Begin Again Again

Fotos de la familia y las amigas

New beginnings never come without endings. Like saying good-bye to colleagues and friends after nearly three and a half years working in non-profit theater or to classmates after two years of vicariously reliving life in the Peace Corps (so many PCVs!!) to board a plane bound for El Mitad del Mundo—Ecuador.  Ecuador, which means equator in Spanish given its position on the hemispherical divider, is a tiny nation that packs a big ecological punch. Roughly the size of Nevada, the country has been designated as one of the world’s most “mega-diverse countries” for the sheer number of species and vast biodiversity it boasts. From the majestic Andes mountains to the jungles of the Amazon and the famed Galápagos Islands where Darwin perfected his theory of evolution chasing finches to the historic centers of Quito (la capital) and Cuenca, both UNESCO World Heritage Sites—it’s no wonder the official tourism slogan is All You Need is Ecuador.    

Colors of Quito

Right, but I digress-- beginning, ending, cycle of life. Every time I venture forth on another of these migrations, that is how I like to think of it. A series of firsts borne from a series of lasts—usually exciting, always enlightening, and most often rewarding beyond all. Every beginning needs an end, right? Then I suppose I should not have been surprised when I eagerly emailed my soon-to-be supervisor (the kind soul that had for more than a year agreed to take me under his wing to conduct my research) to notify him that I had arrived in Ecuador and was ready to report for work. Faster than the usual three-week lag between responses, he wrote back in a mere five days with one simple subject line: “renuncié al ACNUR.” In dramatic terms, he had renounced his position at the organization. In reality-check terms, he'd quit.

Iron-wrought fence in Gúapulo

Despite the rising panic in my throat and the sudden flit flutter of a terrified creature in the cavity where my heart had once been, I laughed. I laughed in that strange, maniacal, throw-your-head back type laughter that made me wonder whether I wouldn’t have scared small children or at the very least, should have sought psychiatric care. You see, at the moment I learned this news, I had just left the scholarship program office where I was informed that I had several more steps to becoming a legal temporary scholar resident of Ecuador, involving trips to government buildings that inevitably mean lines, lines, more lines, confusion, and a seemingly interminable amount of waiting. That day I had also returned to my hotel to find that an additional night’s stay was indeed impossible given that no room was disponible (available) due to a large group, which resulted in me trudging door to door to every hostel in the near vicinity (eight!) like Linus with his blankie trailing in the dirt (only my blankie was two 50-pound suitcases, a backpack with frightening amounts of loose cash and all my electronics, and the tote bag in which I’d thought prudent to lug the miniature library collection I was sure to need in Quito). The response I was given? Ah, well there’s no room in the inn or any inn—as one hostel owner put it— because of the Portuguese. No, there was no further explanation or clarification if the Portuguese meant a gaggle of unexpected tourists or a 16^th century invasion. I wasn't the least bit surprised ;)

Momentary anxiety beyond me, I smiled, dialed some numbers and resolved to find a home and a solution by day’s end. Shockingly, I was met with success on all fronts, thanks in part to caring individuals, quick thinking, and a bit o’ luck. Yet it’s moments like these that make you cringe a little to think of the bright eyes and bushy tail with which I’d hopped on a plane and left my friends, family, and support network behind. It’s moments like these when endings start to look more bitter than sweet and new beginnings make you want to curl into the fetal position.  But I knew when I bid farewell to loved ones Stateside I would eventually have to do the awkward dance of trying to make new friends in Quito and I was ready. In a way, it’s sort of like online dating, but in reverse.

New fruit! Tomate del árbol (Tree tomato) with sugar

You run into someone new through a program or workplace, find out their name, where they’re from, if they're vegetarian, and obviously their favorite ice cream. You ask for her or his number so, you know, you can hang out sometime. Nothing serious though. I mean you have no idea if you’re friend-patible or whatever so it’s no bigs. You proceed to search for them on whatever digital platform available—Facebook, Instagram, Linked In, good old Google stalking. Are they the one? Will they make your new life complete? Well you both like Harry Potter, but she’s a bit more outdoorsy and adventurous. (This probably leads to you eventually accepting an offer to go on a 10-mile hike, wheezing, panting, and struggling as you hoist what feels like a 30-pound Camelback backpack, slurping desperately at the straw squishy thing that reminds you too much of a teat). Or maybe he studied abroad in Spain like you, but really has a thing for sushi and wants to show you his favorite spot. (Maybe you secretly find the idea of raw fish formerly dangling on a hook and later dancing down your innards, repulsive, but somehow suck it up and gulp it down).

