Ten Things I'd Change About You

Breathtaking views every. single. morning.

The first three months adjusting to a new city or new city in a new country are typically the hardest. Sorting out where to live, what to eat, whom to befriend—it can be a challenge. Yet the lucidity that comes after three months, in the triumphs of knowing taxi prices and routes so as not to get cheated or having your go-to lady with the freshest produce at the market, cannot be overstated. There is a sense of accomplishment and elation that comes with those moments that gives you the feeling of having conquered a new world, which in many ways you have. That feeling is only heightened after a brief time away to recharge and return with just a bit more zest for adventure and pep in your step. Being home for the holidays provided not only a period to refresh ahead of the months to come, but also a space to reflect on the months behind me in this new country where I have temporarily made my home.  

If you grew up a kid of the 90's in the U.S. like I did, there’s little chance you didn’t come across the high school comedy-drama 10 Things I Hate About You. Starring Julia Stiles and Heath Ledger, the 1999 teen classic puts a clever spin on Shakespeare’s timeless comedy The Taming of the Shrew, the tale of hot-headed upstart (read: modern–day strong, independent, and unabashedly outspoken female protagonist) Katherine (Katherina) who must first be “tamed” and wed in order for her highly-courted younger sister Bianca to wed one of her many suitors. The 90's adaptation traces the push-pull of teenage romance and the conflicting feelings Kat develops for Patrick, the faux suitor secretly hired to court her. In many ways, the past three months have been a similar tug-of-war, love-hate relationship of adjustment and cultural adaptation, therefore I thought I would welcome the new year with a new post chronicling some of my observations during the transition!

Dinner for the not-faint-of-heart. Cuy (Guinea pig)

Shopping carts are for the weak of arms. As I mentioned, my weekly jaunt to the store involves a somewhat tedious process of shop with little cart, approach narrow-aisled register to transition goods to belt, transfer goods to large cart with bag check boy in tow for the generous sum of fifty cents or whatever change is in your pockets. Ever the spendthrift, however, I just haul the load myself sans cart. On the upside, trips to the grocery store or market or the little shop on the corner always yield an abundance of fresh, delicious, and incredibly cheap produce the likes of which even puts my beloved Trader Joe’s to shame. Bye, bye TV dinners, hello fresh veg stir-fry and biceps!

You've got to get in shape for gas. Most stoves/ovens (and many water heaters) run on natural gas. Natural gas tanks, that is. Though delicious for stovetop recipes, this makes for challenging oven use (see my first post re: billowing smoke and raw chicken), sudden heat outages when tanks run out (conveniently, of course, in the midst of prepping three Thanksgiving chickens, pear tartlet, and oven potatoes for a holiday feast), and mandatory minimum fitness. That is to say, there is a curious system for re-filling said gas tanks, each the weight and size of a small obese child. Any given day of the week, one might sit eagerly at the window throughout the day (mornings are usually a safer bet) for anywhere from two to ten hours, patiently awaiting the familiar squeaky honk, honk of the gas truck as it passes. Living on a high floor you can at least see the truck in the distance (squinting to discern if those are the right blue or green tanks you need), but also must shout?signal to the ground floor guard of the building across the street (Por favor, la comioneta! Please, the truck!) to flag down the passing gas; race down four flights of stairs in case his calls have gone unanswered; and chase the truck for a block until they see your bobbing brown figure in the rearview mirror. On the bright side, it makes for a glorious thigh and calf workout.

Okay, okay so we caved but it's Ecuadorian McDonald's!

Incoming goods means outgoing cash. Imported clothes and products are sold at an exorbitant mark-up in Ecuador, if imported at all. St. Ives lotion (one of the few brands available period): $14 per bottle. Opti-Free contact solution: $17 per bottle. Neutrogena face wash? Any face wash? Don’t get me started. This makes for a limited selection in even the best grocery stores and alarming price tags at the mall. (Blouse: $39.99. Jeans: $59.99, sale.) Even some local goods, produced at higher cost within the country’s borders, fetch higher prices in shops. At the same time, however, the promotion of national products and produce is aimed at jumpstarting the local economy and essentially keeping cash in the country to aid Ecuadorian producers. Okay….fine…fine. Ashy skin never killed anyone anyway.

