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?