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La Generosidad, by Katie Appel

Expecting the unexpected becomes second nature here in Ecuador. Volcanoes spurting ash, parades marching down the streets, eating guinea pig for lunch- these exemplify just a few of the many daily surprises that Ecuador gives her volunteers. Flexibility quickly becomes a desired trait. With many of these surprises, I usually just giggle to myself and move on with my day. Though with all the unbelievable moments that I have experienced already, the one thing that continually surprises me and touches me to the core is the generosity of my students.

Ecuadorians are such a generous people in general, but my students take it to a whole new level. Not only have they accepted me as a teacher, but they have become my cultural informants, my guardians, and most importantly, true friends. They give me so much during our classes together. With our final projects this semester they had to perform skits in front of the class. One group performed a scene from Shrek and came in costume, with Shrek and Donkey masks and all! Another group brought all the traditional Ecuadorian food dishes- fritada (fried pork), llapingachos (potato pancakes), moté (a cousin of corn), and other treats. Watching my students give their presentations with such pride and excitement made me so greatful to be a part of it all. Their own enthusiasm and desire to learn are gifts in themselves. And even on those days when the last thing I want to do is stand up in front of my classes for five hours, I usually leave happy at the end of the day because of my students.

In addition to the daily kindnesses my students give me in the classroom, they have many times surprised me with their generosity outside of the classroom as well. When I took an overnight bus to the coast during my first few weeks teaching, Henry called to make sure I got to my destination safely. When I mentioned to Rosa that I liked her pink nailpolish, she brought me the bottle the next day and insisted that I keep it for myself. Jazmín and her father usually drive me home after class, and we often stop for ice cream or go to their home for more conversation around the dinner table. This past November, Rómulo hosted a fieldtrip for our class at his uncle’s house. My students bought all the food and wouldn’t let me pay a cent, and we had a BBQ with the Tungurahua Volcano in the background. And when I mentioned to Zoila that I needed to buy Christmas presents for my family back in the States, she invited me to the festivals and markets in her small indigenous town. Not only did she meet me in town to help with my shopping, but she took me and two other volunteers to her friend’s home to participate in the celebrations. Though I know many of my students don’t have a lot, you certainly wouldn’t know that with all they give.

My favorite example of my students’ generosity came during our Thanksgiving Day class. Beforehand I had tried to explain Thanksgiving to them as best as I could, emphasizing the value of spending time with family and loved ones, and setting aside a day to be thankful for all one’s blessings. I had told my students about how much I love the holiday and how sad I was to be away from my family this year. When I arrived to class that day they all surprised me with turkey sandwiches for the entire class! My students told me they wanted to make sure I had my turkey on Thanksgiving Day. It was obvious that they grasped the meaning of Thanksgiving better than I had ever hoped for.

I came to Ecuador with the hopes that I might have something to give my students- maybe my knowledge of the English language and my desire to share my culture with them. And yet while I do try to give my students as much as I can, I am just so humbled by all they have given me. My students have welcomed me with open arms and have made me feel so loved and appreciated. These men and women, strangers only months ago, have now become the faces I look forward to seeing every day. They are the people I go to with questions or concerns, always ready to help me in any way they can. One might say that generosity, or generosidad, signifies the same thing in every language. But if I have learned anything in my time so far in Ecuador, I have learned that here generosity means something a little bit more.

Selected as First Place, WorldTeach Winter 2008 Journal Contest.

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Christmas in Ecuador, by Emma O'Driscoll

When you live in a foreign country, you ultimately come to expect the cultural shocks and misunderstandings that occur on an almost daily basis. I probably experienced my fair share over the course of my first few months in Loja: my host mother putting cornflakes in my coffee because I told her I liked cereal for breakfast, an indigenous woman stopping me in the street to ask if I would like to buy a live turkey, and my friend pouring salt into her neon pink glass of soda, claiming that it helped to make it less fizzy.

However, as the decorated conifers started going up in the plazas and the Santa Claus hats appeared in the stores, I dared to hope that perhaps Christmas in Ecuador wasn’t that different from the celebrations back in England. This thought soothed somewhat the pangs of homesickness that had started to plague me as the holiday season got underway. I found it comforting to listen to my students describing the familiar yuletide scenes that took place in their homes every year: turkey dinners, the exchanging of presents, songs and parties with friends and family. No mince pies unfortunately, but I figured I could live without them for one year.

Unlike many other WorldTeach volunteers, I hadn’t made any plans to see my family at Christmas, the 15 hour, $2000 flight to England proving something of a barrier. I was relieved and grateful, therefore, when my Ecuadorian boyfriend asked me if I’d like to spend Christmas Eve with his family. I had already spent a couple of evenings sipping cafecito with the Reáteguis and knew they were a fun, raucous, if slightly eccentric bunch, who would make me feel very welcome. The prospect of spending Christmas in a foreign country was suddenly much more exciting.

We arrived around nine o’clock at the enchanting colonial house that belonged to Fausto’s grandmother and where the family traditionally gathered to celebrate almost every special occasion, from Easter Sundays to Friday afternoons. Abuelita, a diminutive woman in her late seventies with a penchant for garish Hawaiian-style shirts, had gone to great lengths this year to create a festive environment – particularly when it came to the traditional nativity scene. Most families in Loja will set up a small nativity in the corner of their living room in early December – usually featuring, I had discovered, something that was definitely not present at the birth of Jesus: a Swiss-style house covered in snow, a cartoon sheep, and a small boy climbing out of a toilet.

Abuelita’s nativity, however, took the top prize. Not only did it take up almost half the room (leaving Fausto’s more than forty family members huddled in a corner), but it seemed to presume supernatural powers on the part of poor Mary. While both the Mary and Joseph figures were around six inches tall and dressed in suitably biblical clothing, ‘Jesus’ was a porcelain doll more than a foot high, with long flowing blond hair and a purple velvet dress—with matching hat no less. No wonder Mary was getting a bit desperate to give birth by the time she got to Bethlehem.

