Now that I'm only a weekend away from beginning classes and have a better sense of what I'll be teaching this year, I thought I'd do a quick expo-blog on my new school.
This year I'll be teaching at Xiamen Yingcai School's International Education Center. Xiamen Yingcai is a private K-12 boarding school with around 3000 students and 600 faculty and staff. The International Education Center is specifically devoted to preparing Xiamen Yingcai high school students for future study at universities in the States (or other English speaking countries).
Outside of the International Education Center
As of right now, I will be teaching Senior 3 Advanced Writing and Senior 1 Speaking. Class sizes are about 20 students per class which I'm pretty happy with. Anything bigger and it can be harder to keep tabs on everyone and anything smaller and it limits the amount of activities and exercises you can do.
The staff at the Center is made up of both native and non-native English teachers. I haven't officially been introduced to everyone yet, but the Chinese teachers I have met so far all seem incredibly friendly and helpful. We all share a huge office partitioned off into mini cubicles so I'm sure we'll all get to know each other quite well this year.
At the moment, the foreign teachers consist of myself, Loren (USA), and Maffi (Philippines). There was supposed to be another American girl joining us but she had to drop out at the last minute. They're holding interviews now to fill the position so there should be a fourth member joining our little party shortly.
The campus itself is huge (over 41 acres!) and has computer labs, a library, art center, gym, outdoor Olympic--sized swimming pool, a huge music department, etc., etc. It's easily larger than the small university I attended for undergrad. It's also relatively close to the downtown area of my neighborhood so most of what I need is within walking distance.
Below are a few pictures (as promised) of the school and the supermarket:
View of the basketball courts and some of the buildings on campus
Construction in front of Sun Square (the front of the school)
Kindergarten building
ji
Sidewalk outside of the school--on the way to the supermarket
Since this is my first post about China, I feel like I need to preface it by saying that these are my first, fresh-off-the-boat impressions of Xiamen. They are largely impressions and not facts and will undoubtedly change over the course of my time here.
I like to do these "first impressions" entries because in ten or twelve months its always amazing to look back to where I started and where I ended up. Living abroad changes you in so many ways and sometimes, unless we document those changes, we miss them altogether.
So. Xiamen...
The very first thing that popped into my head as myself, Sunny (a fellow English teacher), and our polite but tight-lipped driver made our way from the airport was that Xiamen reminded me an awful lot of LA. The heat, the sunshine, the palm trees, the beaches, the ever-present sheen of smog on the horizon. I had to continually check the Mandarin-emblazoned billboards on the side of the highway to be sure I was in fact in China and not southern California.
Xiamen does, however, seem to have a lot more construction going on than LA. Everywhere you look there are towering, half-finished skyscrapers, high-rise condos with cranes resting lazily atop, and construction sites walled off with colorful illustrations of what's to come. At first glance, it would seem that Xiamen is a city on the rise. And perhaps it is. But from what I've heard a lot of the construction is subsidized by the government and a lot of these new condos and apartments that are being built can only be afforded by a small minority.
Of all that I've experienced so far, the biggest adjustment for me has been the weather. It is just SO. HOT. Like step-outside-and-simply-breathe-and-you'll-be-drenched-in-sweat hot. Between the blazing sunshine, the humidity, and lack of air conditioning in most places, I feel like I'm trapped in a ginormous sauna from about 8am until 6pm when the temperatures finally start to drop. I'm sure between the heat and the multiple climbs to the sixth floor of my dorm building (yes, there is no elevator), it's doing wonders for my figure. But I really can't wait for mid-September when the summer is over and the temperatures are closer to the 70s than the 90s.
The other huge adjustment, coming in at a very close second, is the language barrier. This is my first time in a foreign country where I literally cannot communicate at all. I spent brief weekends in France and Belgium, but they were weekends and I was always with a tour group. I'm in China for a year and it's clear that I'm going to need at least a functional level of Mandarin to do the basic things: grocery shopping, navigating around the city, exchanging pleasantries with my non-English speaking co-workers, etc. Right now I'm relying heavily on Loren, one of the other foreign teachers, to be my translator and tutor of sorts. He's been fantastic about teaching me a lot about the language and culture. I'm hoping that between him, David, and whatever self-studying I do, I should be able to handle myself within the next few months. Or here's hoping anyway!
Another thing that's really stood out to me is the amount of attention I receive as a foreigner here. I don't think I've ever been stared at so much in my life. And it's not like the sly, out of the corner of your eye staring. It's like the "let me gawk at you as we walk towards each other on the sidewalk and then stop and turn around and continue to stare at you as you pass me by". I mean, I guess it's flattering? Or unnerving. Regardless, it's going to take some time to adjust to.
I'm really happy with the food so far. I'm still dying to get my hands on a giant bowl of noodles, but the meals in the cafeteria have been more than sufficient. And they're free, so who's complaining? There's always rice (of course) and the meats and veggies (half of which I have no idea what they are) are always amazingly seasoned and relatively easy to eat with chopsticks. I don't know that I'm going to miss American food that much while I'm here, but it is strange to know that it isn't readily available if and when I want it. There is a massive store near downtown Xiamen called Metro that specializes in imported items, like peanut butter and cheese (which apparently you can't find anywhere). So I guess I can always soothe my cravings there if it gets to be too much.
A typical lunch in the school's cafeteria
The rest of my experiences so far are little things and more of an "oh, well this is different" and not an "oh man, how am I gonna live like this?!" Things like my weird bathroom, encountering squat toilets for the first time (that was an experience), discovering that small children do not wear diapers and simply wear crotch-less pants so that they can pee anywhere (and I do mean anywhere), realizing that it will be a long time before I see forks and knives again, and so on and so forth.
These little "encounters" will be the basis of some fantastic stories I'm sure, so that'll be something to look out for in future blog posts. :)
I've had a ton of requests for pictures and I promise I'm on it. If you're on FB you'll see that I've posted a few pics already. I'll do my best to have an album to post on here shortly.
Also, for those of you who are new to this blog, there's a place on the top right hand side of this page where you can enter your email address and be notified each time I put up a new entry. That way you won't need to bother with checking back here or my FB page for updates.
Okay so I'm trying to make the most of the brief amount of downtime I have before classes and chaos begin to get in a few entries about what's going down here. I've had lots of requests for pics so I will try to get a few posted before the week is out along with my "first impressions" entry and more info about the school and what exactly I'll be doing this year.
To tide you over until then, however, here is a quick video of my "suite" here at the school. I'm currently living alone but the other bedroom will more than likely be filled within the next few weeks with another foreign teacher.
I'm starting off this latest blog entry with mixed emotions.
I am beyond excited to brush off this dusty blog and start typing again. I mean, hello! I'm going to CHINA!!!
Yet instead of breaking out into my happy travel dance, I have to admit--I'm mildly terrified.
