My first week of classes at CECAMI has ended. Thanks to the Easter holiday, my last class was Thursday morning so I have a wonderfully long weekend to relax and prepare for next week.
This past week was very interesting because in some ways my classes exceeded my expectations and in others they failed to meet them. I guess I should have done a better job of listening to our directors' advice about not having expectations.
As of right now I am teaching two classes everyday, one at 8:00am and another at 3:30pm. I'm supposed to have a 5:00 class as well but right now we simply don't have any students registered for that time period. (We're looking into possibly starting a conversation class at that time.) Both of the classes I'm teaching are Basic level with about fifteen students in each. They range in age from 13 to about 70 years old so there's quite a bit of variety.
I have found that my older students (30+ years) tend to have a much harder time with the language than my adolescent students. Overall, though, they are all at a much lower level than I had anticipated. All of the awesome lesson plans that I had whipped up over the weekend had to be altered and I ended up spending part of the week reviewing simple things like colors, days of the week, and basic introductions.
The great thing is that there are plenty of awesome activities that can be used to teach these things. And I have awesome students! After teaching classes of 40+ rowdy high school students for two weeks at Manuela Canizares in Quito, having a smaller, calmer class has been a breeze.
I do have two older students though, one from Colombia and one from the coast, that speak next to no English and are proving to be a bit of a challenge. They are clearly much further behind than the rest of my students and I'm struggling to find ways to bring them up to speed and keep them involved in classroom activities. In an ideal world, I would sit down with them and tutor them one-on-one. But, seeing as that is not an option, I need to go back and refresh my memory on how to handle multi-level classes.
Overall, my first week went very well and I'm very pleased with my classes. We were even able to celebrate a student's birthday on Thursday with Coca-Cola, peach & coconut cake and two rounds of the birthday song.
I think this is going to be a very good year. ;)
Friday, March 29, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Venting an ear-ful
I usually try not to make a big deal about my hearing loss. After all, it is what it is. Normally I won't even tell people unless the situation absolutely calls for it. There are people much worse off than I am and I see no reason to dwell on the fact that I can only hear in my left ear.
But, I have been feeling a little frustrated over the last few days and instead of bottling up my emotions as I usually do, I thought it might be healthier to take a moment to vent them here. So please bear with me. (For those of you interested in a little backstory about my ear, you can find all the details on my other blog.)
I think most people would agree that language acquisition is difficult. There is no short way around it. It takes a willingness to learn, long hours, and motivation. As little as we think about producing our native language, it can come as a surprise just how much of an effort it takes to speak another.
Now, add to this already arduous task the issue of single-side deafness (SSD), and you have the source of my frustration. If language acquisition is hard when you have normal hearing, just think about what it entails when you can only hear a portion of what people are saying. Especially when the language you are listening to is one as rapid as Spanish where three words can often sound like one.
On Tuesday, I had my first Spanish lesson with a lovely German woman named Irma. It was my first official Spanish lesson since leaving Quito (everyday is chock full of unofficial "lessons"). For one wonderful hour, it was just the two of us in a quiet room conversing in Spanish. One of the biggest issues for people with SSD is not being able to hear when there is any sort of background noise present, so a quiet room is gold for me.
There wasn't a radio blaring on the table behind me; I didn't have a TV to contend with or multiple Spanish speakers chattering over each other; nor did I have the sounds of a bustling city preventing me from listening to every word that was being spoken. For a moment I believed once again that I really could learn this language. It was one of the few times since I've moved to Ibarra that I felt I was actually starting to "get" the language and not just muddling through.
I'm sure my host family would disagree on this point as they are kind and tell me that I'm doing well, especially my sister Fernanda. But I feel like most of the time I'm just doing an excellent job of faking it 'till I make it (and who knows when that will be). Or that I'm simply cycling through the same well-worn phrases day after day with no progress. And don't even get me started on the amount of times everyday I have to ask people to repeat themselves.
Unfortunately for me, we live in a loud world and most of the environments I'm in on a daily basis are noisy: my classroom, the dinner table, the sidewalk, the store, etc. And, unfortunately for me, I don't have the luxury of turning down the volume in any of these places.
Soo...what's a half deaf girl in a non-English speaking country to do? Take advantage of the quiet moments, I suppose. When I can clearly hear whatever it is that is being said--whether it's at my Spanish lesson or curled up in the living room with my host sister. If I can pick up enough of the language in those moments then perhaps when I'm in the not-so-quiet moments I'll be able to do a better job of deciphering whatever it is that's being said. Here's hoping anyway!
But, I have been feeling a little frustrated over the last few days and instead of bottling up my emotions as I usually do, I thought it might be healthier to take a moment to vent them here. So please bear with me. (For those of you interested in a little backstory about my ear, you can find all the details on my other blog.)
I think most people would agree that language acquisition is difficult. There is no short way around it. It takes a willingness to learn, long hours, and motivation. As little as we think about producing our native language, it can come as a surprise just how much of an effort it takes to speak another.
Now, add to this already arduous task the issue of single-side deafness (SSD), and you have the source of my frustration. If language acquisition is hard when you have normal hearing, just think about what it entails when you can only hear a portion of what people are saying. Especially when the language you are listening to is one as rapid as Spanish where three words can often sound like one.
On Tuesday, I had my first Spanish lesson with a lovely German woman named Irma. It was my first official Spanish lesson since leaving Quito (everyday is chock full of unofficial "lessons"). For one wonderful hour, it was just the two of us in a quiet room conversing in Spanish. One of the biggest issues for people with SSD is not being able to hear when there is any sort of background noise present, so a quiet room is gold for me.