When everyone had managed to claim their own square foot of space around the vast nativity scene, the celebrations began. I had by now become quite used to the Ecuadorian tendency to create some sort of schedule for every event, and Christmas seemed to be no exception. I was informed that we were to begin with the story of the birth of Jesus, followed by prayers, songs, presents, and finally, dinner. Thinking wistfully of my family’s Christmas ‘schedule,’ which centred almost wholly on dinner and carried no mention of prayers, I tried desperately to silence my complaining stomach.

In an attempt to take my mind off my impending gastritis, I decided to focus on the story that was getting underway. I expected Fausto’s aunt, the designated narrator, to open a Bible or at the very least a book—so imagine my surprise when she pulled out none other than the Supermaxi Christmas magazine. It turns out that supermarkets in Ecuador offer spiritual enlightenment as well as great deals on washing powder. Everyone huddled in reverent silence as Aunt Regina began to read the Supermaxi version of the familiar story, while I concentrated on understanding the Spanish in order to stifle my highly irreverent giggles.

Prayers followed, and just as I started to get excited about the presents, Fausto whispered in my ear that a family tradition would take place first. “Everyone has to ask the baby Jesus for something, and then kiss him on the cheek,” he said. That’s preposterous, I thought. How can we kiss Jesus on the cheek? Suddenly I realised that he meant the porcelain doll. Sure enough, Abuelita picked up ‘Jesus’, moved in a ceremonial fashion to the middle of the room and, holding out the doll at arm’s length, began a list of supplications that I’m sure were beyond the powers of any porcelain figure to satisfy.

Once Abuelita was assured of the health and success of every member of her extended family, she passed ‘Jesus’ to the other non-family guests at the festivities, including a nun dressed in a pristine white habit and whose presence at the gathering of total strangers had baffled me until I later, when I realised that she was in fact here only to drink wine. Sister Something held up the doll in a similarly reverential manner and had just started to plead for world peace when a noise was heard downstairs. This strange rumbling became louder and louder until Suca, the family’s labrador who had apparently escaped from the kitchen downstairs, burst into the room. For whatever reason she found the presence of the nun very exciting, leading her to bound over to the unfortunate beseecher and launch herself onto the snow-white habit, wagging her tail in delight. A horrified silence followed, until everyone realised that Sister Something had taken the whole thing in her stride and was actually quite amused by the incident.

When the doll was passed to me, I mentally asked it for present time to come quicker, and indeed my wish was soon granted. Unfortunately for me, present time—which is the most reverential part of the day for my family—wasn’t so much of an event in Ecuador. I realised later that in a country where many people live almost exclusively on a diet of rice and potatoes in order to make ends meet, presents probably don’t figure very highly in the weekly budget. However, everyone was very excited by what they received, however small, and I was very grateful for the bottle of perfume I received from Fausto (which I later found out had actually been chosen by his mother).

Christmas dinner was also something of a disappointment when compared to the turkey and stuffing that my parents would be consuming back home. Squeezed between Fausto and an unknown cousin halfway down a long table of relatives, I reluctantly tucked in to my ‘chicken soup,’ a bowl of lukewarm sunflower oil and water across which floated a rather sombre chicken wing that, armed with only a tablespoon, I was clearly ill-equipped to dissect. As I stared dejectedly at the greasy severed limb that was my dinner, reminiscing about Christmas pudding and brandy sauce, a portly man (whose name I had forgotten and whom I had therefore tenuously labelled Uncle Number Two) leaned over and asked me, “So what is Christmas like in England? Do all your family get together?”

“Actually, no,” I said. “Normally it’s just my parents, my sister and me.” I was surprised by the collective moan of sympathy that rose from the table. I had been so wrapped up in the luxuries missing from this Ecuadorian Christmas that it had never occurred to me that my family’s version, with its pitifully small gathering, could seem so sad and unpleasant here. I realised that Fausto’s family hadn’t come for the presents, or the food, or even the Supermaxi prayers. They were here to be together, to share stories and memories, to mark the passing of another year. And they had invited me to be a part of what was normally a very intimate family occasion. I felt so honoured that I forgot all notions of Christmas pudding and entered wholeheartedly into the discussion that was taking place about the difference between Latin and Western Christmas traditions. Just as I began to really enjoy my Ecuadorian Christmas experience, the icing on the cake was placed in front of me in the form of something golden, rectangular and savoury.

“Tamal,” Aunt Number Three pronounced carefully at me (to this day she doesn’t believe I speak a word of Spanish).

Honestly, who needs turkey when you’ve got tamales?

Selected as Third Place, WorldTeach Winter 2008 Journal Contest.

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"Thin-Slicing" Ecuador, by Maire Casey

Despite having weighed my suitcases down with books, materials for teaching and for anticipated “free time,” I was ecstatic to come across the WorldTeach library—five narrow shelves of well-stacked classics and modern best-sellers. Anyone can sign out the books, even those volunteers not near the office in Quito. My heart started pounding a little as some of the better titles traveled off to Loja or Guayaquil, wondering when and if they would return to Quito where I am stationed. But luckily the Ecuadorian “no pasa nada” attitude has already infiltrated my northeastern anxiety.

In the past two weeks that I have regained my life from orientation, I managed to finish Blink by Malcolm Gladwell solely on my bus rides to and from the center of the city. This is an even bigger feat considering that only a third of the time do I actually get a seat during the 25-45 minute commute each way. Although it is my intent to eventually read El Commercial or another Spanish text, until my basic language skills improve I am content to give myself this English break. Moreover, it is only through a distinct literary perspective that I can coherently see this country sometimes; there are just too many daily observations to filter for us, the extrañeros.

In Blink, Gladwell discusses the concept of “thin-slicing”—this in a nutshell refers to the quality of the judgments we make within the first few seconds of encountering someone or something. Obviously the ability to judge wisely requires practice. For example, let’s take my taste for the myriad of delicious “jugos” here. All I knew before arriving in Ecuador was that I loved orange juice with lots of pulp and that cranberry bogs near my house were good for ice-skating. But here, there are so many combinations of fruits, and there exists a careful chemistry of fruit, water and sugar. My judgment of jugo hardly measures up to say my host mom’s, who can immediately size up the amount of water or sugar needed. After seven weeks here I am sometimes entrusted with this important task of making juice to help out with lunch and dinner preparations while Yenny makes the rice, potatoes and meat.

