Road Warrior

Moo milk in a bag

When you settle in a new place, there are a number of things you gradually become used to…or grow inured to as the case may be. Take bagged milk for example, one of the no fewer than thirty types lining the unpasteurized milk aisle from semi-creamed to full creamed to soy, oat, and de-lactosed. For the more adept, the carton-less liquid is much preferable. It’s contortable, packable, easily transportable. For the less inclined, however, the bloated liquid bags usually manage to leak or explode into some sort of a curiously cloudy puddle or mess resembling the hastily released contents of an infant’s stomach. That goes the same for mayo in a bag, BBQ sauce in a bag, juice in a bag, pretty much anything in a bag. It’s probably not hard to imagine which camp I fall into. And then there’s the anxiety-producing trip through the grocery store, cart full of a week’s worth of provisions, only to realize in dismay at the check-out line that no metal prams are permitted to leave the store. Yes, that’s right. Saddle up with your goods because Ecuador shan’t devolve into a country of runaway carts in the parking lot or six blocks away as the case might be at your local Giant or Piggly Wiggly. (Purposefully narrow check-out lanes aid this process with eager bag boys waiting on the other side to ferry your goods to the car or taxi; for a few monedas (coins) in exchange ;)). And of all the, ahem, culturally awakening experiences, who can forget racing into the stall of the public bathroom after paying your few centavos (cents) of course, only to realize that there's no tissue in the stall as some economizing Ecuadorian realized that keeping the roll outside of the individual stalls means faster tissue renewing process for janitors, sure embarrassment for the one person who surreptitiously rolls into the stall with a large wad in hand, and absolute frustration for the gringa who ends up in the stall less than thrilled at her gaffe. Hovering patiently, you sigh, smile, and just do a little jig. 

Getting the hang of the bag bag crew

With time, you learn to adapt, adjust, and relish in the changes (and challenges.) That goes for the day-to-day trials as well, be it weeks without internet (reason given: it’s winter so…ummm…yep) or nights without running water (someone cut your water; maybe your toilet leaks?), you start to make sense of it all.  At times, you might just even become a bit resourceful. You know, earrings in ice cube trays and sweater-wearing hot water bottles subbing for heaters on cold frigid nights. That sort of stuff.

But there are some differences that no matter the time, no matter the effort, you simply do not come around to appreciate or understand. In most countries I have been to, this almost always includes road travel. Though I have complained my fair share in the past about American drivers this and that, epithets depending on the city and state, nothing compares to the sheer recklessness on the road that is unfortunately prevalent in many developing countries from grand taxis in Morocco racing around every bend like it’s the Indy 500 to overnight buses in Vietnam bounding up and down hills in a parade of be-wheeled caravans traversing the country from tip to stern. I remember all too well, slamming on breaks at 3am en route to Dharamshala as a tour bus and tractor trailer collided on a slick and rainy road in India, and springing from the roof of a pick-up truck’s overhead luggage compartment shortly after midnight and a crash on the road to Mandalay in Burma. There’s no shortage of horrifying tales from road-faring travelers, day and night, and Ecuador is no exception.

Fuzzy sweater hot H20 bottle? Check. Ice cube jewelry tray? Check.

As a co-worker puts it, particularly during the feriados (holidays) (of which there is certainly no shortage), an alarming number of reports emerge regarding horrific multi-car pile-ups prominently featuring cross-country buses. The reasons behind the accidents are many and varied, ranging from dozing drivers and excessive speed to sharp turns and steep drops from the many curvaceous mountainside roads winding round the country. Though these accidents are in no way limited to long-haul buses alone—cars in Quito seem to take great relish in revving engines and gunning for stray pedestrians crossing the road—these long-distance carriers, most particularly at night, are among the most dangerous modes of transport. But without cross-country train routes or airline accessibility to many of Ecuador’s tiny picturesque pueblitos (little towns), there simply are not many other options. So you search among the safest carriers, reading reviews online and in the newspaper, or gradually ask around, buy your ticket, hold your breath, and pray for a speedy—yet safe—arrival.

UN Staff Retreat- stretching legs post bus ride!

At times, your fervent hopes are met with relative, if questionable, success. For example, boarding a nine hour overnight bus to Cuenca and arriving in seven and a half, the night spent peeking fearfully from behind the window curtains, dizzied and nauseous from the speed with which the bus overtook each new curve and turn along the way. There were definitely moments when I wasn’t too sure I wouldn’t peer out the window and see the Wicked Witch of the West speeding alongside us on her broom, that eerie daa dun daa dun daa daaaaa dun musical refrain playing on loop in my head. But we were among the lucky ones. We made it, albeit shaken up, but in one piece and with all our bags to boot. Safe. Many others just aren’t so lucky.