After the "Honduras incident" it seems my eagerness to hit the road has significantly decreased and my anxiety about living abroad again has significantly increased. Regardless of my fantastic experiences living in the UK, Australia, and Ecuador, my time in Honduras really shook my confidence in hopping on a plane and jetting off alone to yet another international destination.
What if disaster is once again waiting on the other end with open arms? What if in two weeks time I am running for the airport, desperate to escape? What if I just can't handle it???
Thankfully, I have wise siblings who interject my frantic stream of consciousness with profound statements like: "Amanda, worrying doesn't solve anything."
Which makes me stop and realize a few things.
First: Worrying doesn't solve anything!!! (Simple enough concept, but definitely worth repeating--especially for us tightly wound, Type-A people)
Second: Even though things in Honduras went sideways it showed me all the things to do and NOT do when preparing for a teaching position abroad. This time around I've quizzed my supervisor on the curriculum, the classes, and the living situation. I received and reviewed my contract before leaving the country. And I've even been in contact with a foreign teacher who currently works there who has been brilliant about giving me all of the insider info I need about the school and life in Xiamen in general.
Third: The buddy system is important. When you're all alone in a foreign country and things start to get hairy, even the slightest issue can rapidly turn monumental. I think one of the reasons why Honduras was such a challenge was because I was literally down there without anyone. According to what I gathered from the locals, I'm pretty sure I was the only gringa residing in El Paraiso. While this might sound like a grand and daring adventure, in reality it's exhausting and lonely and it really sucks when the cockroaches outnumber you ten to one and you can't call in backup. My point: everybody needs somebody. Even more so when you're hundreds of miles from home. So, I'm happy to say that my brother, David, will also be living in Xiamen this year studying Mandarin at Xiamen University. While we aren't exactly neighbors, knowing that he'll only be a taxi ride away makes me entirely more comfortable with the situation. (And I'll have a travel buddy during school breaks so no more solo bus trips where I may or may not end up getting stranded in the middle of China.)
But yes, all of that to say I'm off to CHINA!! And I'm so excited to share yet another adventure with all of you!
My suitcases are (mostly) packed. I've figured out how to say (butcher?) "Hello," "How are you," and "My name is Amanda" in Mandarin. My passport has a fresh new visa in it. Come what may, I've been given a fantastic opportunity to experience Eastern culture firsthand and mark yet another continent off my list.
For some people, this just makes life more exciting. For others, it makes life a nightmare spinning wildly out of their control.
I think I find myself falling somewhere in the middle of that extensive spectrum.
I'm a professed type-A personality who isn't centered without my stack of yellow Post-it notes. Lists bring me comfort and checking them off, even more so. I like to know what's going to happen tomorrow, next week, next year and neatly plot it out in my planner.
But at the same time, I like the idea of change and unpredictability and waking up tomorrow to a day that you weren't at all expecting. It keeps you from becoming complacent and disengaged with the world around you, and with yourself.
So, as you may have guessed, Honduras didn't turn out as planned. I found myself at a school where textbooks mattered more than teachers. Mindless worksheets mattered more than imparting knowledge. Empty points mattered more than assessing a student's abilities. Basically a for-profit school that cared far more about the money that was coming in than creating a conducive learning environment for teachers and students. Where teachers were "dispensable commodities" easily acquired and just as easily fired.
After working more than nine different jobs in three different countries, I know there's no such thing as the "perfect" workplace. Concessions must be made and, frankly, there are just things that you have to learn to put up with. But that is one thing. Being somewhere where your help is not wanted or needed, where is no room for input or suggestions, where the students go behind their teachers' backs to have them fired or reprimanded when things don't suit them, and where the principals back the parents instead of their teachers, that I can't do. If a teacher cannot have the support of both the students and teachers, she must have at least one of them. And if both are against her, then the struggle is hopeless from the beginning.
It's sad and frustrating to leave a journey when it's just begun, but I don't at all consider it time wasted. I mean, I finally made it to Central America! I got to experience life in a beautiful, rural Honduran town for a couple weeks. I became acquainted with Honduran Spanish and learned my fair share of slang. I made great strides towards overcoming my fear of insects (lol). And I met some truly wonderful people who I know will always be here waiting with welcoming arms and open homes.
So where will I be 3 months from now? 6? I can't say. The hope, of course, is to be back on the road sooner rather than later. Until then, I'll do my best to take advantage of my time at home and with time well-spent with friends and family.
Thank you, Honduras, for being yet another learning experience on this mad adventure called my twenties.
I'll put another story in my pocket and turn the page in anticipation for the next one.
From the minute I set eyes on it (as I stretched
unabashedly over my airplane seatmate and peered openmouthed out the window), I
knew that this was not “just another Ecuador.”
Our flight was landing in the capital, Tegucigalpa, and
so I had been expecting to see the tall buildings and towering mountainsides smeared with houses upon houses reminiscent of Quito.
Instead the two words that struck me when I saw what lay
outside the plane were space and brown.
There were mountains, but they were gentle. Not the
imposing behemoths that flanked Quito. And there were buildings, but far fewer and much
shorter. It reminded me much more of a giant suburbia than the capital of a
country. And while there was plenty greenery to be seen, there were also numerous
flat, brown patches of farmland scattered all around the edges of the city. It
seemed as though the line between country and city was much blurrier here than
in Quito.
In my head I knew that I was headed to Central America.
That Honduras was a smaller, less developed country. That I was not simply
returning to Ibarra for another year. But somehow, in some undetected part of
me, that’s precisely what I expected to greet me when I stepped off the plane.
Of course, my expectations were immediately and swiftly
shattered.
The plane did not taxi into a sparkly new airport like in
Quito. Instead, we were unceremoniously dumped onto the tarmac and then
directed into a small building that more closely resembled the headquarters of
a small business than an airport.
I was not questioned about my business in Honduras, but
simply handed over my customs form, had my picture taken and was sent on my
way.
There were no huge crowds of travelers either coming or
going. In fact the only people in the customs line were the people from my
flight. And from the look of things on the tarmac it seemed that the flow of
planes in and out of the airport was quite leisurely.
It was, in fact, nothing like Ecuador.
I was still mentally processing my new surroundings when I
was cheerily welcomed by the principal, a teacher from the Spanish department,
a fellow Honduran English teacher, and the bus driver. Pulled from my “I-just-landed-in-country-daze,”
I responded in kind with a warm welcome. As the Spanish words of greeting
tumbled out of my mouth, their expressions of joy turned ecstatic.
“Puede hablar
español!”
I didn’t want to set their expectations of my Spanish too
high so I quickly interjected that I was still learning Spanish and far from fluent. However, I’m fairly
certain that all that registered was, “Si,
yo puedo hablar español…” and
nothing else. The teachers from the previous year apparently spoke only very
little Spanish so my knowledge of Spanish came off as quite extensive and I was instantly thrust back into that maddening cycle of second language usage that consists of: listening, comprehending, translating, formulating a response, and translating yet again all at the breakneck speed of a normal conversation. Thankfully, the English teacher must have picked up on my sluggish, jet-lagged brain and stepped in to do most of the hard work for me.