An example of judgment that is much less specialized is human to human. As Gladwell points out, we are all experts in some way of judging character, as long as we do it quickly, in a blink, before any form of prejudice steps in. This idea is comforting to me for the moment, mostly because as a new inhabitant of a foreign country I still possess some bearings. My lack of Spanish or familiarity with the Ecuadorian psyche—historical, cultural, social, etc.—doesn’t need to impede my natural instinct to make friends or relate to people here.

I knew immediately that my host parents and I were going to hit it off. I live in a more modern household that consists of a graphic designer, Guido, his Colombian wife, Yenny, and their two small children Nico, three years old, and Martin, eight months old. On the first night, we laughed together about my relatively tall height, my heavy suitcases filled with books, and “gringolandia,” the area in Quito where I spent much of my initial time along with all the other Americans, Brits, and Germans. By the end of the first week Guido had confessed his love for Van Halen and all music 80s and 90s and Yenny and I bonded over the guapo men on the daily novellas, or soap operas. By week two, Yenny and I had discussed the opinions of Ecuadorians towards Americans and Colombians, specifically the women, and I learned that she still does not feel close to Ecuadorian women after living here for four years.

Now that I have a better grasp of the past, future and subjunctive verb tenses, Yenny and I often compare our childhoods in relation to Nico and Martin. Both boys are being treated for potentially serious allergies and asthma, chronic illnesses that I easily identify with. However, I really only need the present tense to make Yenny and Guido laugh; I consider it my duty to liven up lunch and dinner conversations with anecdotes about SECAP, the government-run continuing education school where I teach, how my students call me “Morita,” or about the different ways I falter everyday—literally tripping regularly on the strangely slick sidewalks.

A few nights ago, on the first day of teaching, I met Sandra, a 24-year-old petroleum engineer.  I offered to give her a conversation class to catch her up on what I had done that morning in class since she would be coming the next day. She took me to a restaurant, “Entre Amigos,” where she used to work, and we talked about both of our jobs over free coffees. Again, I barely had to blink, or think, before knowing that Sandra, with her unassuming smile and fondness for walking everywhere, and I would have a lot in common.

Naturally, it is easy to make conversation with a more educated, liberal-minded person here. Yet this is not universally true—most Northeasterners I know are constantly busy. When my co-teachers and I suggested to our two-week intermediate class from orientation that we have a closing party, everyone made time. No one was too busy, or had made other plans. The three of us were treated on a Wednesday night to games, karaoke, dinner, and dancing at the house of one of our students and not only did no one skip out, but everyone thanked us profusely for just doing our jobs.

After coffee, Sandra offered to walk me to the bus stop. Initially I politely declined, wanting to spare her the trip. She replied, “This is what everyone here does with visitors.” I believed her, realizing after weeks of similar experiences that my judging individual people to be caring and open, who all see life with the right set of priorities—making time for conversation and adjustments—is not an individual quality but a national character.

Now the Sierra is fully in “winter.” Thus each day can still go through four seasons, but there is more emphasis on the rainy spring. Today it couldn’t have started raining at a worse time—Friday rush hour. I found myself on the bus around six in the evening after a meeting with the other volunteers at SECAP. Although we have taught one week of classes, we are still working together to plan the best layout of English classes for our students. What is usually a 45-minute trip from SECAP to my house took an hour and 40-minutes, the same amount of time it takes me to drive through two states. There I was standing on the still bus, with no light to read by and no good music to think to. Aside from the few hours of intense stomach pains I have had during the past seven weeks, this moment really challenged me.

How could I eradicate my boredom? I texted back and forth with Yenny about what was going on; she texted back that we would need to fall asleep to a movie to make up for the experience. I silently cheered along with the other passengers, (“Venga! Venga!”) when the bus moved. I watched people move their position along the corridor as seats by the window became soaked. Eventually, we would all make it home, to feast on bread and coffee, to watch the soccer game, to sit and chat about the day with our friends and family.

Selected as Second Place, WorldTeach Fall 2006 Journal Contest.

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 The Five Minute Walk to My House, by Therese Weimholt

Jima is a small town of 1,500 that sits square in the Andes Mountains, just southwest of Cuenca, Ecuador.  When I say small, I mean it’s one of those places where nothing is further than a five-minute walk.  Under the eagle’s eye, from the restaurant where I eat to my house is no more than five blocks.

Today after helping the restaurant owner and my great friend, Zoila, wash dishes I decide it’s about time to leave. “I have to go now to prepare for the test I’m giving today, thank you so much, I’ll see you at lunch”.  Did I know that Zoila’s son Ismael failed his math exam?  No. Ismael does well on his homework but doesn’t study for tests. He watches too much TV. Zoila tries to get him to study but she has to work, and what can she do? …And Zoila’s daughter Gabi has to take care of her grandmother who lives in Cuenca and has been sick in bed for days. …It’s because of the cold air, that’s why Zoila is sick too.  I have now dried all the dishes.  I head down the road to my house. 

I pass by the paper store, where my exams are printed and waiting for me.  It took Don Julio a long time, but he says they should be just how I want.  Today Don Julio has to go to the doctor’s because of a problem with his lungs.  He knows what’s wrong himself - but if the doctor here doesn’t agree, he’ll go see one in Cuenca.  First, he has to get his life in order. Then, he will tell the woman with whom he’s in love how he feels.  I pay my bill, $3.60, and head down the road to my house.

In the street I see two of my students chatting on the curb. “Teacher, don’t be a little bit bad, excuse us just this one little time.”  Marco and Fernanda cheated on their final.  That’s an automatic zero.  It’s not a crumpled-up paper for English hidden in their hands, it’s a paper for mathematics.  “Look teacher.” With a smile so inappropriate it makes me laugh, Marco shows me the paper; he must have spent a lot of time crumpling it. “Think just a little bit teacher.” “I have thought, Marco, and I have thought cheating is bad.”  I smile; our cultures are so different, so the same.  A laugh breaks from his lips: “and if we pay you 50 cents…”  “See you tomorrow Marco.”  “See you tomorrow, teacher.”  I wave goodbye and head down the road to my house.