There wasn't a radio blaring on the table behind me; I didn't have a TV to contend with or multiple Spanish speakers chattering over each other; nor did I have the sounds of a bustling city preventing me from listening to every word that was being spoken. For a moment I believed once again that I really could learn this language. It was one of the few times since I've moved to Ibarra that I felt I was actually starting to "get" the language and not just muddling through.
I'm sure my host family would disagree on this point as they are kind and tell me that I'm doing well, especially my sister Fernanda. But I feel like most of the time I'm just doing an excellent job of faking it 'till I make it (and who knows when that will be). Or that I'm simply cycling through the same well-worn phrases day after day with no progress. And don't even get me started on the amount of times everyday I have to ask people to repeat themselves.
Unfortunately for me, we live in a loud world and most of the environments I'm in on a daily basis are noisy: my classroom, the dinner table, the sidewalk, the store, etc. And, unfortunately for me, I don't have the luxury of turning down the volume in any of these places.
Soo...what's a half deaf girl in a non-English speaking country to do? Take advantage of the quiet moments, I suppose. When I can clearly hear whatever it is that is being said--whether it's at my Spanish lesson or curled up in the living room with my host sister. If I can pick up enough of the language in those moments then perhaps when I'm in the not-so-quiet moments I'll be able to do a better job of deciphering whatever it is that's being said. Here's hoping anyway!
Monday, March 25, 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
"Ohmigosh": An unplanned evening
Thursday night, I attended my first Ecuadorian birthday party. Which is funny since I hadn't planned to go out that night. I was all set to snuggle up with my laptop and get some prep work done for class (meaning, of course, catch up on my TV shows). I had actually just showered and booted up my computer when my host mom popped her head into my room and asked if I might be interested in attending a party for a relative with her and my sister, Karen.
Well of course I was! After all, that is what this year is all about--new experiences. So I exchanged my flannel PJs for a dress and some leggings and in less than five minutes was out the door.
As we were driving to the party, I tried to get some additional information from sister about just whose party we were going to. It turns out it was a 50th birthday celebration for my host cousin's wife's father....I think. That is, I'm pretty sure. I feel like a lot of stuff still gets lots in translation with me. But I'm getting there one step at a time.
After picking up another relative on the way, we arrived at a house on the outskirts of Ibarra a little after 8. The entire ride over I found myself becoming increasingly anxious. What on earth was I going to do at a party full of people who only speak Spanish? Would I have any idea what was going on? And what exactly does one do at an Ecua-birthday? What if I messed up some time-honored tradition and brought shame on the entire family?
Well. We arrived before my thoughts could get much further and, wouldn't you know it? Things just happened as they happen as they always do.
We met a few people outside on our way in and my host mom proudly introduced me as "mi hijita." (Let's just say that my anxiety suddenly didn't seem so overwhelming.) Then we walked through the door into a large room where all of the chairs and furniture had been pushed against the wall. Lining each wall was a row of seated relatives apparently waiting on us to get the festivities started. Before that could happen though, my mom, Karen and I had to go around and greet each person individually with either a handshake or the Ecua-greeting. (This is another Ecuadorian custom. It's very rude to enter a room without greeting everyone.) After twenty-something greetings I was practically worn out before we had even started!
At first, nothing really happened. We kind of all just sat awkwardly staring across the room at each other or making small talk with our neighbors. Someone came around and handed us small plastic cups with sparkling wine but no one took a sip. I became a little concerned that maybe I had overestimated the excitement of an Ecuadorian fiesta.
Just as I was about to lose all hope, the birthday man and his family entered. His daughter gave a beautiful speech about how much he meant to her and afterwards we all drank his health. Then she showed a short home video of pictures and quotes his family had put together for him. And then someone put on music! And the birthday man and his wife began to dance! And so did other people! And I was very happy to see that we were not going to be sitting stoically in our chairs all evening.
While the dancing began I noticed that the wife of the birthday man was slowly working her way around the room with a pitcher and what looked like a shot glass. I couldn't clearly see what was happening as my view was blocked by the dancers but I could see she was moving in our direction. Sure enough, several moments later she appeared in front of my host sister (who was seated next to me) with her pitcher of golden-ish liquid and a shot glass which also contained some of the liquid. The same shot glass, mind you, that everyone else had drunk out of. (Little Known Fact: Germs do not exist in Ecuador.)
My host sister turned to me. "Whiskey," she said and dutifully took her swig. Then it was my turn. Apparently we were toasting the the birthday man's health and it was clearly something we were all expected to do. I followed suit and was happy to find it had at least been diluted with some water and that hopefully that was that. (If only...)
We ended up being served dinner a few moments later (and by dinner I mean a literal mountain of rice, turkey, potatoes, and a mixed vegetable salad). It was delicious but as I had been eyeing the birthday cake since we arrived, I was afraid I wasn't going to have room.
That was quickly solved once the plates were cleared. The music was turned back up to full blast and the dancing began in earnest. (Believe it or not Gangnam Style was played at one point.) I decided to just observe at the beginning. My height already made me conspicuous and I wasn't about to go out on the dance floor and make myself stand out even more by doing the wrong step.
It seemed like everyone was doing some version of a step-touch so when a mustached older relative finally asked me to dance I figured I could manage. Everyone seemed to be duly surprised that I could handle myself well on the dance floor and for the rest of the night I barely sat down. I received quite a few compliments and offers to learn more steps. I also received a nickname from the birthday man: "ohmigosh." (Said in the most valley-girl voice he could muster which made me lose it every time.) In fact, that's pretty much what I was called the entire night. It's even what he called me in his thank you speech to end the night.