Overlook at Turi in Cuenca

You always hear about horrific accidents and lament them with a certain detached sadness and genuine pity, however removed, for those involved. You see the faces on the news or catch the images in the paper, and you cluck and sigh and maybe even cross yourself in brief solemn prayer on their behalf. However, when those very same stories and images reach you and have familiar faces to attach to the tragedy, it is a very different story altogether. Recently, I had the extreme pleasure of re-locating from a desolate cave in a less savory part of town to my new ‘room with a view,’ overlooking the majestic peaks of one of Quito’s many surrounding mountain chains. A mere two days before I was set to move into my new abode with my cheerful new companion, as I bounced home on a day bus bounding from the South to North of Ecuador, Cuenca to Quito, after celebrating the Independence of Cuenca and the Día de los Difuntos (Day of the Dead) and complaining about the post-holiday traffic and excessive stops the bus made along the way, a very different situation was unfolding just a short way away from the capital city. A bus filled with American teachers and Ecuadorian holiday travelers speeding along a notorious curve between Papallacta (a small town known for its termas, or thermal hot springs) and Quito spun out of control at a high enough speed that caused the bus to flip several times before grinding to a halt in the road. Some two-dozen passengers, my new roommate included, were whisked away in scores of ambulances that poured onto the scene to remove the gravely injured and deceased. As a result, numerous passengers were seriously wounded—broken bones, fractured skulls and ribs, dislocated limbs and vertebrae—and admitted to nearby hospitals, a young man was left paralyzed, and at least 5 were pronounced dead. Three days later another bus encountered a similar fate returning from holidays in the south. Fifteen deaths in the blink of an eye. Fifteen lives gone. And for what?

My friendly guagua de pan and colada morada

If this were Greyhound, an injunction would have been filed against the company before the scene was cleared. If this were Boltbus or Megabus, picketing would begin and ticket sales would plummet. There would be a rally for the injured and a candlelit vigil for the dead. But this is Ecuador and this is life. Every weekend, every holiday, families still pour into the bus terminal, fully aware they take their lives in their hands, fully aware they really mean it when they say Qué Dios nos bendiga (May God bless us) as they climb aboard. People still need to get to abuela’s (grandma’s) in time to celebrate together or to get to another market town where they are able to sell their goods to support themselves. Meanwhile drivers carry on in some foolhardy cry of immortality, flying down highways and over mountain passes, leaving rubber trails in their wake on the spiraling mountain curves. And nothing really changes. So often at home, we can choose what to pick a fight for—I was overcharged at the grocery store (oh, well), but the technician installed a faulty piece in my car (I’ll sue!)—and for the most part, we have some means of redress. We know who to point fingers at, who to shout at when we have been wronged, where to place the blame. But when those mechanisms are ill-maintained or a façade at best (e.g. phone numbers to call in denuncias (complaints) about reckless and drunk drivers or  domestic violence) without real action or clout, what message does that send to the folks who just want to make it to grandma’s in time to make guaguas de pan (literally baby-shaped bread) or colada morada (seasonal heated berry drink with fruit chunks) for the holiday? It means you don’t really matter. It means that the few coins saved by racing to a destination a bit earlier matter more than the innocent souls onboard. It means no one truly cares. And that’s more terrifying than high-speed hair-raising turns any day.

My roommate survived her crash with painfully broken yet mendable bones, a rad haircut, and more bravery than I could imagine mustering. Others have not been so "lucky." If there’s one thing I’ve slowly come to appreciate it’s that only you need to recognize your rights to fight for them even when others won't. The right to arrive alive is just one.  #demandchange #arrivealive

Beauty.

Next Up: Oh, hello Fulbright Project. Nice to meet you too!

Safe House

Entryway to my apartment

Before I arrived in Ecuador, the resounding chorus I heard from friends, family, and random inquirers primarily revolved around taking as many pictures as possible, avoiding cartels and the northern border with Colombia, and generally keeping self and belongings safe. So I bought a concealable camera pouch and practiced the art of quick snaps when no one’s looking (just to make sure it makes it back to the US with me ;)), and avoid making friends in seedy and questionable places particularly those of the narcotics-trafficking type. I sought out an apartment in a crowded part of town with two gates, three deadbolts, and five keys to boot. My laptop found a new home in the oven and my phone in the toaster when I’m away. I learned to use doorstoppers to stop doors from opening rather than closing; to keep purses securely positioned in front, never back; to only take official taxis in the nighttime; and to remember to always check around corners in poorly lit hallways. Gradually, rather than a regimen strictly and fearfully adhered to, each step becomes routine, expected, and almost comforting. It doesn’t mean any fewer days adventuring or fewer nights out on the town, just the peace of mind that all steps (at least every step that can be taken) has been to make the next few months memorable in the way that one loves to remember a new home away from home.