I walk past the mini grocery store; I can smell the fresh bread Mariana is baking to sell.  Senora Josefina has just bought 5 pounds of rice in a sack, and needs help loading her sack onto her horse. “Ya mismo viene.” Help will be here any minute.  How are you walking, Senora Josefina? Good? Yes, I am doing a little bit good; yes, my dogs are growing; no I don’t give them bread or little soups, I give them dog food.  And you are buying rice to make the little lunch?  Yes, I like rice, and yes, I like guinea pig.  And you?  Yes, guinea pig is very rich. No we don’t eat guinea pig in the United States.  I don’t know where’s the young man who is supposed to help you. “Ya mismo viene!” shouts Mariana over our conversation.  In my experience ya mismo can be minutes or days.  I shake Josefina’s hand firmly, and head down the road to my house. 

From 20 feet behind me I hear a shout - “Miss little Therese, from where are you coming?”  From having breakfast at Zoila’s.  “Oh, that’s good, that’s good.  And you have your two guardians,” pointing to the dogs at my heels.  “The white one likes to chase chickens, Senora Carmita was very mad yesterday because the white dog almost got one.”  Yes they’re very badly behaved, tell her just to throw a rock next time.  A chuckle in response, and a wide grin.  “That’s good, that’s good.  I’ll see you just a little bit later.”  Yes, we’ll see each other.  I head down the road to my house.

I pass by the cluster of abandoned construction parts within which hides a small swing set.  “Listen, listen!” my children fans shout.  “Do you want to come play?”  I’ll come for just a minute.   The two swings are taken, the third hangs precariously uneven on rusty chains.   I sit down.  We look into the street and into the bright sun.  Their father has asked me several times what I can do to help him get to the United States.  He’s going in May, the coyoteros are asking only $8,000 and he has a brother in New Jersey. He will miss his children, there’s no coming back for a long time and it will be hard, I warn him.  What other option does he have? I admit I don’t know and stare at the ground, there has to be another option.  I take one incredibly dangerous swing and tell the children we can play more tomorrow.  I head down the road to my house.  

Will his children think it’s my fault?  Will his children be happier without their father but with new clothes, will their mother cry all night?  “Senorita Teresita.” It is Yolanda, a parent of one of my students with three young ones at her side and a baby strapped to her back with a cloth.  “Is there class for children tonight?”  Yes there is.  “All of my children will come, it’s very important to learn English…We are too old, but the little ones will go. How is learning Spanish for you? For us, the Spanish is easy, but the English is hard. Which is harder, English or Spanish?” English, because I know she will agree.  Tonight her children will come to play with the strange gringa. They will return to their houses with barely the ability to answer three basic questions.  Progress is slow I remind myself.  She says something I can’t quite understand. I nod and smile.  Spanish is harder.

I am almost to my door, when up come running the two girls who live next door.  They have found a four-leaf clover.  I am thoroughly impressed.  When I was a little girl, I looked forever and could never find one.  Four-leaf clovers are everywhere here they say.  In front of your house we found one, and here next to the statue of the Virgin Mary.  And Kati collects them and puts them in her bible, in the clear plastic sleeve.  So I put down my bag and search the green grass on all fours. Kelly tells me they are small and hidden, that in order to find them I have to look hard and be patient.  You can’t see them from the top, she says. 

My fingers examine the same patch of land for 10 minutes. And as if it were there just for me to find, I uncover the most beautiful four-leaf clover. How lucky I am to live in this little town, in the middle of the Andes Mountains, where under god’s eye nothing is closer than a thirty-minute walk.

Selected as Third Place, WorldTeach Spring 2006 Journal Contest.

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When I first came to Ecuador in September of 2004, I was clearly a tourist.  Every corner I turned revealed some new and alien scene:  a five-year old boy selling gum on the street, his mother nowhere in sight; a pick-up truck with a clearly unsafe number of passengers precariously balanced in its bed; men jumping on moving busses while the money-collecting assistant shouted, "Toda la Colon, Plaza Artigas, Doce, La Catolica"; dogs looking both ways before crossing the road.  It was, as they say, something to write home about.  And I did.

I kept a website, updated with frequent journal entries and photos of our adventures in Ecuador; I wrote emails every chance I got.  And often, when I was typing away in some internet café in the "Mariscal" neighborhood of Quito, I'd encounter other gringo tourists.  I looked at them with a sort of disdain, especially when they were talking to each other too loudly about how drunk they got the previous night, or showing off their knowledge of Quito, making claims about how "cool" various parts of the city were.

My wife and I were to be here for a year, and I knew that in time, I would be more familiar with this place than any tourist, that we would come to call Quito home. 

We spent the next couple months trying to find our niche in Quito.  For four or five weeks, we searched for a quality gym.  We frequented fancy bakeries, where we could find American-style pastries.  We scoured the town for bagels.  Despite our loathing of big boxes like Wal-Mart, whenever we walked into the Mega-Maxi in Quito, our eyes illuminated with a mixture of nostalgia and hope.  In fact, entering any sort of Americanized realm gave us a certain sense of comfort, especially as Thanksgiving approached. 

By then, I had met my students and had been teaching them for four or five weeks already, long enough to finally have built some sort of relationship with them.  There was Lourdes, who worked part time at an orphanage, setting up a workshop where the children could create handmade crafts to sell to the public.  She inspired me with her ideas and dreams and before long, got me dreaming of various side-projects -maybe volunteering at the orphanage, or creating a foundation for more affordable study/live abroad programs.

There was Diego, the policeman in my morning class who told me about his wages, describing the pay schedule and the various raises for having a wife, a child, for having worked for one year, five years, ten years.  At twenty-five, he was married with two kids.  He made $360 a year, about the same as I was making as a "volunteer."  Because of this, he explained, many policemen accept bribes, especially for petty crimes.  You need to supplement your income somehow. 

I talked extensively with Natalia, a mother of four boys, about adolescents.  She spoke freely about the failings of Ecuadorian schools, and urged me to talk with the teachers at her sons' school, hoping that I could somehow inspire them to make their methodology more like my own. 