Lunch was had at Pizza Hut (you can never fully escape)
and then I more or less slept in the back of the van while the principal and
teachers used their time in Tegucigalpa to run a few errands.
I slept right up until we were about 40 minutes outside
of El Paraiso (Paradise). It was dark by this time but I did the best I could to observe
my surroundings in the light from oncoming traffic. I just remember thinking, “it’s so dark.” And, “I’m literally in the middle of nowhere.” The darkness was so thick you could almost feel it weighing on you. I did start to get a
little anxious as it became quite clear that we really were traveling into a
world apart.
Just as I was wondering when I would see civilization
again, Elena, the English teacher, pointed towards the windshield where
clusters of orange streetlights gleamed against the blanket of night.
We had arrived.
The street and house lights of El Paraiso told far more
about my surroundings than the flashing lights from cars, and now I could see
dirt roads, people milling about the street, and packs of stray dogs huddled on the street
corners. The buildings shamelessly showed the wear of
their years and weeds and bushes clustered at their edges and in empty lots.
Nothing seemed new or particularly clean.
We slowly bumped our way down several blocks, moving
further away from the lights of “main street,” turned a sharp left, and found
ourselves on the doorstep of what looked like a small, yellow condo. At this point, however, I was completely and
utterly overwhelmed and barely coherent after 20+ hours of travel. All I wanted was a shower and bed and everything else could wait until the light of morning for further analysis.
Thankfully, my house was rather new and quite clean and
within the hour I had passed out on my bed.
Right now, there are two things in El Paraiso that have required me to make the
largest adjustment: the lack of infrastructure and the insects.
Compared to El Paraiso, I was living like a princess in
Ibarra. There were paved roads, and supermarkets, and parks with free WiFi.
Here, none of the streets have names and none of the houses have numbers. The “supermarket”
far more resembles a general store from the Wild West than my beloved
Supermaxi. You will find no linoleum floors or fluorescent lights or shiny
new products in gleaming aisles here. It is a rarity to see a new car and
instead beaten pickups and rusted taxis crawl along the bumpy roads. The
majority of the people walk (as do I) and I watch them as we pass each other on
the road—a boy aimlessly kicking a plastic bottle along the gutter, a woman
gracefully balancing a plastic basin on her head as she pulls along her little
girl, a family going “in to town” to buy an ice cream.
When I was in Ibarra it was easy to forget that I was
living in a third world country. There were enough conveniences and amenities
that I felt there was little lacking to maintain the lifestyle I was accustomed
to. Here, it is not.
Each morning when I step out the door I
am reminded again of the vast discrepancy between life here and life at home. And
it’s the little things, like not being able to find a bath towel to purchase (I
ended up having to get one from a shop that sells second-hand items brought
from America), or waiting on the cement tub behind the house to fill with water
so I can shower and wash the dishes that gives me pause. That makes me wonder
about the seeming excess I’m used to. And it’s the larger things, like hearing
my well-dressed, educated co-worker tell me in near perfect English how he has tried twice to
illegally enter the U.S. because he knows he will never receive a visa, or how
his neighbor lost both of his legs in his own attempt to cross the Mexican
border, that jars me so hard my teeth hurt
and I feel the gap between me and my home country widen ever so slightly.
And then--then there are the insects…
Everyone who knows me knows that my relationship with
insects is a precarious one. I’ll willingly admit that I’m one of those people
who makes decisions about where to travel solely based on what type and how
many insects I may encounter.
I knew heading to the tropical climate of Honduras would
test my courage and resolve, but I was secretly hoping I would somehow find a
way to avoid the unpleasantness.
HA!
Each morning I wake to giant cockroaches lazing about my
kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. My fly swatter rarely leaves my hand and when it
does it’s usually within arm’s reach. (I’m drawing up plans at the moment for a
fly swatter holster.) Nearly every ceiling corner is home to an arachnid and I've
yet to identify the minuscule insects which seem to always be present in my
kitchen cabinets. It seems every time I enter a room there’s already a “somebody”
in there waiting to greet me.
I've been proactive, of course. I spent this first week
cleaning the house from top to bottom (got rid of most of those pesky spiders—take
that!) and Raid-ing nearly every square inch of the house. At night, I ensure
there is not a crumb to be found so I have less overnight guests. And I silently
give myself pep-talks and send up desperate prayers throughout the day for the
strength to fight my enemies.
The hope is that my fear of bugs will lessen as I
gradually adapt to my new surroundings and come to terms with the fact that I’ll never truly be
alone at home.
Before I wrap up this entry though, I thought I’d leave you all with one
funny anecdote from my war on creepy-crawlies this week.
My scariest (and most embarrassing) experience thus far
(not counting the morning I found not one, but TWO giant roaches IN MY ROOM!)
was when I realized my house was also home to a gecko. I had spotted it earlier
in the day when it scurried behind the TV in the sitting room and was aghast
when a pale translucent body about 5 inches long and a pair of beady black eyes
peered back at me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch it (and had no desire to
touch it anyway) so I fled the room and hoped that it would find its way out on
its own.
Fast forward several hours. I was braiding my hair before
bed and happened to get some hair oil on my jeans. Since they were new, I immediately
took them off to scrub the spot in the sink and decided since there was no one
else in the house I would just stay in my t-shirt and underwear until I went to
shower.
A little while later, I grabbed my towel and headed to the master bedroom to do just that. As I passed through the doorway and flicked on the light, I noticed a quick movement on the wall to the left of me. There in
plain sight was the gecko!
I stood frozen in the doorway for a moment--locked in its cold, reptilian gaze--and then instinct
kicked in and my first reaction was to run get the can of Raid. I had no
intention of spraying it, but I thought if I made some noise it might
get him to relocate to another room (or better yet, back outside). So there I stood,
in my underwear, tapping frantically on the wall with a can of Raid, with a look of pure
terror on my face when I realized—I had left the curtains open! Thanks to the
narrow streets and the houses built right on top of each other, any neighbor with a good pair of eyes could see right into the bedroom where the crazy, pantless gringa was
mumbling words of courage to herself and beating some strange metal object
against the wall.
Needless to say, I immediately hit the light switch and ducked around the wall into the darkened sitting room. (sigh) Well, at least I’ll be keeping the gossip mill briskly
turning for the next week or so…
I’ve had quite a few requests for pictures but
unfortunately I don’t have any yet to share with you guys. I’m trying to think
of the least awkward way to go around El Paraiso taking pictures—hopefully I’ll
have some soon. However, I will be posting a video of my newest home away from
home so do keep an eye out for that. And I’ll also be posting more information about
Eagle’s Crib and what myself and the other teachers have been up to this past week.
Time to hop on a plane and head to yet another undiscovered corner of the world.
I must say, no matter how many times I do this, I'm always greeted by that familiar mix of fear and excitement as I zip closed that last suitcase and head to the airport.