At Warmi! Brunch Ecuadorian style!

That includes days brunching and wandering the sinuous streets of Guápulo, a winding, mountainous sector of the city full of artisan workshops and homes, as well as nights dancing alongside an over-sized yellow and blue minion at Despicable Me themed parties at night clubs (complete with piñatas and children’s birthday décor)—you just can’t make this stuff up. In fact, there are quite a few alarming things that have slowly begun to sink in as simply part of the fare du jour. For example, waiting my turn in the interminable lines in the Foreign Affairs office and watching a young child projectile vomiting over at least three bystanders, none of whom flinched, winced, or even budged from their seats. (Fortunately, with some quick thinking, the mother was able to flip the baby upside down to ensure the rest of her stomach contents made their home on the floor, not nearby laps.) At least I didn’t get splattered.

Amigos en el mirador de Guapulo (Friends in the Guapulo Viewpoint)

Perhaps my favorite part of the day is the bus ride home from work. Generally speaking, deathly afraid of crowds (sticky fingers, people, sticky fingers!), I try my hardest to avoid the sardine-packed blue metal contraptions barreling down the street at the end of the day. Only once have I actually ventured into the human compactor fondly referred to as the trolebús (trolley bus) that literally attempts to squeeze the life out of riders, their hips, lips, bums, and bags tightly smeared against glass and their fellow passengers. If you’re lucky enough to press cheeks with a fellow traveling companion, sweet remnants of this afternoon’s patacones (unsweetened fried plantain slices) or queso fresco (local white cheese crumbles) filling your nostrils with every slight breath—not many, there’s just not a lot of room for expanding of lungs!— you just might enjoy the absurdity of it all. That is of course until you wriggle free, emerging into the crisp evening air with a slashed backpack or purse sans valuable contents (where did they find room to slice your bag?!) or barely escape with your life moments after the trolley doors have slammed shut on either side of your head as you attempted to disentangle yourself from the human mass. (Fun fact: I have had the pleasure of experiencing only one of these two things!) 

But, to the point—bus rides. The evening bus, though occasionally standing room only, is typically a raucous affair of sorts. I must note that I learned early on that when people hiss at me or nudge me towards the back of the bus, contrary to my American self-righteousness, it has less to do with my complexion than the convention of boarding at the front (to pay the coin collector) and exiting at the back to keep the flow of bodies, bags, and babies on the move. If you do get the chance to sit down and observe as the tides flow in and out of the bouncing transporter, you are bound to notice a few things:

Street performer in the Centro Histórico

1)      Everybody and their mothers are on the bus. And I mean that literally. It seems like the whole world and often their mothers or mamá-like figures along with bundles of blankets in which I’m pretty sure small children are lurking.

2)      Babies don’t cry. I have no explanation for it, but whatever the bundles swaddled in cloth and closely affixed to their mothers, they rarely if ever seem to utter a peep!

3)      Even rich folks cross town on the bus. Rightly so, Quiteños seem to have picked up on the fact that traffic is horrendous most afternoons, particularly when a sea of yellow taxis takes to the streets in the wake of a recent rainstorm (every single afternoon). Thus, everyone from sharp business suit-clad gents to back-pack toting students and vendors hauling their wares pile onto the little plastic seats together. 

Rainy day Quito

4)      Bus drivers love messaging. Above the driver there is often painted a message, or PA as it were, to all who dare to board. Sometimes the messages are religious in nature: Qué Dios Le Bendiga (May God Bless You). Sometimes, they are just downright offensive: No le deje a su mujer tope el celular (Don't let your wife/woman stop/take your phone). Who knows what she’ll find…?