Buses aren’t just a health risk. Though intercity and inter-provincial bus rides can be horrifying experiences that leave you shaken or worse, even on those mind-bogglingly fast long haul rides (See previous entry “Road Warrior”), if you’re lucky enough to board before the sun goes down, you just might glimpse some incredibly picturesque mountains, valleys, rivers, lakes, and then some. For all the protective measures taken to conserve the marvelous naturaleza throughout the country, there are many well-preserved and breath-taking sights to see all around Ecuador.

Besties.

Hospitality isn’t always a given. For a land of cheek kisses, hugs, and greetings, I was admittedly surprised at what can best be described as the Quito freeze. Cold stares in shops, brusque shoves from passengers on trolley platforms, adult men seizing hailed cabs when a young woman stands laden with heavy groceries. That's not to mention servers, clerks, and professionals who snub noses, roll eyes, and sigh in exasperation if you stumble on a single vocabulary word (camarones for shrimp in Ecuador, not gambas as in Spain) or botch grammar in a phrase, whatever your level of fluency. Though you might expect similar behavior in any large city anywhere in the world, the brazenness contradicts the exceeding generosity and hospitality that otherwise comes from a country of tight-knit families where generations live together and support one another, and colleagues curiously inquire why it’s so frowned upon for adult children to live with their parents in the U.S. (Which naturally leads to a humorous conversation about the taboo of grown children basement-dwelling in America.)

Finally, racism is never right, no need to make excuses for it. For a country built on the admirable sanctity of family values in what is otherwise a land of warmth and welcome, I have been to very few places where I have felt more unwelcome by virtue of an immutable characteristic I cannot and would not change. Though the color of my skin should not give anyone the right to judge the content of my mind, nor as Dr. King so eloquently put it, the content of my character, on numerous occasions professionally and otherwise, I have been talked down to, denied entry into shops, followed in stores, and passed unceremoniously by taxis on the street. There is a poster in one of the UN’s partner offices with a very poignant line roughly stating: ¿Qué hiciera si estos habrían sido sus zapatos? (What would you do if these were your shoes?) above the well-worn pair of shoes of a recently-arrived refugee. As we work with largely Afro-Colombian populations of refugees in Ecuador, perhaps for the first time in my short career I can honestly say that on some level, at least a superficial skin-deep level, I can empathize with how our clients are treated (or rather maltreated) on a daily basis. For all the bounties and beauty of the country, there’s really nothing positive that rights this wrong.

Quality learning: Teaching high schoolers about refugees

So “I’m learning.” That’s what I replied every time a friend, family member, or former colleague inquired about my time in Ecuador while I was home for the holidays. And I am learning. I am learning what is beautiful about this country and what is downright ugly. I am learning what it means to prize your work, even above personal discomfort. I am learning how to navigate a bureaucracy that is at once infuriating and inspiring for the level of change it can affect. I am learning to cope with a different kind of loneliness, the kind that comes in the midst of amazing new friendships and encounters, born of a deeper desire to reconnect with a place that in some ways I thought I had long-since left behind. I have spent years experiencing the world and hope to continue for many years to come, but for the first time in a long time, I have a greater appreciation for the place I call home with all it’s myriad deficiencies, inefficiencies, and ails.

There's something about those sunsets. 

I used to always say I never felt more American than when I was outside of America where you are almost always seen first and foremost as an representative of your country. Now, it’s not just that I feel more American outside of America, but for the first time in a very long time, I’m distinctly proud to be American with all the baggage that entails. Though it is true that there are no fewer than ten times as many things I would change about my own home as what I would change in what have witnessed and experienced here, home still is home in a new and refreshing and ultimately rewarding way that I have never felt before. And that feels good to know.