Ivan, in my night class, was a high school teacher.  He worked from 7:00 to 12:30 every day, took lunch until 2:00, then worked four more hours as a volunteer with a foundation that helps poor and homeless children.  At 6:00, he came to a two-hour English class, often late, but always eager to learn. 

In talking with my students outside of class time, my Spanish began to improve; I began to feel more comfortable with the culture.  And I had no lack of stories to send home in emails or to post on my website.  Three months into my stay, I had worked through much of the homesickness.  I had a routine.  I could navigate Quito's bus system and negotiate successfully with cab drivers and fruit vendors.  I had become the person I thought I might be, the American in Quito who could chuckle at the naïve tourists who bragged about the fact that they'd been in Ecuador for three weeks. 

We still sought out Duncan Hines brownie mixes in the grocery store, and pancakes at the very touristy "Magic Bean" restaurant, but despite these clear gringo preferences, my disdain for the tourists remained.  They were there to see new places, but very few of them were learning about the people and the culture like I was.  I was always quick to tell Ecuadorians I met that I was living in Quito for the year.  I wanted to set myself apart from my traveling countrymen.

After my third month, however, things started to change.  I don't recall one single incident that precipitated the change.  It came gradually. 

One day, I was playing soccer with my morning class, which consisted of 14 policemen and four civilians.  I thought I'd be horrible, but I was doing okay.  My team captain had put me on defense, saying, "Tim, you play last man." I was in the swing of it, directing my fellow defenders, and keeping pace with the footwork of my opponents.  In the final minute of the game, however, with the score tied, I misjudged a high ball and jumped up for a header too soon.  The players on the opposing team swept in and scored easily.  I felt horrible.  I literally hung my head in shame, lamenting the fact that I couldn't swear in Spanish with the same sort of convincing authority as I could in English.  I wanted to show my self-disgust, just like I would back home, just like I did back home many times throughout my life.  The trick had always been to show enough disappointment with yourself that others didn't need to lambaste you with insults. 

I was surprised, however, when my Ecuadorian teammates didn't allow me to exceed their disappointment.  All at once, they unabashedly blamed me for the loss.  They described my error in detail; they told me about how that one mistake lost the entire game; they questioned each other on whether or not they had seen my gaff.  And when I tried to agree and demonstrate how awful I felt, they didn't allow me that even.  "Ya, okay," they said, let's go eat.  And that was that. 

I had already been noticing that when I got on a bus filled with teenagers, they didn't talk about me, the obvious foreigner.  I had observed how little I saw children cry when playing with each other.  And after the soccer game, I began noticing other little things.  On buses, three or four times I witnessed people get knocked in the head with a backpack.  They never uttered a word.  Just last week, I saw a man moving a pizza delivery scooter on the sidewalk that was not his.  He ended up tipping it over, then picking it up and awkwardly trying to get the kickstand back in place.  Just then, the delivery man came out and very kindly took the scooter from the man.  In my head, the profanity-filled American version of the confrontation played out, contrasting the tranquility of the Quito scene, and illuminating the profundity of the reverse culture shock that awaits me when I return home.

With such observations, I began to change.  In my musings on my website, I theorized about the differences between American and Ecuadorian cultures.  Though I am a foreigner here, I have never been made to feel self-conscious in public, except by other Americans.  I have never felt the American variety of competition-for-who's-coolest.  And though this culture certainly has its racism and classism, from what I've observed of teenagers in colegios and in my own classes, they're much kinder to each other, much more accepting of varying levels of "cool."  Your individual worth in Ecuador is not on such shaky ground.  Thus, you don't see kids crying out of embarrassment, you don't get labeled an "asshole" if you accidentally bump someone with your backpack, and you don't need to insult goofy-looking tourists to establish your own level of "cool."

Of course, my conclusions about the differences between the two cultures are very amateur.  I am no cultural anthropologist.  I can imagine that a less individual society, one more family-oriented and less competitive, would logically lead to one in which individual social status were not that important.  But my conclusions are not science.  They are personal. 

And since they are so personal, I have to look twice at my own behavior.  My impatience, my hasty judgments, my comparing myself to them - I am a product of my being an American.   To compete in my own mind with other gringos' worth, and to have a vague set of criteria by which to measure that worth - these things are alien in this culture, and even more so than my Patagonia shirts and Nalgene water bottle, mark me as a foreigner.

You can read any number of travel narratives relating in flowery detail alien scenes in foreign lands.  You can even pick up a National Geographic or an Outside Magazine and see some of those scenes captured on film.  Indeed, narratives relaying experiences in foreign lands are so abundant, they've earned their own genre label.  I've done my share to add a little to that pool of "travel narratives."  I have turned my experiences here into media - website, blog, pictures, stories, essays - but my whole experience itself is mediated by my being an American.

We all know that real experience differs from virtual experience.  But when you're a tourist, the difference is not that huge.  Virtual experience comes to you through the medium of a magazine, a film, or a book; "real" experience is mediated by the long history of your cultural background. Thus, it wasn't until I released some of my cultural trappings that I could release myself from the American medium through which I looked at the world.   It wasn't until I altered my disdain for my fellow tourists that I could even begin to stop being one.

I remain, however, an American in Quito.  It's still something to write home about. 

I suspect it always will be.

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WorldTeach Teaching Me, by Molly Beer

Almost eight months ago I came to Ecuador to complete a year-long stint as a volunteer English teacher with the non-governmental, non-profit organization WorldTeach.  I had a fair amount of experience living and even teaching abroad, plus I spoke some Spanish when I came, but all the same, my fears were rampant: Would the program be totally disorganized?  Were the bubbly letters from the country director indicative of enthusiasm or flakiness? Would I never get to see my boyfriend who was coming with me as a volunteer?  Was my site placement in Ambato, (described in my Rough Guide as: "although an important commercial centre with a bustling downtown core, there's little here to hold your interest for more than an afternoon or so"), going to be a disaster?

Well, now I'm here, Ambato is my home, and I can look backwards at what I have accomplished (and not accomplished) and forwards at what I still must do, endure, and embrace before I again get on a plane.