5)      You never know what you’ll want to buy. This has to be my absolute favorite aspect of riding a bus—much like train rides in India and Burma, in Ecuador, you really never know what’s being peddled your way on the ride home. From children and young adults selling pedacitos (pieces) of candy and mints (25 cents for three! 50 cents for a half dozen!) to the DVD guy who hops on and proceeds to—with great flourish—re-enact the most dramatic moments of the movies he hawks. Never mind that the DVD in his hand is Finding Nemo (his fishy lips are very enticing!) or yet another movie about the White House under siege (I could have sworn those gunshot effects were real!), he bounds up and down the aisles switching between a deadpan monotone reciting the titles and prices to an animated announcer’s voice advising you to delve into the wondrous world of graphic design, now only un dólar! And if he’s not panhandling DVDs, he’s toting a foul-smelling green something reminiscent of Asian tiger balm or days at Grandma’s house in the winter, slathered in Vicks Vapor Rub “to keep from catchin’ a cold.” As he rubs the slippery salve on his skin, the odor filling the bus with a pine-smelling menthol aroma, I always fight not to make eye contact, to keep my eyes averted, whatever my sense of curiosity because if I don’t, if I even just bat an eyelash in his direction—done. There’s the sticky green salve hand in my hand, pressing a packet of not-sure-what into my palm with the expectation of a shiny coin in exchange. Sigh. It’s always me!

Kissing llamas in Papallacta!

After what feels like an eternity, I finally return home each day (Purse on person? Check! Phone still in toaster? Check! Laptop waiting in oven? Check!), exhausted yet reflective of the day’s events. Every moment, small or large, from the enervating brain teasers of speaking Spanish all day with colleagues to the anxious perusal of volumes of papers, papers, and oh yes, more papers to the nail-biting uncertainty of with whom and when and where lunch will occur (flashback to teen movies of the eerily familiar glasses-toting tween alone with an apple, milk carton, and book in the cafeteria) and then the rare chance encounters when there I am able to meet the very people my team works so hard to serve.

En la oficina (At the office)

During my second week, I was invited to a closing ceremony for one of our entrepreneurship capacity trainings, a program co-affiliated with the Ecuadorian government. An eager crowd of Colombian refugees sat in the audience as roll was called for each to receive their certificates of completion, essentially with the message: Go forth and build ye thy business and prosper. As we went down the list of names, many names skipped over—she had to take her baby, he had no money for the bus—those in attendance stood proudly to accept their diplomas and smile briefly for the camera. Names complete, the floor was open for everyone to share their thoughts on the program, thoughts ranging from sheer elation to tearful thanks to spreading blessings from God for the good fortune of participating.

And then one woman stood, initially equally tearful with joy at the blessing of a program that provided financial and management skills to build their businesses. Before long however, smiles gave way to sobs as she admonished the program administrators for not protecting her, and her business, from the constant barrage of assaults she experienced on a regular basis as a Colombian refugee in Ecuador. With audible gasps all around, she lifted her shirt to reveal several puñaladas (stab wounds) from a recent attack on her small restaurant by a group of Ecuadorian men who had threatened her and her family for running their business. You can prepare us, she sobbed that day, but you can’t protect us. And she was right.

El Panecillo en Quito

Part of what draws many individuals into work with vulnerable populations is the desire to make some sort of a tangible impact on the lives of the beneficiaries we work with. Pero hay un límite. (But there is a limit.) There is only so much that can be done and so many finite resources poured into helping those most in need. There will always be something more, some aspect out of our capacity and control, but when resources are few and personnel stretched thin, you can only resolve to do what you can with what you can. That’s the sobering reality of this work. On some level, we do all recognize that, but just the same—it doesn’t make those moments any easier. 

Bienvenidos a Guaya-mi! (Welcome to Guaya-mi!)

Que lindo (pretty) Guayaquil!

 Crying babies wrapped in Winnie the Pooh blankets. Mothers toting boxes, bags, sacks, and crates on heads. Eager eyes scanning signs, searching for loved ones, and rain, so much rain pouring down, flooding streets and soaking clothes. Jostling, yelling, police officers shouting who knows what at who knows who. Buses honking, brakes squeaking, throng of travelers shuffling and milling about like a stampede bound for the plains, the Quitumbe bus station looked more like the market days I had seen in India than what I’d expected of Quito’s major bus terminal. But it was a packed holiday weekend and we were saddling up for an eight-hour journey a la costa (to the coast) to celebrate the independence of Guayaquil, Ecuador’s largest metropolis. 