All in a day's grocery shopping

Friend-patibility is no joke. Sometimes, in cases of extreme desperation, you might knock on your new neighbors’ door (true story) because you overheard young women giggling and thought they must be the friendly types! You smooth your hair, put on a big smile, and wait with bated breath for the door to creak open, only to feel exceedingly unwelcome in front of your new vecinas (neighbors) who peer warily back wondering who you are and why you’re there interrupting their giggles. Moments later, you’re back in your apartment, door slammed shut, panting, and cursing your foolishness. Now you’ll never have new friends! Yes, these are some of the firsts in a new town, city, or country when you strike out all on your own.

And no new place would be complete without the slightly uncomfortable and wholly laughable first trip to the mercado (market) or supermercado (supermarket), if you’re lucky. As you wander aimlessly through the stalls or aisles of produce, exotic juices, hanging carcasses and choice selections of meat—roasted pigs, chicken heads and feet, cow tongue—looking for something least likely to cause the oft-lamented traveler’s sickness, but most likely to still count as sampling the local cuisine, you try to avoid the eyes of passersby and walk with purpose (though you have none since you’ve nowhere to be) to avoid detection as the interloper. Ah yes, cow intestines, precisely what I was searching for. Or, but of course I need another four rolls of lavender-scented papel higénico (toilet paper). You know, the basics.

Jenni and Juni, Companion Cacti

Dinner is served with apple crisp!

You drag your several bags of groceries home, determined to live like a local and skip the taxi (though you later learn that many locals would either drive a car, take that taxi, or at least show up with some family to help carry the load) and collapse barely inside. Firing up the gas oven for the first time, six to eight matchsticks and an hour later, your eyebrows are singed, the chicken’s half raw, and your kitchen is rapidly filling with smoke. You look at your tarnished clothes and smoke-smelling hair, yet shudder at the thought of washing in the ducha (shower) where a turn of one knob means scalding death, the turn of another, a frigid ice bath, and the turn of both, some horrible mixture that causes you to alternately bathe and flee in a trail of soap bubbles. Muscles aching from carrying the heavy load home, and equal parts fear of the gathering gray cloud in your kitchen as well as the horrors awaiting you in the bath, you sit exhausted and unsure of whether to cry or slip into the maniacal laughter once more. With a quick check at your Skype—yep, connection’s still on the fritz—your resolve begins to crumble. And it's raining. Doesn't it have to be raining? But there is a sudden knock at your door, two knocks in fact, and with a quick glance at your sole apartment companions—Jenni and Juni, the cacti—you cautiously approach. It’s your vecinas, the giggling gals you’d timidly introduced yourself to, and they come bearing a gift—homemade apple crisp!! Partially from exhaustion, partially from the gesture, with a slightly tearful thanks (don’t worry- the smoke’s too thick for anyone to see), you bid them good night and desperately dive into the bowl. Mmm, nothing says home and fall like warm apple crisp. Maybe knocking on doors isn't so awkward after all. :)

New beginnings are never easy and living in the developing world, even less so. Yet this is what makes them invigorating for a newcomer, the learning of a new place, new people, and a new culture as you go. Enervating though it may seem in the beginning, new beginnings and the endings that precede them are precisely what give me hope that the work I came to do has a purpose. International development is about change—changing behaviors, changing norms, challenging the status quo. Change requires endings, beginnings, and everything in between. So every time I begin again on each of these migrations, I’m hoping that I’m helping to bring some change to someone who needs it somewhere, and if that means frigid/scalding showers, smoky kitchens, and endearingly awkward encounters, then I’ll be at the ready to begin again again every time.

One of Quito's many mountainous valleys