My WorldTeach tour began in September with an intensive month-long orientation during which new volunteers, some teachers, some not, discussed everything from teaching methods and culture shock to what to do when the agua potable turns out to be not-so-potable, after all.  We also studied Spanish, salsa, and "how to eat cuy" (which is guinea pig cooked on a big stick, ears, teeth, feet and all).  At the same time, we were weaving a net that would then be cast over the country of Ecuador; from the start, our group has been our greatest resource.

Another part of orientation was the site visit when we traveled to our respective sites to meet directors and host families and get a taste for what was to come while we could still run back to the safety of the group in Quito.  My first meeting with my new director at my host university, was hugely disappointing; he charmingly welcomed me, had none of the information I had come for, and ushered in his next meeting within five minutes.

When I did begin teaching in earnest, I had four classes and one hundred fifty students in total, fifty of them in a beginning level class in a classroom which did not boast nearly fifty chairs.  But I had come for a challenge, and I was game.

Meanwhile I was getting used to living with a host family and across town from my boyfriend.  I was immediately pleased when I was taken up to the flat rooftop of my new house and shown the little room that was to be all mine; it had both privacy and a view of two impressive volcanoes: Cotapaxi which is beautifully snow-peaked and soft pink in the morning light, and Tungurahua which is always burping clouds of ash that drift straight to Ambato and dust the whole city with black grit.  My Ecuadoran family is pretty typical: my host father Marco arrives home from chauffeur job at the same university where I teach and his wife, Margarita, is a secretary.  He sits down at the table, turns on the television, and waits for his wife to bring him dinner.  The "kids" are all in college and living at home under Marco's strict rule.  Only Cristian, the oldest, brings his significant other home when his parents are around, and when he does, the rest of us women eat in the kitchen (which we find preferable) while Cristian and his poor girlfriend eat and Marco talks.  

I introduced my boyfriend first thing so there would be no confusion.  Marco took some time to warm up to Steve and the idea of him being around the house frequently, but after months of playing Scrabble prudently in the living room, Marco has softened.  (I, on the other hand, will never play Scrabble again once I leave this country!)  Our relationship, formerly the casual union of American twenty-somethings, now embodies two extremes:  during the week we date like adolescents, having coffee at one another's houses and playing board games in the living room, but on weekends we travel as husband and wife.

The best thing about my family is Inez, the sixteen-year-old empleada who has come to Ambato from her family in the country to seek her fortune cooking and cleaning. When Inez first arrived, she knew none of the norms of our middle-class household; when told to beat a rug, she would pick it up off the living room floor and diligently beat it against the living room wall, spreading dust over the furniture and leaving permanent stains on the walls.  Similarly ignorant, when I arrived  I did not wash my clothing "on the rock" as Ecuadorans do, but preferred to put my laundry in a bucket with some soap, let it soak and then swirl it around a bit, much to everyone's amusement.  Inez and I are both incompetent with the most basic things-I, for example, don't speak the language well, which Inez loves to point out condescendingly: "it's that sometimes you don't understand what I say to you." In contrast, however, Inez doesn't know how to use a knife and fork to eat with, she uses a spoon and her fingers, which I always forget whenever I get the silverware out. Inez, a campesina, and I, a pura gringa, have found a connection in our roles as outsiders-and get our revenge at being the laughing stocks of our household in laughing together about the others.

With time, my life in Ambato settled into a routine, but my job was becoming more and more unbearable.  Large classes without resources were challenging to teach, but I liked my students; the bigger problem was administrative.  My most concrete complaint was that I was not being paid my monthly living stipend (WorldTeach did offer to lend me the money), and there was a problem with the contract that they had produced three months into the semester.  WorldTeach phoned and sent letters to the school and I met with the rector myself, but in January my "request" to change the proposed contract was denied.  I began drafting my letter of resignation-hoping I could do more for my students by demanding that their teacher training program show some respect for its own teachers, than by reviewing the Present Progressive with them one more time. 

At this point, the WorldTeach country director, whose introductory emails six months prior I had been unsure how to interpret, arrived in Ambato.  We spent half the night talking through what had precipitated her visit and what would follow. The next morning Jessica began a whirlwind upbraiding of the powers that be at the Universidad Técnica de Ambato.  She spoke with my director who actually apologized to her for his errors, an almost unthinkable thing for an Ecuadoran man in a position of power to do.  Next she moved on to the rector.  Then, after lunch, she found me a new teaching assignment at a community education center in Ambato. 

A week later, sitting on the beach in Puerto Lopez watching the dark, angular glides of frigate birds over distant fishing boats, I began to feel better about what I interpreted as a sort of failure.  It was Mid-service-an oasis of time mid-year when the volunteers regroup in the location of our choosing to talk out what had happened and what had yet to happen.  Hearing many people's stories, I noticed a recurring frustration: we had come to Ecuador to give of ourselves-by coming we had given up our homes, families, pets, cars, comfort, salaries, friends, and safety-but Ecuador wasn't saying thank you.  We had had our bags slashed, our pockets picked, our class loads expanded without our consent; we had all had to fight to not be taken for all we're worth.  The way we saw it, we were giving Ecuador our all, and the way Ecuador saw it, we could afford to give more.  It became clear that what we had anticipated would be the biggest challenges, speaking Spanish or teaching English, for example, had faded into normal, everyday stuff-the real challenges were not so easily stated or surmounted.

A few months have passed since Mid-service, and I have just returned this week to my rooftop room in Ambato from leading classes for the orientation of the newest group of volunteers.  Several members of our September group were in Quito to help out and it was fun to watch everyone speaking so confidently about a plethora of topics: grammar points, indigenous movements, traveling in Bolivia, Latin American bureaucracy, classroom management, volcanic eruptions, political corruption, teacher strikes, amoebas, etc., or to hear our friends actually conversing in Spanish who in September had struggled to learn how to say "me hace daño" (it hurts me) for when their host families served food they didn't think they could get down (soup with dried blood flakes floating in it or the unbearable Ecua-cheese, for example).  Our entire group is still in country; no one has thrown up their hands and gone home and although we all have wild stories about adventures on night buses or chasing thieves through the streets, we finish narrating them by giving bits of advice for how to get through it, should the same thing happen to someone else.