I keep thinking that at some point that twinge of homesickness will fade. Or that heading off into the unknown will somehow lose its intoxicating pull. And time and again I'm proven wrong.
I hope that never changes.
I always want to love my family and home deeply enough that I'm sad to leave them. And I always want the hope for what's on the horizon to keep pulling me forward.
Now, I may be watching too much Downton Abbey or reading entirely too much historical fiction, but every now then as I step foot into the airport, I imagine myself to be some plucky 19th century heroine. (You know the ones I mean--we all spent countless hours reading about them in our high school English classes...or in SparkNotes.)
I imagine us on our parallel journeys, separated only by the years. There she stands in her traveling best, anxiously awaiting her future. There I stand hoping I got my flight times right. She, with her worn leather suitcase in hand; me, with my bright turquoise backpack and guitar. She goes off to board her carriage or steamship or train and I slip into my economy class plane seat and pray for sleep. And then we are both whisked away to a world we've never known, where we will encounter curious people and adopt new customs and feel entirely overwhelmed with the strangeness of it all, and sometimes wish that we had just stayed at home. But somehow, in the end, we will find that we've formed an unexpected bond with our new home away from home and will return (or not) a person at once the same and different.
Sometimes, I imagine that.
Strangely enough, my overactive imagination helps to quiet some of those needling fears that tell me I'm crazy for heading off alone to the sixth poorest country in Latin America. One that, according to the UN Office on Drugs and Crime, has the highest homicide rate in the world. Thinking of all of the uncertainties that young women, both real and fictional, have faced as they've set out to fulfill their own calling, gives me a sense of peace as I set out to follow my own.
There's so much I'm looking forward to this year--continuing to learn Spanish, exploring a brand new country, trying my hand at teaching something other than English. I know that, as with each time before, my experience this year will not consist of the things I have planned for, but all of those things that I will have neither expected nor anticipated. Those are the stories and memories I'll bring home with me (and which will make up the content of my blog entries).
You move to a new country for a year and think you've got all the time in the world to do everything it is that you want to do. So the year passes and you travel and eat strange things and meet new people and think that you are going to do everything it is that you want to.
And maybe you do.
But somehow, when you get to those last 48 or 24 hours in-country and you're literally hours away from boarding a plane, you stop and think: "Wait! I'm not ready!" Somehow there just wasn't enough to time to take that one trip to that one place that you always wanted to visit but kept putting it off because you had "so much time." Or you weren't able to visit that one cafe with the really good dish that you just had to eat one last time because you know you'll never find that food in your hometown. Or you didn't get the chance to take that one last walk around your neighborhood and etch every detail onto your brain in indelible ink.
When it comes down to it, you're never completely ready to say good-bye.
This year in Ecuador can't be summed up in a blog post so I'm not even going to attempt it. I've had the opportunity to see and experience so many amazing things this year and this list only just begins to touch on them:
I've climbed one volcano and biked down another.
I've eaten guinea pig and cow tongue and cow belly (Not stomach. Belly.).
I've visited the middle of the world.
I've canyoned down a waterfall.
I've experienced my first earthquake.
I've been stranded at a gas station in the middle of Ecuador and lived to tell the tale.
I've become (fairly) conversational in Spanish.
I've fallen in love with my students.
And my host family.
And Ecuador.
Hopefully, the culmination of all of my posts and videos and pictures over this year have painted a fairly complete picture of how this year has affected me. But even I know that I won't fully realize exactly what this year has meant to me until weeks, months, or even years later.
I don't know when I'll be back. I don't know if I'll see my students again. I may never know if Ana really did become a doctor or if Miguel and Bryan became soldiers. I don't know when I'll see my host family again or if the Ibarra I left will be the same one I someday return to.
But I do know that Ecuador has left it's mark on me. In little ways--like my newfound love of fritada. And in much larger ways--like teaching me what it means to live like a Latina.
This year is only the second time in my life that I've missed out on Thanksgiving in the states. In spite of my travels, somehow I've almost always managed to make it back home for this holiday.
When I applied to the WorldTeach program I knew that based on the length of my stay in Ecuador (and my small stipend amount) that I wouldn't be able to swing a trip home for Thanksgiving. It didn't seem like a huge inconvenience at the time because, honestly, who's thinking about turkey in the middle of February?
But as the months passed, and November grew closer, and my friends and family at home began chatting about Thanksgiving plans, and my Facebook news feed started to blow up with all things Thanksgiving, I began to feel that little twinge of homesickness. After all, what was I going to be doing for Thanksgiving? Turkeys are insanely expensive here (no, turkeys are not native to Ecuador, who knew?), I didn't know any gringos in Ibarra who might just happen to be whipping up a Thanksgiving meal, and I was skeptical about the possibility of streaming the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade live from NY to Ecuador.
Well, lucky for me, as part of the WorldTeach program, we are required to have an End of Service conference to wrap up our experience in Ecuador and prepare us for whatever may come after. And, luckier for me, that conference happened to land right on the fourth Thursday of November. Suddenly, I had not only one, but nine other gringos to celebrate with. And most of us could cook!
It didn't take long for all of us to realize what this meant. We were going to attempt our very own Thanksgiving meal right in the heart of Ecuador! The owners of the hostel we were camped out at were kind enough to give us free reign over the kitchen and with a little ingenuity, some hastily printed recipes, and a few crazy hours in the kitchen, we ended up with a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner.
One of the host moms in Quito cooked us a lovely turkey and delicious homemade gravy, and between the nine of us volunteers we ended up with a complete spread of: mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, soup, salad, Carolina ale, rice pudding, apple crisp, and ice cream. And since we made enough to feed a small Ecuadorian army, we even had the traditional Thanksgiving leftovers (complete with turkey sandwiches) which were thoroughly demolished the following day.
I just want to say a huge thank you to our director, CJ, and to my wonderful group of fellow volunteers who made this Thanksgiving one of the most memorable I've ever had. As always I have so much to be grateful for and this year you are all at the very top of my list!
I hope that everyone back home in the states had a beautiful Thanksgiving as well and I look forward to sharing an equally beautiful Christmas with you!
"Que las almas de los fieles difuntos por la misericordia de Dios descansen en paz." (May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.)
Today is Dia de los Difuntos.
Today we remember the dead.
Most of what I know about this holiday comes from what I learned in my high school Spanish class. All I remember was pictures of brightly painted skulls being paraded through crowded streets and somehow coming away with the impression that this holiday was basically the Latin American version of Halloween.
Today, I realized it most certainly isn't.
After lunch, my host sister encouraged me to take a walk in the cemetery near our house. She wanted me to witness for myself the customs associated with this day. I had already sampled my host mom's colada morada and guagua de pan, the traditional food and drink eaten on Dia de los Difuntos, so I was interested to see what actually happens.