During one of my brief breaks on the couch my sister and mom informed me that la hora loca would soon be upon us. From what I could decipher, it involved entertainers of some kind, masks and lots more dancing.
Also by this point, the whiskey pitcher had made its rounds so many times I had lost count. It seemed to be a bit of a game between some of the women and the birthday man (who was now the one in control of the pitcher) who would put up a fight about having to take another shot and him cajoling them that it was his birthday after all and didn't they want to wish him well?
Shortly before la hora loca the birthday wife passed out masks and cardboard ties to each of the guests. Then suddenly the room was full of balloons, confetti, a DJ, and two masked entertainers dressed in outlandish costumes. For the next hour they led the dancing which included everything from the macarena to a conga line. Some of us "lucky" ones even got pulled into the middle of the dance circle to try out a new move with one of the leaders. I couldn't help but laugh to see some of the grandparents getting down. Age was clearly not an obstacle when it came to busting a move.
After la hora loca and the cutting of the cake (which, per Ecuadorean tradition, found part of its way onto the birthday man's face), many of the guests left. It was past midnight at this point and it was a Thursday so there would be work the next day. While we waited for my host dad to finish eating his dinner (he had arrived later and missed the meal), the last of our small group ended danced for another half an hour or so. I ended the night with a dance with the birthday man and then we finally went our way, arriving home a little after 1 o' clock in the morning.
So yes, my night had definitely not gone as planned. My "prep work" would have to wait for another day and there was a good chance I would be sleepy grading placement tests the following morning. But I had a wonderful experience and took one step closer to understanding and appreciating life here in Ecuador.
Well of course I was! After all, that is what this year is all about--new experiences. So I exchanged my flannel PJs for a dress and some leggings and in less than five minutes was out the door.
As we were driving to the party, I tried to get some additional information from sister about just whose party we were going to. It turns out it was a 50th birthday celebration for my host cousin's wife's father....I think. That is, I'm pretty sure. I feel like a lot of stuff still gets lots in translation with me. But I'm getting there one step at a time.
After picking up another relative on the way, we arrived at a house on the outskirts of Ibarra a little after 8. The entire ride over I found myself becoming increasingly anxious. What on earth was I going to do at a party full of people who only speak Spanish? Would I have any idea what was going on? And what exactly does one do at an Ecua-birthday? What if I messed up some time-honored tradition and brought shame on the entire family?
Well. We arrived before my thoughts could get much further and, wouldn't you know it? Things just happened as they happen as they always do.
We met a few people outside on our way in and my host mom proudly introduced me as "mi hijita." (Let's just say that my anxiety suddenly didn't seem so overwhelming.) Then we walked through the door into a large room where all of the chairs and furniture had been pushed against the wall. Lining each wall was a row of seated relatives apparently waiting on us to get the festivities started. Before that could happen though, my mom, Karen and I had to go around and greet each person individually with either a handshake or the Ecua-greeting. (This is another Ecuadorian custom. It's very rude to enter a room without greeting everyone.) After twenty-something greetings I was practically worn out before we had even started!
At first, nothing really happened. We kind of all just sat awkwardly staring across the room at each other or making small talk with our neighbors. Someone came around and handed us small plastic cups with sparkling wine but no one took a sip. I became a little concerned that maybe I had overestimated the excitement of an Ecuadorian fiesta.
Just as I was about to lose all hope, the birthday man and his family entered. His daughter gave a beautiful speech about how much he meant to her and afterwards we all drank his health. Then she showed a short home video of pictures and quotes his family had put together for him. And then someone put on music! And the birthday man and his wife began to dance! And so did other people! And I was very happy to see that we were not going to be sitting stoically in our chairs all evening.
While the dancing began I noticed that the wife of the birthday man was slowly working her way around the room with a pitcher and what looked like a shot glass. I couldn't clearly see what was happening as my view was blocked by the dancers but I could see she was moving in our direction. Sure enough, several moments later she appeared in front of my host sister (who was seated next to me) with her pitcher of golden-ish liquid and a shot glass which also contained some of the liquid. The same shot glass, mind you, that everyone else had drunk out of. (Little Known Fact: Germs do not exist in Ecuador.)
My host sister turned to me. "Whiskey," she said and dutifully took her swig. Then it was my turn. Apparently we were toasting the the birthday man's health and it was clearly something we were all expected to do. I followed suit and was happy to find it had at least been diluted with some water and that hopefully that was that. (If only...)
We ended up being served dinner a few moments later (and by dinner I mean a literal mountain of rice, turkey, potatoes, and a mixed vegetable salad). It was delicious but as I had been eyeing the birthday cake since we arrived, I was afraid I wasn't going to have room.
That was quickly solved once the plates were cleared. The music was turned back up to full blast and the dancing began in earnest. (Believe it or not Gangnam Style was played at one point.) I decided to just observe at the beginning. My height already made me conspicuous and I wasn't about to go out on the dance floor and make myself stand out even more by doing the wrong step.
It seemed like everyone was doing some version of a step-touch so when a mustached older relative finally asked me to dance I figured I could manage. Everyone seemed to be duly surprised that I could handle myself well on the dance floor and for the rest of the night I barely sat down. I received quite a few compliments and offers to learn more steps. I also received a nickname from the birthday man: "ohmigosh." (Said in the most valley-girl voice he could muster which made me lose it every time.) In fact, that's pretty much what I was called the entire night. It's even what he called me in his thank you speech to end the night.
During one of my brief breaks on the couch my sister and mom informed me that la hora loca would soon be upon us. From what I could decipher, it involved entertainers of some kind, masks and lots more dancing.