Sprawling expanse of the city of Guayaquil

Somewhat horrified at the prospect of an overnight bus ride sitting with a stranger (ah, the joys of traveling in odd numbers), I strapped my cash, camera, and phone to my person, flipped up my hood, and slunk low in the seat, trying my best to make myself smaller against the window as the bus creaked, grumbled, and made its way down the highway, thriller The Call playing in the background as I drifted off. (Really? Halle Berry tracking down a mentally-deranged kidnapper guilty of snatching a teenager from the mall? Best choice for a night bus viewing!) And then I felt it. I almost thought I had imagined it. But nope, there it was again, a slow, gentle, warm pressure…on my thigh. And then…on my shoulder? Eyes snapped open, I glanced slowly to my left at the culprit, a deeply snoozing man next to me, his limp arm against my leg and head now on my shoulder. Ah. Yes. Of course. With a shrug, I dislodged myself and drifted off again. 

El Cerro Santa Ana

We arrived in the city at 7 in the morning. The one thing I can certainly say for Guayaquil is that the people are as warm as the weather. Little but sunshine and smiles most of the day, in stark contrast to the frigid mountain air and temperament in Quito. That includes the whistles and catcalls, but hey, that’s par for the course. We spent the day exploring markets, watchtowers, rivers, and El Cerro Santa Ana in the hillside neighborhood of Las Peñas, which seemed to primarily consist of a string of winding bars and restaurants dotted amidst a sea of colorful roofs, all throbbing the same cumbia beats and serving up the same platos típicos (traditional dishes)—menestras, fritadas, pollo a la plancha. 

El Faro (The Lighthouse)

We arrived at the faro (lighthouse) and capilla (chapel) at the top, 486 stairs later, panting, sweating, melting in the midday heat. After a particularly disturbing observation of duck mating, we moved on to visit the famed Parque Seminaro (o Parque de las Iguanas), a small square plaza in front of a church and teeming with scaly pieces of history the size of small dogs. Most just lazed about, sunbathing, munching scraps of this and that on the cobblestone, flicking their pink tongues against trails of ice cream, cooling on the pews inside the church (yes, I know, but yes). Highlight of the day had to be watching as a group of iguanas- surprisingly agile- scuttled across the park and through a crowd of unsuspecting koi pond observers who immediately scattered horrified as the lizard cousins skittered over their feet.

Parents, please restrain your children lest they lose limbs!

Low point of the day included a trip to Resaca restaurant (which gets negative stars on Trip Advisor!) where I was unceremoniously denied a hamburger after a mistake in my order (because everyone knows there is a five hamburger sale quota for the day and they had surpassed it—I  told you, I can’t make this stuff up) followed by which we were notified that because our waitress had not informed us that management had raised the price on sangria (and therefore all menus were incorrect), she would have to pay the difference. Sans beefy satiety and a few extra dollars, we left incensed determined to opine about our experience on every medium available, including filing an official complaint with the local municipality for employee abuse. Oh, right, and then there was that time where an outdoor comedian called me a Haitian refugee and we ran into a group of very tall, very blonde Argentineans dressed as American cowgirls (and one model-esque cowboy!) dancing to sell Miller Lite beer. Que lindo, Guayaquil! Simultaneously, city of the best ceviche, most entertaining museums (with incredibly vivid depictions of death—death by alligator! death by fire! death by drowning!), and a delectable visit (or three) to La Gran Colombia Colombian bakery. 

BEST ceviche. BEST.

La Gran Colombia Bakery run by a Colombian family

Thoroughly satisfied and sad to head back for the mountains, we headed to the bus station in good spirits. The return trip went a little something like this: Arrive at the station with minutes to spare. Race to the gate; be denied entry and ordered to purchase additional 25cent boarding chit downstairs (you know, because you couldn’t have just bought that with the ticket :P). Race down to acquire chit. Race back to board bus. Bus is late. Very late. Board bus. Wait 30 minutes for 5 late passengers. Grumble with other passengers. Bus takes off. Bus continues to pick up roadside stragglers. Watch Olympus Has Fallen. Cookie salesman boards moving bus and exits. Candy salesman boards moving bus and exits. Empanada salesman boards bus...remains on bus for 25 minutes selling many empanadas…bus departs highway…empanada man is dropped off in his small town. (Hmmm??) Watch bizarre fighting movie where people are killed with baseballs and hammers. Make unanticipated stop for dinner…for an hour. Get stuck in post-holiday traffic. Watch Latin American 80’s music videos. AC is cut off. Melt from the heat because the bus has run out of gas and cannot run AC. Fill up tank with gas. Finally return to Quito. Sleep like there’s no tomorrow.  

Happy (early) Birthday, Walter! (No I didn't pay these people! Yes, I made some friends!)

Next up: Quirks and joys of life in Ciudad Mitad del Mundo.

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