I thought it might rain so I took my umbrella. I knew the minute I stepped out onto the sidewalk that something special was happening today. Normally Ibarra is quiet on the weekends. People are home with their families are out at the lake. But today, everywhere I turned there was a cluster of people slowly making their way to or from the cemetery.
As I made the turn onto the street that the cemetery is located on, the trickle of people turned into a flood. Suddenly there was no room. Every available space on the sidewalk was crammed with shifting bodies or eager vendors. I ditched the sidewalk for the side of the road, willing myself not to flinch as the buses and taxis passed less than an arm's length away from me. But at least I could breathe. And walk at a normal pace.
The entrance to the cemetery was flanked on either side by even more vendors. I paused for a moment to examine their wares. Garish purple, black and silver wreaths made from tinsel and gift bows framed the stalls. Fake flowers in every shade of neon glared from tiny glass vases. Small prayer cards stamped with images of Jesus and the saints and trimmed with lace tumbled out of plastic containers. Every now and again, I would catch sight of someone selling fresh flowers and their soothing, organic colors brought a small sense of tranquility to the chaos.
Then the crowd surged behind me and I found myself inside of el Cementerio San Miguel de Ibarra.
I'd never visited an Ecuadorian cemetery before. I'd walked past this cemetery many times but never had any reason to enter. The first thing I noticed was that the stone wall to my left was actually full of coffins. Instead of rows of headstones laid out on grassy knolls, the interred had been placed in holes in the wall. The opening to those slots which had been "filled" had a panel of glass placed over them to seal them off and stated the name and year of birth and death of the person.
I watched as the family members of the deceased carefully placed the oh-so-recently purchased wreaths and flowers on the ledges in front of the glass. Others stood quietly looking on. Possibly saying a prayer or meticulously coaxing old memories from their forgotten corners.
But those moments, those moments of quiet reflection and prayerful mediation, were actually few to be had. As I wandered further into the maze of crypts and crosses and shrubbery, the spirit of the cemetery took on a livelier air. Children recklessly chased each other around headstones (I found headstones--some of the deceased were buried in the ground). A few of the wilier vendors had slipped inside and were loudly advertising their cold beverages. Adolescents lounged carelessly against the stone crosses while they chatted with their friends. It seemed I had found myself in the middle of a neighborhood block party, not a cemetery supposed to be full of thoughtful remembrances.
But my surprise and slight annoyance at the lack of decorum quickly gave way to an overwhelming sense of joy. Yes, today is meant to remember loved ones lost, but it's also a day to celebrate loved ones living. There in that cemetery couples young and old were walking arm in arm, neighbors were catching up on news, grandparents gently rocked their grandchildren on stone benches in the shade of the trees. Life in all of its beautiful stages was here, too.
I kept walking.
I found myself in front of a large family crypt. It was made of intricately carved stone and the inside was lined with polished tiles. On the ledges, vases brimmed with freshly picked flowers. I had passed many of these crypts as I strolled through the grounds. Each was meticulously kept up. Some were even built with glass walls or had small chandeliers hanging inside.
But the door to this crypt was open and on the stairs leading down into the crypt sat an old woman. Her skin was little more than crumpled tissue paper and her small form had been slowly pressed into a gentle curve over the years. On her lap rested an open Bible. There she sat, lips slowly tracing each vowel and consonant, as she read aloud to her husband? Her son? Her sister?
My fingers ached to take a picture. I wanted to somehow capture that second's breath between life and death. For there she sat, literally and figuratively, on death's doorstep, remembering those gone before and, perhaps, considering her own mortality. I wanted to capture her serenity. For even though she sat so close to eternity, I could feel her sense of peace radiating through the tiny doorway.
She stayed with me as I meandered to the exit and slowly extricated myself from the crushing throng. I thought of her as the crowds thinned and the streets grew quiet. Her small form sat quietly hunched in my mind's eye as I found myself back on my very own doorstep.
There she sat. Her lips slowly tracing each vowel and consonant with each breath in. And out.
In Ecuador, it's just another day. The end of yet another month.
In America, well, we all know what goes down.
Personally, I don't really celebrate Halloween and have never understood the hype. BUT, the director of our school explained that since Halloween is a hugely popular American tradition and since part of our role at CECAMI is to share our culture, she wanted Ashley and I to host Halloween parties in our classes.
I had no idea what sort of reaction to expect from my students. Halloween is not a thing in Ecuador by any means and I just kept imagining the whole thing going south quickly.
To "encourage" my students to participate and come to class in costumes, I promised 5 extra points on their final exam.
It's truly wondrous what bonus points can do to a person. At 8am on Monday morning, I was greeted by the following sight:
I was completely taken aback by the lengths my student went to for an 1 1/2 hour Halloween party at their supplemental English class. I honestly think some of my students spent more time on their makeup than the actual length of the party!
If you would like to see pictures of myself and Ashley in our costumes along with pictures from our Halloween scavenger hunt and the afternoon class' costumes, just click here!
Yes, I'm back with another 'adventure' blog for your reading enjoyment.
This time I left the 150 foot waterfalls of Baños behind and headed three hours south to take a bike ride down one of the world's highest active volcanoes, Cotopaxi.
A trip to Cotopaxi had been in the works for awhile, but after the struggles of climbing Pichincha, I was certain that I did not want to climb it. Not only is it higher than Pichincha, it's also colder and snow-capped. Each time I saw it's white, frosty top glinting in the sunlight, all I could envision was my colorless fingers and the painful hours I spent on top of Pichincha.
I wasn't sure what else could be done on or near a volcano aside from climbing it, so when I discovered it was possible to bike down Cotopaxi, I was all in. I would get to be right on the volcano without having to commit to the brutally cold ascent to its peak. (My fingers silently rejoiced.)
Of course I immediately invited the other Ibarra volunteer, Ashley, to join me and from there our group swiftly grew to include her boyfriend and four other volunteers from the September group. Suddenly, I was planning a group event!
My Type-A side stepped in and did its thing and I managed to get the tour booked, a hostel reserved and everyone coordinated (including a few last-minute additions and drop-outs) to be at our meeting point in Quito on Saturday, October 26th at 7am on the dot.
My biggest fear for the whole trip was the weather. Nothing would be more miserable than biking down a mountain in the pouring rain. Since I had organized the whole event, I felt partially responsible for everyone's enjoyment. If it rained the entire time and everyone was miserable, it was going to be an awkward bus ride home. (If they even let me ride inside.) So when I woke up Saturday morning to mainly blue skies, I was hugely relieved to say the least. The day was off to a great start.
We met up with the rest of the tour group at a cafe a few blocks from our hostel. There we met Fernando, our slightly-too-energetic-for-7am tour guide. (Although, I guess a guy who bikes down volcanoes for a living does need a certain amount of va-voom.) The rest of our group consisted mainly of German tourists (obviously) and some guys from Holland.
As we all said our "hellos," I surreptitiously checked them all out. Was that the slight bulge of a well-toned calf muscle under those capris? Were those custom-made biking shoes? I couldn't help it. My competitive side kicked in and I wanted to know just how ridiculous and out of shape I was going to look next to these rugged, wilderness junkies.