Also by this point, the whiskey pitcher had made its rounds so many times I had lost count. It seemed to be a bit of a game between some of the women and the birthday man (who was now the one in control of the pitcher) who would put up a fight about having to take another shot and him cajoling them that it was his birthday after all and didn't they want to wish him well?
Shortly before la hora loca the birthday wife passed out masks and cardboard ties to each of the guests. Then suddenly the room was full of balloons, confetti, a DJ, and two masked entertainers dressed in outlandish costumes. For the next hour they led the dancing which included everything from the macarena to a conga line. Some of us "lucky" ones even got pulled into the middle of the dance circle to try out a new move with one of the leaders. I couldn't help but laugh to see some of the grandparents getting down. Age was clearly not an obstacle when it came to busting a move.
After la hora loca and the cutting of the cake (which, per Ecuadorean tradition, found part of its way onto the birthday man's face), many of the guests left. It was past midnight at this point and it was a Thursday so there would be work the next day. While we waited for my host dad to finish eating his dinner (he had arrived later and missed the meal), the last of our small group ended danced for another half an hour or so. I ended the night with a dance with the birthday man and then we finally went our way, arriving home a little after 1 o' clock in the morning.
So yes, my night had definitely not gone as planned. My "prep work" would have to wait for another day and there was a good chance I would be sleepy grading placement tests the following morning. But I had a wonderful experience and took one step closer to understanding and appreciating life here in Ecuador.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Meeting the parasites
It was bound to happen eventually. We were told to expect
it. No, plan for it. It could happen at a moment’s notice and even to the well-prepared.
Despite these admonitions, I was bound and determined to be the exception.
That was before yesterday morning when I woke up
nauseous, feverish and weak. And , folks, I knew I had been had. Somewhere
along the way, I had been infected.
Getting parasites, amoebas, worms, or some combination of
the three is just simply a part of living the Ecua-life. They’re nearly
impossible to avoid and no matter how careful you are, they always seem to find
a way to make themselves at home in your digestive system.
So what was my mistake? Well, I’m still not entirely sure
(and probably won’t ever be), but I did rinse off a small piece of fruit in tap
water…and then ate it. (gasp!) As harmless as that sounds, it’s obviously
enough to wreak havoc on a gringa’s stomach.
I spent the majority of the morning moaning and groaning
and heaving the few contents of my stomach into a plastic bag. My wonderful
host mom, seeing my plight, whipped up a large carafe of oregano tea to help
dispel the nausea. (I had never heard of this home remedy before but it
definitely works.) By lunchtime I had worked through a fourth of the carafe but,
aside from the lessened nausea, was only feeling mildly better.
After a phone call with one of our WT directors, I
decided it would be best to seek medical attention before things got worse.
Actually, I came to this decision only after being strongly encouraged by the director to do so. I did not relish the
idea of sitting in a waiting room for hours while my stomach hosted a three
ring circus.
 |
| My bestest friend...oregano tea |
After lunch, my host mom and older sister, Fernanda,
packed me up in the car (so thankful we have not one but two cars—I couldn’t
imagine having to take a bus or hail a taxi in my state) and drove me to the
hospital.
Now, I won’t lie. When I heard “hospital,” visions of
some ramshackle, cinderblock warehouse overflowing with the sick and diseased
and barely a staff or medical supplies to treat them filled my mind. Of course,
this was completely ridiculous as I had seen hospitals and clinics in Quito,
but what can I say? I wasn’t feeling well and my imagination was getting the
best of me.
The hospital did turn out to be a bust, though not for
the aforementioned reasons. Since I had neither diarrhea nor a temperature, I
was deemed fit as a fiddle by the triage nurse and was told, if I so chose,
that I could visit one of the local clinics to seek additional treatment. By
this point, all I wanted to do was crawl up onto the nearest cot and pass out.
Thankfully, my host family was not so easily deterred.
Off to the clinic we went only to be met by a long line of the sick and
diseased in front of us (so maybe I wasn’t completely off). Seeing that I was
going down fast, my host mom took matters into her own hands. She grabbed the
first employee she could find and informed them that I was an American and
needed to be treated right now. (At
least, I think she said something like that. It’s difficult to translate
Spanish when you’re dying.)
We were immediately directed to a traveling community
health RV that was parked outside of the clinic. At first I was skeptical about
just what kind of treatment I was going to find inside. After all, it didn’t
really look like much—more or less a step down from a Red Cross RV. But we were
met at the door by two women, one a nurse, the other a doctor, and my mind was
instantly at ease.
They were young and friendly, but highly competent and,
unlike the hospital, took the time to take my vitals and hear me out. I left
with antibiotics, pain relievers, oral rehydration salts, and much more peace
of mind. And the best part? I didn’t have to pay a dime. After going through
all this, the last thing I wanted to do was have to worry about filling out
paperwork for insurance.
As the day progressed, I felt increasingly more myself
and by today was feeling like the old me again. Thank goodness that whatever I
ended up with was only a 24 hour thing. And thank goodness it happened now and
not next week when I’ll be teaching!
So will I go through this all of this again at some point
this year? Most likely. And I admit, I’m not looking forward to it. But there’s
some comfort in knowing that I’ve been there and made it to the other side and
am none the worse for wear.
First night in Ibarra
I’ll admit that I had more trepidation about meeting my
newest host family than I did about meeting my Quito family. This was largely
because before I was paired with another volunteer who I knew I
could rely on in times of confusion or exasperation. Here in Ibarra, I knew I
was going to be totally and utterly on my own.
My anxiety was not helped by the fact that I nearly
missed my taxi. Or that my host sister had to be called to verify the address
because my taxi driver was clueless as to my destination. I did, however,
arrive safely at my host family’s house a little before six on Saturday.