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Though I hate admitting weakness, when I first got to Quito I must confess that I was EXCEEDINGLY intimidated. The combination of Quito’s reputation as a dangerous city and WorldTeach's initial security sessions gave me, a 6 foot, 220-pound male, quite a scare. All of the details—never leave your bags in plain view, never accept the first quoted price, never travel alone, never walk the streets after 10pm, etc.—provoked a constant state of nervousness in my being. I doubt my hands left my pockets for the first week of exploring Quito. Every person seemed to be lurking, waiting for their chance to claim my wallet. Luckily opinions can change, and for me such a shift occurred after my favorite memory of Quito to date.

One Saturday my host father took me out to hoop it up with the local Ecuadorians at the local park, Parque Carolina. Centrally located in the middle of the city, this park offers chain net (lo mejor) basketball hoops on opposite ends of an ADIDAS propaganda court. Very cool. It almost seems as if you are in the middle of some sort of Nike streetball classic where alley oops will fly and trash talk will abound.

Except for one small fact. I was probably six inches taller than everyone else in the entire park. Absolutely ridiculous. In fact, I might honestly be the tallest person in Quito. People who meet me refer to me as “that tall guy.” As I headed out to the courts for some balling, my mouth salivated at the opportunity to dominate. In addition to towering over everyone, let’s also not forget that I outweighed them by 50 pounds. I was Shaq incarnate.

Ah life. So in Ecuador you play three points to warm-up before playing to 30. I promptly scored three points and our team looked secure for an easy victory until....Shaq met his free throw. After only a week in Quito, I couldn’t breathe to save my life. Something about the 9000-foot altitude made running around and playing basketball seem like the equivalent of coughing up my lungs. After the “calientar session” of three points, I was absolutely gassed, literally breathing razor blades through my lungs. I was lost in a sea of Ecua-men, all fatter and shorter than I, running Indy car circles around me as I gasped for breath. Hilarious right?

Not nearly as funny as not being able to speak “street lingo” on the courts. I, with my high school taught Spanish, busted out my grammatically perfect colloquialisms all over the court, and let me just say that never in my life have I felt like a bigger nerd. I was running around spouting the English equivalents of “Excuse me sir, would you be so kind as to please pass me the ball so that I might shoot it? Ah yes, thank you, friend. Now let’s all get together and try to win this game!” Unreal. Awkward to a whole new level. Thus the game progressed and, after an hour and a half, Ecua-men 30, Kane and Ecua-friends 29. Game over. We would have crushed them 31-15 in the States.

Despite losing the game, I learned an invaluable WorldTeach lesson: A humbling experience in a positive environment can provide a person with a completely new perspective. Seeing the local Ecuadorians as athletes on a Sunday afternoon instantly changed my perception of everyone in Quito. Soon after my game, the streets ceased to be filled with ladrones and started to be filled with people.

In addition to this rather cliché revelation, my experience playing basketball also altered my approach to situations. Before hoops at Carolina, I allowed my premonitions to guide my actions. However, at my hoops game, I couldn’t allow my premonitions to guide me since all of them had been blown out of the water. Obviously, my experience at Parque Carolina was far superior to my first week of wallet-watching. I now believe that if I approached my nervousness of the theft in the same way I had to approach my casual game of basketball, I would have understood that a sense of humor and willingness to experience life from another point of view trumps any sort of uneasiness. You can’t let the unknown intimidate you and react solely in a fearful way. Life is not about anticipation of expected outcomes, but more about reacting to an environment. Being aware certainly is useful, but having caution rule your life provides no amount of happiness. Once one is forced to react instinctually, their perception of foreign places is amplified considerably. My advice to new volunteers is to allow your premonitions to shape your instincts, rather than your actions, so that you can have a clean and pure perspective of your surroundings. Such a perspective lends to the positive emotions of humor, humility, and fun, rather than fear, caution, and nervousness.

Selected as Honorable Mention, WorldTeach Fall 2006 Journal Contest.

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 The Kindness of People, by Diana Vogel

Subject: Re: the kindness of people

I know, it's kind of a weird subject line for an email about getting robbed, but let me explain:

I had an "interesting" experience today...I can't find a better word yet.

I met Esteban for lunch at one of our favorite burger places, which is a low key joint and not known for high traffic or robbery. We ate and were having a good conversation... then when it came time to pay the bill I looked down and my backpack was gone. We looked all over and asked the other customers if they had seen anything. One person said that two Colombian women, one of whom was pregnant, had been sitting behind us but hadn't seen them take anything. In my bag I had all of my students' papers, workbooks, and my text books and teacher manuals... plus my cell phone, wallet (which okay only had $6) and digital camera (I had brought it downtown so that I could finally upload my photos!). So Esteban called my cell phone and a lady picked up! She hung up on him, but then he texted her saying very politely that he thought she had taken my bag by accident and if she brought it back there would be a large reward. At that point, Max and Nick, the owners of the restaurant, came out and joined in the search. The four of us walked around the mariscal looking for a pregnant lady with my bag. Then she actually texted back!  So Max called her and she picked up. He told her that there were some really important papers and things in the bag that he needed and she said that we could come pick them up!

We took a taxi to the place where she told us and hidden under a table at an internet cafe were all of my books, students' work, my keys... she had taken absolutely everything out of my bag and wallet (all of my IDs and cards)... even my water bottle and left them for us! Of course she kept the money, bag, camera, and phone, but in the scheme of everything I thought she was a very considerate thief. And ya know, maybe she was pregnant and desperate. The only thing I'm really pissed about is the camera because it had all the pictures of my students from last semester graduating and my military men singing happy birthday to me and playing baseball (and it was a present from my bro!).  But it could have been much worse. I wasn't hurt and it showed me how nice people can be. Esteban was great and Max and Nick, two guys I barely know, dropped everything to run around on this wild goose chase with me, paid for cabs and even bought me ice cream after and gave me money to get home (and obviously they didn't charge Esteban and I for lunch). So, I was glad to have the support and help and someday we'll all look back and probably find some humor in this (I mean, she left my water bottle and all of the random pieces of trash that accumulate in my bag!). Every cloud has its silver lining and today I saw both the goodness and evil in people. Even the thieves that we want to dehumanize have some decency. Yes, she should not have taken my bag in the first place, but at least she had the integrity to return what she couldn't use but that she understood was of some value to others.

