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.