Because our group was rather large (I think there were 13 of us?) we were split into two jeeps to make the 1 1/2 hour trek to Cotopaxi. Thankfully, I ended up with the girls from our WorldTeach group so I didn't spend the entire trip eyeballing bicep circumferences.
Cotopaxi isn't just an active volcano. It's also a 130 square mile national park that has its own museum, and is home to Limpiopungo Lagoon, three other volcanoes and a host of wild animals including bears, deer, condors, foxes, and wild horses. We stopped at the entrance of the park to register (its required) and were told that these were the last bathrooms we would see until late in the afternoon. We were also encouraged to take advantage of the warm wool accessories for sale if we had failed to bring our own hats, gloves, and scarves. I had brought gloves and was wearing two jackets, a long-sleeved tee, a short-sleeved tee, leggings and shorts. After Pichincha, I was leaving nothing to chance. Or so I thought...
The minute we stepped out of the jeep at the starting point of the ride I immediately wished I had worn six more layers. The gentle breeze that had been blowing at the park entrance had turned into an icy, gale-force wind that could have easily knocked over a small child. (Or a balance-challenged, 5'9" gringa. Just sayin'...)
The need to look cute was instantly replaced by the instinct to survive. On went the gloves, up went the zippers on my jackets, down went the leggings into my socks, and over went the hood on my head. Aside from my face, there was not a speck of bare skin to be seen. (see pic below)
Now that I was as properly attired as was possible, all I wanted to do was hop on a bike and get to a lower altitude as soon as possible. Fernando quickly reviewed the basics of using a 21 speed, told us that each bike had been set to 2nd gear, and that we shouldn't mess with gears 1-3 on the left handlebar at all. If we needed to shift up or down, we were told to just use gears 1-7 on the right handlebar. (Don't forget this little tidbit, it factors into the story later.)
And then we were off. I honestly don't know what I was expecting. I had never been downhill biking before but somehow being blown back and forth on a 60 degree angle trail consisting solely of sand and gravel on a frighteningly insubstantial bike was not what I had anticipated. If you loosened your grip on the handbrakes just the tiniest bit, your bike instantly started racing down the mountainside at an alarming rate. And seeing as there was a hairpin curve every few meters, my hands never left their deathgrip on the brakes.
Keep in mind that those gale-force winds were still doing their thing this entire time. This mean that 1) my already precarious balance was made even precarious-er and that 2) after about 1-2km I had lost all feeling in my hands. (Sound familiar? Keep in mind I had two pairs of gloves on.)
I decided that saving my fingers was far more important than maintaining my pride so I waited for the jeeps (who were following us) and decided to ride inside for the remaining 4-ish kilometers to the next meeting point. Clearly, I wasn't the only one having issues. As soon as the other WT girls saw that I was ditching my bike for the heated jeep, they quickly hopped off their bikes too and joined me. Apparently, none of them could feel their fingers either. I can only imagine how many fingers would have been left along the Cotopaxi trail if none of us had admitted that we were having trouble.
It's amazing what a difference 6km made. By the time we reached the next meeting point, the temperature had drastically increased and the wind had drastically decreased. Now I was ready to hit the trail! I hopped back on my bike and set off at the front of the group (I had to regain just a little bit of my pride).
Since I was finally biking in earnest, I realized that I needed to adjust my gears. Following Fernando's instructions, I left my left gearshift alone and started clicking my right gearshift. Nothing. I clicked up. I clicked down. Still nothing. Great, I thought. Typical non-functioning Ecua-bike. I should have known.
I was clearly distracted while I fiddled with my "broken" gearshift. We were still headed downhill (though at a lesser incline) so I was going at a fairly brisk pace and the path was still littered with rocks, holes and patches of sand. I kept looking up, down, up, down, trying to check my chain while also avoiding any hazardous obstacles.
What happened next was so quick that I'm still not entirely sure what happened. One minute I was on my bike. The next, I wasn't. I vaguely remember swerving to avoid something. Perhaps a rock? And then my right side was slamming into the ground and my bike was on top of me.
I think I was more startled than hurt. (Aaand there went that pride again. I couldn't seem to hang onto the tiniest shred of dignity that day.) The bikers behind me jerked to a halt and wanted to know if I was okay and was anything broken? I jumped up as quickly as I had fallen and brushed off their concern. I was fine, just a little shaken up and annoyed that my bike was not working.
Back on the bike I went and we were off once again. At the next meeting point, I looked down and saw this:
Apparently, I had gotten a bit more beat up than I had thought. (The rest of the day I just kept discovering additional cuts and bruises and then realized there were even more once I stepped into a hot shower. Ouch!)
Once I had caught up with Fernando, I immediately pointed out that my bike gears were not working properly. After a thoroughly demeaning speech on How One Uses a 21 Speed Bike (Revised for Slower Learners), I patiently explained that I understood the concept and had used 21 speed bikes before.
You want to know what the problem was? My bike had been left in 1st gear (it somehow was skipped during the bike check) and so, of course, gears 1-7 were not working! And since the numbers were missing from the gearshifts (again, typical Ecua-bike) I had no way of knowing what gear I was or was not in.
Well, after that little issue was resolved, the rest of the day was simply beautiful. I couldn't get enough of the insane vistas that surrounded us on all sides. One minute I felt as though I was on the wide open plains of Montana (it has plains, right?), the next on the wild tundras of Alaska, and then the rolling hillsides of some quaint European country. With every dip and curve in the road an entirely new scene rolled itself out before me.
There was also lots of wildlife, just as the website had promised.
I don't know that this little guy counts as "wildlife" per se,
but he was cute and deserved a picture too.
My sole frustration was that because of the often treacherous terrain I had to spend entirely too much time watching the road instead of gawking at my surroundings. I did take quite a few pit stops, however, to take pictures and video.
And Fernando also picked a great lunch spot for taking photos. We stopped to eat at the Inca ruins and after a short uphill hike we found ourselves on top of a massive hill overlooking miles and miles of the Cotopaxi park.
After lunch and a quick bathroom break (behind the jeep...take that, rugged wilderness junkies!) we got back on our bikes for the last 13 kilometers. The rest of the bike trip continued to be spectacular (and injury-free) and, before I was ready, it was time to pack up the bikes and head back to Quito.
I know I've gone on about this before, but the natural diversity here in Ecuador is unbelievable. In just a few hours you can go from beaches to volcanoes and from mountains to the Amazon. And if that's not enough, you can always hop a plane to the Galapagos and be awed all over again. Every time I think that Ecuador can't surprise me any further, it just whips out another natural wonder from behind its back and floors me once again.
So since I posted a vlog entry to mark my two month "anniversary" at the beginning of my year, I thought it only fitting to post another vlog to mark the last two months. Can you believe it's almost over?!