I was met at the door by my host sister, Karen, who
coincidentally happens to be my age. We did the Ecua-greeting (hug & air kiss)
and then she immediately grabbed two of my bags and ushered me through the
front gate and into the house. As we were attempting to navigate my large bags
around the car in the garage, my host mom and dad, Fernando and Monica,
materialized on the stairs all hugs and smiles and a flood of Spanish goodwill.
By the time we had reached my bedroom on the top floor, our party had increased
by two to include my older host sister Fernanda and their cousin Veronica.
At first I felt a bit overwhelmed by the amount of people
crowded around my bedroom door and the amount of Spanish being spoken all at
once. I wanted to be sure that I didn't offend anyone right off the bat. After
all, this was going to be my family for the next year.
As soon as my bags were put down, my host mom insisted on
a tour of the house. My room was obviously the first stop where she showed me
the private porch attached to my bedroom that offers me a gorgeous view of
Ibarra and the surrounding mountains. (I have a feeling there will be lots of
sunbathing occurring there…). My room is located on the top floor which has a
bathroom (all my own!), a game area of sorts with a pool table, and a storage
room. Another door leads to the roof which houses the clothesline, laundry
machine, and hand washing stone (yes, hand washing your clothes is very common
here). The first floor includes a kitchen, dining room, living
room with bar, bathroom, two more bedrooms, and a master bedroom. It’s a very
beautiful, large house, and I honestly couldn't have asked for more.
My host mom
continually asked me throughout the tour if I liked it even though I kept up a
fairly steady stream of praise and admiration. (This is a very Ecua thing to
do. If you think you’re being overly-effusive by American standards, you’re
probably just barely skimming the surface by Ecua standards.)
Thankfully, my host mom is very perceptive and after the
tour allowed me several hours to rest. I, of course, spent all of them frantically unpacking and getting things in order. (Best to just get it over
and done with.)
As I was unpacking, I experienced the requisite wave of
homesickness I knew was bound to come. There’s just something about that first
time in a new room in a new city with a new family that gets to you. But before
I could start wallowing in despair, Karen stopped by for a little bit to see
how I was getting on and to chat a bit. She’s hoping to go to the states soon
to live as an au pair and learn English so we joked about trying to learn each
other’s language.
After my “siesta,” Karen and I walked next door to her
aunt’s house where my family had gathered with their extended family for their
weekly game of Bingo. Karen and I declined their offers for us to play but I
enjoyed watching all of the aunts, uncles and cousins go at it in an attempt to
win one of the random prizes each family had brought. My host dad won twice and
received a clock and a set of religious coasters and my host mom won a basket.
Apparently, I’m expected to get in on the action next week.
Around 9 o’clock, Karen, Fernanda, and I headed back to
our house since they were going out to see one of their musician friends
perform at a club at 10. At this point I was muy, MUY cansada so I told them
I’d hang out with them until they left and then hit the hay. To my surprise, we
all went to mom and dad’s bedroom to relax and prep for the evening instead of
Karen’s or Fernanda’s room. (Another Ecua thing I’ll need to get used to. It’s
perfectly normal for everyone to gather on mom and dad’s bed to watch TV and
catch up.)
We spent the next hour doing what girls do best, chatting
about guys (in Spanish of course) and painting our nails. Fernanda painted mine
a brilliant shade of pink. I was quite pleased.
They also all commented on how good my Spanish was (but I think I’m just
really good at pretending I know what’s going on).
While speaking Spanish all the time is fantastic
practice, it’s can also be quite exhausting. I’m so thankful that Fernanda speaks
great English. Sometimes it’s just too much work to figure out how to say, “Where
can I hang up my clothes?” when your brain is completely fried from everything
else.
I will need to be careful not to always revert to English around her
though. I feel like it’ll be far too tempting at times and I will be seriously
upset with myself if my Spanish has not greatly improved by the end of the
year.
Rubbernecking, Ecua-style
This past Saturday was my last day in Quito. After an intense
month of orientation and an amazing Italian farewell dinner at Cosa Nostra, we
volunteers went our separate ways to start our journeys to our placement sites.
My travel plans involved taking a shared taxi from Quito
to Ibarra Saturday afternoon. The taxi was to pick me up at my door, load my
luggage, and take me on my way. Excellent news for my scrawny arms which were
not looking forward to hauling my two fifty pound bags.
Unfortunately, when
the taxi company was given my address, I was informed that I lived “too far south of the
city” and would need to find my own transportation to their taxi stand in
downtown Quito. Seeing me saddled down with two large suitcases, a duffle bag,
backpack, and guitar, my host brother, Daniel, kindly offered to drive me to
Taxi Lagos.
Daniel assured me that the taxi stand was not far from
our house and that we didn't need to leave until 1:40. Since I had absolutely
no idea where we were going I saw no reason to argue. It wasn't until we were
on the highway in bumper to bumper traffic that I began to question his timing.
He assured me that when he was on the highway that
morning there hadn't been any traffic. He seemed to be just as bewildered as I
was as to why on a Saturday afternoon we were stuck in what appeared to be the
throes of rush hour.
We both immediately assumed that there had to have been
an accident somewhere causing the holdup. However, we couldn't see any wreckage
or hear the shrill wailing of sirens. We continued to creep along the highway
when suddenly we began to see one…two…four, five…eight, then ten or more cars
parked along the side of the highway with their flashers on.
“Si,” Daniel abruptly said. “Es un accidente.” I glanced
sideways at him as, yes, the cars were all stopped on the side of the road but
none of them appeared to be damaged and they certainly weren't close enough to
suggest some kind of pileup. I tried to
peer further down the highway to see if I was missing something but aside from
the line of parked cars, there was nothing to see.