The point is: I don't have a phone so you can't call me. I will try to get a replacement tomorrow.

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Dear Friends and Family,

Hola de Ecuador!! I hope that this letter finds all of you well. I hope that all is well with your families and that you are enjoying a wonderful springtime in the States.

I cannot believe that I have already been in Ecuador for a month…and what an incredible month it has been. On March 2, I met the volunteers at the Miami airport for a quick meeting. It was great that we had the opportunity to meet in the airport because we could immediately relate to each other as we were all experiencing the same emotions. Our flight arrived in Quito about 11:15 pm and we got to our hotel about 1 am. Orientation started first thing the next morning. That evening our host families picked us up from orientation. My family could not have been more hospitable. I lived with Santiago and Maria, their 3 year old son, David and their 3 month old son, Cesare. They have a three bedroom, 1 bathroom apartment near the airport. It was the perfect house for me and I got along with them wonderfully.

Orientation was an incredibly busy and stressful time. We had 12 hours a day of TEFL training, cross-cultural training, practice teaching and Spanish lessons. In our “free time” we had to plan for practice teaching. The sessions were definitely informative and they certainly helped me feel more prepared to teach for the next year but at times the amount of information coming our way was overwhelming. It certainly helped that the group of volunteers that I am with are wonderful and will probably remain my friends for a very long time.

Despite our busy schedule, I was still able to go on some fun and exciting excursions on the weekends. I went on a day trip with my host family to the jungle, where I rode the largest gondola in South America. The view was incredible but it started pouring on our way down and I was soaked for the long ride back to Quito. On another trip, I rode on the back of a pick-up truck with my host Grandpa and another volunteer to Otavalo (about 2 hours north of Quito), which is the home of South America’s largest artesania market. It started pouring on our way there too, but it was an adventure and I didn’t mind being wet.

Our group of volunteers also went on several excursions with our Spanish school. We went to the Guayasamin Museum. Guayasamin was one of South America’s most famous artists. He is most famous for his work throughout Europe but his amazing paintings are known throughout the world. On another trip with our Spanish school, we went to an orphanage in Quito. It definitely felt a bit awkward at first as no one was really sure what to do. However, once we started talking with the children, it was an awesome experience. We ended up taking them to a park where we played Frisbee another games with them for several hours.

Several of us volunteers attended a Carlos Vives concert one weekend. Carlos is one the most popular musicians here right now. His music is a cross of salsa, pop and reggae.

One Saturday, one of my fellow volunteers and I hiked to an awesome waterfall outside of Quito. On our last Sunday in Quito, our entire group went to Papallartas which is a spot that has natural hot springs. We were also able to do some horseback riding on a mountain trail that was really beautiful.

This past Sunday, I arrived here in the Galapagos islands, which is where I will be teaching for the next eleven months. It is beautiful here but the adjustment to life here is going to be a challenge. I am stationed on the largest town in the Galapagos islands, Puerto Ayora, which is a sleepy town with a population of about 12,000. I am on the island of Santa Cruz. It takes about 35 minutes to drive from one side of the island to the other; Puerto Ayora is the only real town on the island. The beaches here are incredible and I have already seen some impressive wildlife: sea lions, land and sea turtles, pelicans, blue-footed boobies (one of the birds that led to Darwin’s theory), and iguanas.

My family is very kind. I think that it is going to be a bit more challenging to relate to this family as I had much more in common with my family in Quito. Also, the dialect of Spanish that is spoken here is much more rapid and hard to understand; although, my Spanish is improving rapidly. I live with my host mother, father and their 9 year old son, Romel. Their daughter Vanessa is currently here but she will return to her university in a few weeks.

I will start teaching on Monday. I am nervous but anxious to get started. I will teach one class of 5 and 6 year olds, one class of 7-9 year olds, one class of teenagers and two classes of adults.

Well that about sums up my first month here in Ecuador. Please don’t forget about me down here; I love getting emails and would certainly love any visitors. God bless you all and please continue to keep me in your prayers.

Love,
Marguerite Rogers

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English con Ají, by Susannah Hansen

(Adapted from the poem “English con Salsa” by Gina Valdés)

Welcome to English Basic I, EFL, English (almost) Fully Latin
English Frantically Learned
Inglés con ají y aliño, English as American as
Lorena Bobbitt.

Welcome, jóvenes from Guaranda, madres from Penipe,
Learn the language of dólores and dólores, of
embassies and diplomats, of Mickey Mouse and
Superman. ¡Chuta madre, que bestia….oh my god!

In two weeks you can ask, “What you name?”
In two months you can say “I love you baby” and “I’m going to the U.S.A.”
In four months you can whine “Teacher, please no work today.”
In two years you´ll leave with a paper promising that you speak like George Washington, fluent as any
gringuito.

Welcome, mujeres from Alausí,
In this class we speak English revuelto, scrambled with Spanish, sprinkled with Quicha.
We speak English deep-fried like chancho, served up with chicha huevona. We speak English thick as babaco juice, English steamed in choclo leaves, English carried on tired backs, English played on an Andean flute. We speak English lit by chamarrascas and frigid dawns, English flavored with aguardiente, English with a pearl-white orchid flowering in its heart.

Welcome, amigos de allí y de allá….
Bring your Quecha tongues, your rolling r’s and lazy ll’s. Bring your chiquiticas and gran-gran-grandotes. Bring your strength of Taita Chimborazo, your blazing suns and brilliant moons, your patron saints, your colada morada and baby bread. In this class we will light candles for prepositions, make the sign of the cross on past participles, climb like páramo llamas toward present perfects, drip sugar cane juice on gerunds, say surely and shit. Hurry up….grab an action verb and a Coca Cola, merengue your way through the door.

When a compañero from work or a gringo from Texas asks you “Do you speak English?”, you’ll answer, Sí, yes, de ley, of course! I love English!

And you’ll whisper a song toward the sky in a language you can never forget…..

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