I played around with the editing a bit on this vlog so let me know in the comments below what you thought. :)
Since August, I've been steadily checking off my list of Places to Go in Ecuador. With only a little under 3 months left until I'm back stateside, I've been trying my best to hit all of the Ecuadorian hotspots my budget will allow for.
After my trip to the coast and Cuenca, the only other city I really wanted to visit was Baños. (I'd love to see the rainforest before I leave, too, but I'm not sure I can make my money stretch that far...)
Katelyn and Susannah had come up to Ibarra from Quito on Tuesday and on Thursday night the three of us set out to Baños. The plan was to spend the night in Quito and get an early start the next morning. We were hoping to get a full two days of activities in before I had to head back to Ibarra on Sunday.
As usual, however, Ecuador had other plans. Friday morning I woke up at the hostal feeling ill. It was the usual nausea/upset stomach deal that has become just as much a part of my Ecuador experience as the never-ending rice and towering volcanoes.
I automatically ran through the list of things I had eaten the previous day and whether or not I had swallowed an inordinate amount of Quito water while brushing my teeth. I came up clear on both accounts. I decided to see if some tea might settle my stomach and went to the breakfast room with Katelyn. I whipped up a cup of black tea while Katelyn kindly made me some toast. Unfortunately, whatever devious organisms were attacking my insides thoroughly enjoyed the tea (they were undoubtedly British parasites) and I immediately felt worse.
The European girl who happened to be sharing our breakfast table took pity on the now clammy and moaning American girl and fetched a bottle of some foul-smelling herbal remedy from her bag. The Tresuberfguten (I have no idea what it was called but from the letters I could make out, I'm sure it was something close to that) tasted as bad as it smelled and my first reaction was to run to the bathroom and dry heave. But, after a brief thirty minute rest I felt (mostly) healthy and I told the girls I was road-worthy.
Unlike the painfully long bus trips I took in August, our ride to Baños was a pleasant 3.5 hours. The short distance and having two travel companions to accompany me made all the difference.
After checking into our hostal, we grabbed lunch and took a walking tour of the town. Baños is tiny but insanely picturesque. Of all of the places I've visited so far, Baños is my hands-down favorite simply because of its sheer natural beauty.
Like Ibarra, Baños is surrounded on all sides by mountains. But because Baños is significantly smaller than Ibarra, that feeling of being completely walled off from the outside world is much stronger. And because of its proximity to the mountains, they somehow seem steeper. I felt as though I had been dropped into a valley in the Swiss Alps and half expected Heidi to come barreling down the mountainside in search of Grandfather.
View from the rooftop cafe at our hostal
Our wanderings brought us to the base of a beautiful waterfall several blocks from our hostal named Cascada de La Virgen (waterfall of the Virgin). The Virgin Mary is said to have appeared here years ago and since then people have flocked to Baños to pay homage to her, thank her for her miracles, and ask for a blessing.This legend, along with the famous hydrothermal springs in Baños, is where Baños derives its full name, Baños de Agua Santa (baths of sacred water).
Cascada de La Virgen
Manantial de La Virgen de Agua Santa (Spring of the Virgin of the Sacred Water)
Because of its natural beauty and plentiful waterfalls (more than 60!), Baños is also extremely popular with the adventure sport crowd. Just walking down the short street in front of our hostal, we were offered opportunities to go rafting, canyoning, horseback riding, bungee jumping, four-wheeling, kayaking, and pretty much any other verb ending in "-ing." After perusing our options, we settled on going canyoning the following morning (which, according to Wikipedia is a blending of "walking, scrambling, climbing, jumping, rappelling, and/or swimming"--sounds like my walk to school every morning...).
We ate dinner at Casa Hood, a restaurant that Annie had recommended and that is highly popular with the gringo crowd. In fact, aside from "Gringolandia" in Quito and the weekend market at Otovalo, I don't think I'd ever seen so many gringos in one place until I arrived in Baños. I'm fairly certain that the gringo/Ecuadorian ratio was largely in our favor. (Especially since Baños only has a population of about 10,000.)
It's always interesting meeting other gringos who are here for a few days or weeks visiting "our" country. I know I'm just as gringo as they are (and that my love for peanut butter runs just as deep), but somehow there exists a distinction between them, the tourists, and us, the temporary ex-pats. They're here for the frills and thrills and we're in it for the long haul--the good, the bad, and the parasites.
Our canyoning group left at 10am the next morning. Phil had arrived in Baños late the previous night and joined Katelyn and I. We were given wetsuits, shoes, harnesses, and helmets and then piled into the back of a pickup for the 10 minute ride up the mountain.
Don't let those smiles fool you. Those wetsuits were HOT!
The plan was to spend the morning canyoning down the lower half of a waterfall. I wasn't sure what to expect seeing as I had no previous canyoning experience. I had rappelled before, though, and was hoping that the majority of the day would involve that. My hopes increased when we spent the first 15 minutes at the site being led through a tutorial on how to rappel correctly. The tour guide, Nacho, (yes, Nacho) even called on me, the "sexy chica," to help demonstrate some of the techniques. (He proceeded to call me that for the rest of the tour and by the end of the morning I had somehow become his "wife." Fret not, this is quite typical Ecua-banter for men here.)
The first section of the waterfall was small and relatively easy to navigate. Because we were such a large group, they hooked up two sets of ropes so that two people could rappel down simultaneously. Thankfully, I ended up on the rope that canvassed the rock wall beside the waterfall and was not in the waterfall itself.
Makin' it look easy
After a short hike further down the waterfall, we reached the next section we were going to canyon. I thought the procedure was going to be much like the first section. But this time, instead of rappelling down, we were hooked together in pairs and slid down the fall much like a waterslide. As nice as the water looked and as much fun as riding a waterfall sounded, all I could think of was my poor bottom bouncing over the rocks that were surely hiding underneath the rushing water. Katelyn and I were the second group to go, though, so I didn't have much time to contemplate my soon-to-be bruised backside. Apparently, Phil had had the same thought and told me to signal him when we reached the bottom to indicate just how painful the ride was.
Riding the waterfall!
My fears were unfounded. As soon as we had situated ourselves at the top of the fall and leaned backwards like Nacho instructed, we were instantly swept away by the force of thousands of gallons of water pushing against us. I'm not sure my butt ever even touched the bottom.
After completing the second fall, we only had one left to go. It was the biggest of all three and consisted of a straight forty-five meter, ninety degree drop. Of course, at that time we had no idea what was waiting over the lip of the fall and assumed that we would be rappeling down it much like we had the first one.
When it was my turn, I cautiously made my way down to the edge of the fall (still couldn't see what was down there) and allowed Patricio (the other guide) to hook me up to the rope that would take me to the bottom. Before descending, he asked me to lean backwards out over the waterfall and extend my arms so they could take my picture. At first, I flat out refused. My hands had clamped down on the rope in an iron death grip and I wasn't sure I could open them even if I wanted to. Besides, the rock edge that I was precariously balanced on was slick with water and there was literally nothing beneath me. Eventually they coaxed me into the following pose:
That face. It says it all.