The line of cars continued to grow in length as we drove
further down the road. And that’s when I saw them. A mass of people standing
along the right side of our lane peering down into a deep ravine. No one seemed
to be doing anything except gawking at whoever or whatever lay at the bottom of
the slope. Clearly, something terrible had happened and it seemed the most
natural thing in the world to leave one’s car to find out just what it was.
Once we passed the group of bystanders (and their cars)
the traffic immediately vanished and we were finally able to move our
speedometer past 2 mph. I breathed a sigh of relief hoping that maybe I would
still make my 2:15 taxi.
But, as luck would have it, our route took us in a loop
around to the other side of the ravine where, again, we were met by another
line of parked cars and another group of rubberneckers. I watched
astonished as one woman who had just parked her car launched herself from her
vehicle, grabbed her children and rushed to the edge of the scene. I looked
around the melee half expecting vendors to materialize hawking popcorn and
souvenirs.
I’m still not exactly sure who or what fell into the
ravine (I could only see so much from my car window) but I couldn't believe the extent to which people here in Ecuador went to rubberneck. In the states we
all moan and groan when traffic is backed up because everyone and their mother
has to slow down to 25 mph to get a glimpse of who is inside of the ambulance.
But we all (usually) remain in our cars and keep the wheels on our car moving.
In Ecuador, an accident is a obviously a perfectly valid
excuse to park your car, grab your children and grandmother, and spend the next
half hour or more watching the drama unfold.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Today I climbed an active volcano...
...and it was by far the hardest physical thing I've ever done in my life. While I was precariously clinging to the rocky peak of Pichincha this very afternoon, I asked myself for the umpteenth time why on earth I had thought this was a good idea less than 24 hours ago.
The day started off well enough. Me and the two other volunteers who had decided to climb Pichincha, Tommy and Phil, all arrived excited and on time at our designated meeting point. The sun was shining and we were all in high spirits to begin our volcanic adventure.
A short taxi ride brought us to the Teloferico, one of the highest aerial lifts in the world that would take us over 13,000 feet above sea level to where we would start our hike up the volcano. Tommy and I are both afraid of heights so our ten minute ride up the mountain was tense to say the least. Phil, however, couldn't seem to get enough of the view. He refused to sit still and kept our little car swinging from side to side in spite of my and Tommy's fearful protests. I admit, though, the view was breathtaking and at times even I forgot just how high our cable car was hanging over the deep ravines in the mountain.
Thankfully, we arrived at the top without incident and after a quick bathroom break and a picture at one of the scenic viewpoints we set off.
After three weeks of acclimatizing to Quito's high altitude we figured that although the hike would be challenging it would certainly be doable. That was until we encountered our first hill anyway. It was shocking how quickly our little hearts began to race and our breathing grew short. We immediately began to question the sanity of our decision as we stood panting at the top. Could we really handle several more hours of this both up and then back down the mountain?
Our small group rallied though and, seeing other hikers further down the path, decided that we would not be so easily beaten. The next two hours on the trail were actually quite enjoyable. We stopped for two minute breaks whenever needed and made good use of our cameras to capture the insane views that surrounded us on all sides. It was incredible being so close to the sky. I knew that if I only stood on my tiptoes and reached just high enough my fingertips would brush the clouds.
We continued happily along but by the two hour mark, the trail became much steeper and narrower and the possibility of falling off the mountain was becoming much more of a reality. While my fear of heights had subsided once we had exited the Teloferico, they now came rushing back.
The temperature had also dropped and while the rest of me was sufficiently warm my fingers were starting to get quite cold. I kicked myself yet again for not taking the time to grab my gloves that morning. Still, my pockets were warm and we assumed that by this point we must be nearing the end of our hike so I pressed onward.
Sure enough, moments later we found ourselves face to face with a rock wall and a trail that had apparently dead ended. We congratulated ourselves for making the distance and I quietly celebrated that soon my hands would be wrapped around a warm cup of tea.
A group of Germans that we had encountered earlier along the trail kindly took our pictures and then informed us that no, we needed to scale the rock wall behind us and pick up the trail that continued on the other side.
I'll admit that by this point I was more than ready to throw in the towel. My poor heart and lungs had never been worked so hard in their life and my fingers were rapidly starting to lose their color. The boys, however, insisted that we not let the volcano defeat us and, following the Germans lead, scrambled over the rock and left me contemplating whether to continue or turn back.
As I wavered back and forth, I looked up to see one of the German guys patiently waiting halfway up the wall with his hand outstretched to assist me in my climb. The thoughtfulness of this total stranger pushed me off my fence and motivated me to make it to the top at all costs.
I rejoined Phil and Tommy and the rest of the German gang and together we began the final ascent up Pichincha. It was this final part that was the most strenuous and pushed me farther than I've ever been physically.
At this point in our hike, we had reached 15,000 feet above sea level and still had a couple hundred feet to go. I had foolishly assumed earlier that the air could not possibly get any thinner. I was wrong. Whereas before we could walk quite far without taking a break, we soon reached a point where every three or four steps we had to stop to catch our breath which, at this altitude, we couldn't ever really catch.
Along with the increasingly thin air, the trail became increasingly dangerous. The hard packed dirt we had been hiking on turned suddenly turned into sand that provided our shoes with very little, if any, traction. Interspersed among the sand were rocky crags that became more present the closer we got to the top. It became more and more difficult to find a secure path to the peak.
