. Something I may get used to just in time to return home. We spent another two hours walking around town, talking with people about life here. I guess the exercise is designed to condition us as the strange gringos asking for information.

So here I am after a nice big lunch of cerdo and maíz. I need not a cell phone and carry a minimal amount of cash. I guess I´ll go for a siesta before capping the afternoon off with a game of fútbol.


Update:
It is now four hours after the original post. The afternoon which I had hoped would be tranquilo turned out to be the opposite. I went for siesta and gradually realized my stomach was not agreeing with my lunch. I spent the last four hours twisting and turning in bed with a terrible cramp. When it got too painful to bare I tried to go to the baño, but to no avail. Oh well, it will pass and was bound to happen eventually. Must have been the lettuce.

¡Bienvendos a Ecuador!

After 16 months, one interview, a college graduation, more doctors appointments than I can count, two plane rides, a new passport, and 5 overcrowded bus rides, I sit here in Cayambe, Ecuador during my first week of Pre-Service Training for Peace Corps.

I arrived in country 5 days ago at Quito International with my group of 54 fellow trainees (we are not volunteers until the swearing in ceremony two months from now). I knew I was in for an interesting experience when, the following day at the Peace Corps office, I found myself eating chicken during lunch. What was purported be the familiar food I had recently eaten for one of my last meals in the States resembled something closer to a spongy, round accordian with brown spots. Oh well, it won´t be the strangest thing placed in front of me in the next few years.

As I said, my life consists of intensive training for the next two months. So far, it has treated me well. My entire training class (Omnibus 103 in PC lingo) lives in a hacienda in the town of Cayambe in the northern Sierra region. The living situation is a cross between college dorm life, summer camp, and a high school cafeteria. I spend my days in Spanish immersion class (I impressed myself by placing into the most advanced language class, below the native speakers, of course), attempting to learn some bank of agricultural knowledge, haggling at the market for fruits with names like maracuya, tomate de arbol, and pepino dulce, eating comida Ecuatoriana, playing basketball, frisbee, or soccer, and enjoying the equatorial sun (Dont worry, Mom, the PC medical kit supplies sun cream), under the ice-capped Cayambe volcano.

I do not have any thing to complain about so far. Ecuador fulfills all expectations that one would have of a tropical South American country. The weather here in the mountains is comfortably warm during the day, and gets cold enough at night that I wear an LL Bean wool sweater and thick wool socks. My fellow trainees all have interesting stories and provide a positive energy that is very welcome during our long days of training classes (we had been in class since 8 this morning until 5:30, with an hour break for lunch). When all is said and done, my committment to the full 2 years has not waivered at all. Life in the Peace Corps is just fine.