As soon as the shutter snapped, my hands flew right back to the rope and I held on for dear life. I still thought I was going to be rappelling down at this point and began to slowly inch my way down what was left of the ledge. Patricio kept on telling me to "walk, walk!" and I remember thinking, "there's no more rock for me to walk on!" But I tried. I kept "walk, walking" right up until the point Patricio let go of the rope and I free-fell 150 feet.
Katelyn, who had been standing next to me on the ledge, told me afterwards that she had turned away for a moment and when she turned back all she saw was an empty space where I had been standing and my fading screams as I fell down the waterfall. She, too, had been expecting to rappel slowly down and when she saw what had just happened, she knew why we had been told we would be "given further instructions" about our descent when we got to the ledge.
So our entire canyoning experience ended with an adrenaline rush of the highest order. One by one, the tour guides unceremoniously dropped us off the side of a 150 foot waterfall without so much as a "hold tight!" And it was awesome!! I pretty sure I sprained a vocal chord with all of my screaming but when I reached the bottom, part of me was tempted to sprint back up there and give it another go. (And this is coming from a girl who is terrified of heights.)
After canyoning, I was sure that aside from bridge-jumping there weren't any other adventure sports that would match the thrill of canyoning down a waterfall. We were going go-karting that afternoon and while I was excited, the life-and-death, cliff-hanging peril was lacking. Or so I thought.
We hopped in our karts and cruised around the downtown for a bit and then decided to head outside of the city to check out some of the other waterfalls. After passing a lot of signs promising beautiful vistas and hiking trails, but not seeing any marked turn-offs, we decided to turn around and try our luck on the other side of Baños.
We pulled into the parking lot of a small tienda that was situated on the edge of a sharp curve in the road. The steering on the karts left much to be desired (and we couldn't figure out how to reverse--I have sneaking suspicion it wasn't equipped with that function) so after much pushing and pulling we were finally able to get ourselves facing the way which we had come. Phil began to pull out into the middle of the road and instead of turning left, the go kart stalled and continued to roll straight across the road into the ditch. Katelyn and Susannah, who were following closely in the kart behind us, were now straddling the double yellow line and we were perched half-on, half-off the road with a dead kart.
We all had the same thought simultaneously and turned in horror to look at the sharp turn in the road where some car, truck or bus at 50+ MPH was sure to come whipping around at any second and scatter us to oblivion. And there we were. Dead in the road with a go-kart that wouldn't start and couldn't make a left turn.
Sure enough, seconds after we had gotten ourselves stuck, a silver car came blasting around the curve straight at us. He swerved at the last possible minute and instead of killing us just fixed us with a contemptuous stare and roared on. The owner of the tienda, seeing that the deaths of four gringos was imminent and that the ensuing accident would block the road and potential customers, kindly ran up the road a little ways ahead of us in an attempt to warn oncoming traffic.
Meanwhile, Phil, Katelyn, Susannah, and I scrambled to get the kart back on the road and the engine running. With all of us working, we were able to get ourselves situated and safely back on course within the next thirty seconds. I realized that the little orange button on the dashboard was the starter and with a push of my finger we took off again, shaking and laughing hysterically.
We never did find any waterfalls, but the go-karting met my quota for near-death experiences for the day and I was satisfied to spend the rest of the evening relaxing on the roof and enjoying a delicious pasta dinner.
Sunday Phil and I had to head back to our respective cities since we had to teach Monday morning. I wanted to get in one final activity though before calling it quits. Right after breakfast (it only cost us $1.50!), Katelyn and I rented a pair of bikes and decided to take another shot at finding one of those sixty waterfalls.
This time we headed out of the city in the opposite direction and after a few miles (and one insanely steep hill) we found not one, but two, beautiful waterfalls. And there, rising majestically over both of them, was Tungurahua, the very active volcano that has forced the citizens of Baños to evacuate on more than one occasion.
I was awestruck. It was another clear day and the stark, snow-capped top of Tungurahua stood out sharply against the painfully blue sky. It's streaked, gray sides towered over the now innocuous-looking mountains like some dormant stone titan. The thought that it could start spewing lava and ash at any moment only made it seem that much more menacing. And tantalizing. It drew me in much in the same way as a caged lion or a monster twister. You know it's dangerous but you just can't help wanting to get closer. To try and touch it. I remember watching a movie about tornadoes when I was younger and deciding then and there that I wanted to become a storm chaser. What is it about objects of great power and magnitude that pulls us in in spite of the risk to ourselves?
Tungurahua in the distance
We biked back to the hostal just as Phil and Susannah were finishing up their breakfast. Susannah decided to join us for more biking and Phil decided to spend the morning doing his own type of adventure sporting, "terracing." This hugely popular sport counts among its enthusiasts aged Florida retirees and bikini-clad teenagers and involves spending hours laying out on lawn chairs on a terrace (or similar location).
Our second bike trip proved just as fruitful and this time we stumbled across a beautiful hiking trail along the river that runs beside Baños. We ditched our bikes and hiked down into the ravine that took us closer to the river and directly below the massive bridge that spanned it. (While we hiked, some poor soul jumped off of it (with a bungee cord) and I was grateful yet again that I had chosen not to go bridge jumping.) It was a short but scenic hike and the perfect way to wrap up my time in Baños.
At the beginning of our hike
The bridge jumper...I did not envy him
I went back to the hostal to collect my bags and Phil (exhausted from "terracing" no doubt) and soon we were on our way back to Quito.
I'm happy to say that the ride home was uneventful. I was not dropped off on the side of a road or stranded at a gas station and I did not wind up on a bus going in the opposite direction of Ibarra. All and all a very successful bus ride.
However, about 40 minutes outside of Ibarra, I looked out of my window and happened to see what appeared to be two lines of fire slowly inching their way down a darkened mountainside. My first instinct was "Ohmygosh!! A volcano has erupted! It's spewing lava! I wonder if Ibarra is being evacuated??" But as I looked around at the nonplussed expressions of my fellow passengers, I realized that it had to be something far less significant. (Or volcanic eruptions just really weren't that big of deal here: "What's going on, honey?" "Oh you know, Imbabura just erupted. Again. Could you pass me another Pilsener?") I knew that Ibarra was celebrating the beginning of its city festival that weekend but was lighting a mountain on fire really one of their traditions?
My question was answered the next day in Spanish class when I asked my teacher about it. Apparently due to the dry, windy summer we've been having, wild fires have become pretty frequent. My "volcanic explosion" was just another wild fire doing what wild fires do best: terrorizing unsuspecting, paranoia-prone gringas.
So. That was my amazing weekend in Baños. Incredible. Exhilarating. Achingly beautiful. If I can manage to make another trip back there before I leave, I most certainly will.
In the meantime, enjoy more photos from my trip here and click below to see some video footage from Baños.