If this weren't enough, my fingers had lost all of their color and most of their feeling by this point. The boys had kindly been taking turns rubbing my hands every few yards when we paused for a break but even between their efforts and keeping my hands inside of my shirt, nothing seemed to be able to revive them. I'll admit that several times I was on the brink of tears from the pain. (And of course there was the irrational little voice inside of my head insisting that I was going to get frostbite and was sure to lose all of my fingers, which was not helping matters.) On a more practical note, though, it made gripping the rocks on my climb upward incredibly challenging.
While fearless Phil had been keeping pace with the Germans for the entirety of the ascent and was further ahead, Tommy and I chose a more moderate speed and continued to encourage each other to keep moving as we struggled our way up the rocks. I remember gasping out to Tommy several times that "I can't go any further" and him repeating that we would not let the mountain defeat us.
Painfully slowly, we hauled ourselves up a couple more feet and seated ourselves a short distance below the peak. We were literally in the clouds at this point and the visibility was very poor. While we could hear and faintly see people a little ways above us, we couldn't see a way to the absolute peak without having to descend from where we were and trying a different ascent. Two of the German girls were sitting near us and they too concluded that it would be too dangerous and exhausting to try and navigate the last several feet to the top from where we were.
So we had made it. We had reached the top of Pichincha in spite of everything and even though I didn't get my picture with the sign on the top, I felt an immense sense of pride and accomplishment. I had just climbed a volcano!
And the view from the top...unbelievable! No matter how crummy you were feeling, when the clouds cleared for a moment and you could look down on Quito you literally felt on top of the world, physically and emotionally.
But the adventure wasn't over yet. We still had to get down the mountain. And this proved to be just as difficult as getting up there. The sand that had proven so difficult to climb up now sent us sliding down the volcano with little to slow us down or break our fall. I spent the majority of the descent from the peak sliding on my bottom to keep from picking up too much momentum.
Once we got past the sand, we stopped for a moment on a ledge to catch our breath and thank the Lord that we hadn't rolled to our deaths. It was while we were sitting here that we met up with another group of hikers and their tour guide. Seeing Tommy frantically rub my hands together to bring some color back to them, one of the hikers offered me a cup of hot tea from his Thermos and yet another offered me his gloves to wear. Once again, I was completely taken aback by the kindness of these total strangers. It is truly amazing the way we humans bond together in trying situations.
Between the tea and the gloves I began to feel the slightest tingle in my fingers again. (I hadn't been able to feel anything in them up to this point.) My spirits immediately began to lift and we set off down the mountain again with this group.
We began to pick up the pace as we grew closer to the bottom and as the trail became easier to navigate. The finish line was clearly in sight! However, as we entered the home stretch, it began to rain. It started out as a light, refreshing mist but soon turned into a downpour. Even with my umbrella my shoes, pants, and backpack were soon quite wet and the rain was running off my umbrella in rivulets.
It didn't put a damper on our excitement at nearly being "home" though. If anything, we were thankful for the dampness which packed down the loose dirt on the trail and made navigating down the hills much easier.
An hour after we began our descent, we found ourselves at the Teloferico once again. Exhausted, wet, and out of breath but immensely proud of ourselves for what we had just accomplished. The mountain had not defeated us.
So, will I climb another volcano again over 15,000 feet above sea level? Probably not. (...well, maybe...) Am I glad that I took a chance and challenged myself to do something new? Most definitely yes! Does it make for a great story? That's up to you. Leave me a comment and let me know if you thought so.
Chao!
The day started off well enough. Me and the two other volunteers who had decided to climb Pichincha, Tommy and Phil, all arrived excited and on time at our designated meeting point. The sun was shining and we were all in high spirits to begin our volcanic adventure.
A short taxi ride brought us to the Teloferico, one of the highest aerial lifts in the world that would take us over 13,000 feet above sea level to where we would start our hike up the volcano. Tommy and I are both afraid of heights so our ten minute ride up the mountain was tense to say the least. Phil, however, couldn't seem to get enough of the view. He refused to sit still and kept our little car swinging from side to side in spite of my and Tommy's fearful protests. I admit, though, the view was breathtaking and at times even I forgot just how high our cable car was hanging over the deep ravines in the mountain.
Thankfully, we arrived at the top without incident and after a quick bathroom break and a picture at one of the scenic viewpoints we set off.
 |
Our small group rallied though and, seeing other hikers further down the path, decided that we would not be so easily beaten. The next two hours on the trail were actually quite enjoyable. We stopped for two minute breaks whenever needed and made good use of our cameras to capture the insane views that surrounded us on all sides. It was incredible being so close to the sky. I knew that if I only stood on my tiptoes and reached just high enough my fingertips would brush the clouds.
We continued happily along but by the two hour mark, the trail became much steeper and narrower and the possibility of falling off the mountain was becoming much more of a reality. While my fear of heights had subsided once we had exited the Teloferico, they now came rushing back.
The temperature had also dropped and while the rest of me was sufficiently warm my fingers were starting to get quite cold. I kicked myself yet again for not taking the time to grab my gloves that morning. Still, my pockets were warm and we assumed that by this point we must be nearing the end of our hike so I pressed onward.
Sure enough, moments later we found ourselves face to face with a rock wall and a trail that had apparently dead ended. We congratulated ourselves for making the distance and I quietly celebrated that soon my hands would be wrapped around a warm cup of tea.
A group of Germans that we had encountered earlier along the trail kindly took our pictures and then informed us that no, we needed to scale the rock wall behind us and pick up the trail that continued on the other side.
I'll admit that by this point I was more than ready to throw in the towel. My poor heart and lungs had never been worked so hard in their life and my fingers were rapidly starting to lose their color. The boys, however, insisted that we not let the volcano defeat us and, following the Germans lead, scrambled over the rock and left me contemplating whether to continue or turn back.
As I wavered back and forth, I looked up to see one of the German guys patiently waiting halfway up the wall with his hand outstretched to assist me in my climb. The thoughtfulness of this total stranger pushed me off my fence and motivated me to make it to the top at all costs.
I rejoined Phil and Tommy and the rest of the German gang and together we began the final ascent up Pichincha. It was this final part that was the most strenuous and pushed me farther than I've ever been physically.
At this point in our hike, we had reached 15,000 feet above sea level and still had a couple hundred feet to go. I had foolishly assumed earlier that the air could not possibly get any thinner. I was wrong. Whereas before we could walk quite far without taking a break, we soon reached a point where every three or four steps we had to stop to catch our breath which, at this altitude, we couldn't ever really catch.
Along with the increasingly thin air, the trail became increasingly dangerous. The hard packed dirt we had been hiking on turned suddenly turned into sand that provided our shoes with very little, if any, traction. Interspersed among the sand were rocky crags that became more present the closer we got to the top. It became more and more difficult to find a secure path to the peak.
If this weren't enough, my fingers had lost all of their color and most of their feeling by this point. The boys had kindly been taking turns rubbing my hands every few yards when we paused for a break but even between their efforts and keeping my hands inside of my shirt, nothing seemed to be able to revive them. I'll admit that several times I was on the brink of tears from the pain. (And of course there was the irrational little voice inside of my head insisting that I was going to get frostbite and was sure to lose all of my fingers, which was not helping matters.) On a more practical note, though, it made gripping the rocks on my climb upward incredibly challenging.
While fearless Phil had been keeping pace with the Germans for the entirety of the ascent and was further ahead, Tommy and I chose a more moderate speed and continued to encourage each other to keep moving as we struggled our way up the rocks. I remember gasping out to Tommy several times that "I can't go any further" and him repeating that we would not let the mountain defeat us.
Painfully slowly, we hauled ourselves up a couple more feet and seated ourselves a short distance below the peak. We were literally in the clouds at this point and the visibility was very poor. While we could hear and faintly see people a little ways above us, we couldn't see a way to the absolute peak without having to descend from where we were and trying a different ascent. Two of the German girls were sitting near us and they too concluded that it would be too dangerous and exhausting to try and navigate the last several feet to the top from where we were.
So we had made it. We had reached the top of Pichincha in spite of everything and even though I didn't get my picture with the sign on the top, I felt an immense sense of pride and accomplishment. I had just climbed a volcano!
 |
| If you look at my thumb on the left you can see just how little circulation I had in my hands. It was much worse in the rest of my fingers which were completely white by this point. |
But the adventure wasn't over yet. We still had to get down the mountain. And this proved to be just as difficult as getting up there. The sand that had proven so difficult to climb up now sent us sliding down the volcano with little to slow us down or break our fall. I spent the majority of the descent from the peak sliding on my bottom to keep from picking up too much momentum.
Once we got past the sand, we stopped for a moment on a ledge to catch our breath and thank the Lord that we hadn't rolled to our deaths. It was while we were sitting here that we met up with another group of hikers and their tour guide. Seeing Tommy frantically rub my hands together to bring some color back to them, one of the hikers offered me a cup of hot tea from his Thermos and yet another offered me his gloves to wear. Once again, I was completely taken aback by the kindness of these total strangers. It is truly amazing the way we humans bond together in trying situations.
Between the tea and the gloves I began to feel the slightest tingle in my fingers again. (I hadn't been able to feel anything in them up to this point.) My spirits immediately began to lift and we set off down the mountain again with this group.
We began to pick up the pace as we grew closer to the bottom and as the trail became easier to navigate. The finish line was clearly in sight! However, as we entered the home stretch, it began to rain. It started out as a light, refreshing mist but soon turned into a downpour. Even with my umbrella my shoes, pants, and backpack were soon quite wet and the rain was running off my umbrella in rivulets.
It didn't put a damper on our excitement at nearly being "home" though. If anything, we were thankful for the dampness which packed down the loose dirt on the trail and made navigating down the hills much easier.
An hour after we began our descent, we found ourselves at the Teloferico once again. Exhausted, wet, and out of breath but immensely proud of ourselves for what we had just accomplished. The mountain had not defeated us.
So, will I climb another volcano again over 15,000 feet above sea level? Probably not. (...well, maybe...) Am I glad that I took a chance and challenged myself to do something new? Most definitely yes! Does it make for a great story? That's up to you. Leave me a comment and let me know if you thought so.
Chao!
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Pictures!!
I know so many people have been requesting pictures of Quito so I apologize for the delay in getting these posted. It's just that between our nine hour orientation sessions and me not wanting to have my camera on me on a daily basis, it took me awhile to accumulate photos.
Yesterday our group of volunteers took a bus tour of Quito so most of the pictures in the album are from that excursion. You'll get to see pictures of el centro historico, La Virgen de Quito, and tons of pictures of mountains (I can't get enough!). Today my host brother, two other volunteers and I also visited La Mitad del Mundo (the middle of the world) so the album also has a few pictures from that little adventure. (You'll even get to see a picture of a very unique Ecuadorian dish, cuy, which is roasted guinea pig).
Quito Photo Album
Enjoy!
Yesterday our group of volunteers took a bus tour of Quito so most of the pictures in the album are from that excursion. You'll get to see pictures of el centro historico, La Virgen de Quito, and tons of pictures of mountains (I can't get enough!). Today my host brother, two other volunteers and I also visited La Mitad del Mundo (the middle of the world) so the album also has a few pictures from that little adventure. (You'll even get to see a picture of a very unique Ecuadorian dish, cuy, which is roasted guinea pig).
Quito Photo Album
Enjoy!
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