I also know that the trials and tribulations of living in a new place are all pieces of a greater puzzle of cultural adaptation I have diligently been attempting to piece together these few months past. That is exactly what makes the triumphant moments—when a piece finally falls just so into place—all the more worthwhile, and I wouldn't trade that for all the shopping carts in the Americas ;)

Home Away from Home for the Holidays

American Thanksgiving Ecuador style

Not surprisingly, the holidays can be a particularly challenging time to be far from home for anyone. No matter your rough and ready attitude or seemingly insatiable wanderlust, when the season of food, friends, and family settles in, it can make for a good time to reflect on your loved ones across the seas and the new companions you’ve collected on your voyages far from home. It’s a time for sharing time-honored cultural traditions like American Thanksgiving (complete with explaining why engorging ourselves for an annual sumptuous meal does not, no definitely could not equate with America’s expanding waistline and soaring obesity rates. Just pass me the pie, please), and for overhearing your co-workers retelling your abbreviated account of that first bountiful meal (so the natives gave the Pilgrim people food and then the Pilgrims killed them all, but the Americans don’t really celebrate that part anymore. Now it’s something to do with family and pie). Eventually you have to intervene to offer an edited abbreviated version of the feasting holiday :)

Paseo de Guapulo dancer ahead of fiestas de Quito

It’s also a time for partaking in local traditions, in learning what a wonder higos and queso (figs and cheese) can be around Christmas (no really, you’ve gotta try it!) and finding out how in Ecuador in celebration of the New Year men frolic the streets in minifaldas (miniskirts), tacos (tacones altos, high heels), and wigs dressed as viudas (widows), the forlorn wives of the passing year, soliciting coins for their welfare in the streets. In Quito in particular, the grand parade of the holiday season starts the first week of December, which is dedicated to fiestas de Quito (parties of Quito), a weeklong celebration of the foundation of the city. (Happy 280^th birthday, Quito!!) A week of shortened work days and seemingly ceaseless partying and gallivanting, including converted pick up trucks posing as chivas (party wagons) to cart imbibing revelers around the city, the week ends in a series of food festivals and concerts all across town. Puts American New Year’s to shame. 

Amidst all this reveling and merrymaking with family and friends new and old, another thought creeps in. Though I have willingly chosen to pick up, pack up, and carry on life overseas, there are many who simply did not have the luxury of choice. Those for whom home was no longer an option. And those are the people I came here for. The ones who most likely will not get to spend the upcoming holidays with the people they love most.

El mirador (lookout) at the laguna de Cotacachi (Cotacahi lagoon)

                               
Though conditions in the country have improved drastically over the years, roughly 10% of the Colombian population is estimated to have been displaced by the violence that has dominated the past few decades. Neighbor to the long-since conflict-ridden country, Ecuador has played host to some tens of thousands of officially registered refugees and has served as a space for nearly 200,000 asylum-seekers from its northern neighbor. Asylum-seekers encompass a diverse group representing several classes of individuals in the displacement process, including solicitants who aim to receive official refugee status under Ecuadorian law and solicitants who seek resettlement by third country parties in North America, South America, Europe, and elsewhere. Since I arrived, I’ve been slowly absorbing what exactly the tedious process of gaining the coveted refugee title entails in Ecuador. From arrival to seeking out NGO support and relief assistance to lengthy entrevistas (interviews) with UN officials chronicling every—often painful—detail of abuse, assault, and attacks before escape. Just a few months ago, this process was confined to a mere 15 days from the date of arrival. Beyond that date, a solicitant’s petition would be summarily denied, whatever the circumstances. Fortunately, however, due to intense pressure on the government, that window of application has recently expanded to a far more reasonable 90 days.

Road to Otavalo

So here you are, perhaps a mother with two young children, ages 8 and 14. Your husband was executed a few years ago, mowed down with several friends on his way home from work. A waitress, at times, you were forced to provide food and lodging for known drug traffickers, on several occasions that also included sex. For quite some time you endure it because you have no one to flee to who can protect you and you want to at least provide for your kids. Then the day comes when your son is threatened by a gang of traffickers—join or die. And that’s when you know it’s time to go. You don’t have the option of looking back. And there you are. In the middle of a new country with the clothes on your back and the children in your arms, and what happens now? If you’re lucky, if you’re not in hiding from fear of retribution even hundreds of miles away, you seek help and maybe you come to our office. You tell your story, your case is passed on and if the governmental powers that be deem you worthy, your case credible, then you get a tiny slip of paper that determines your fate—Ecuador, Canada, USA, Sweden, etc. You have a new home. 

Many believe that the story ends there. The verdict has been handed down. Your destiny served to you in a manila envelope with cold impersonal clasp. Maybe there is a resettlement or protection officer somewhere silently cheering the new status flashing on the screen: accepted. Maybe there is a family member left behind who calls to wish you well: you’re safe. Maybe nothing changes. It’s been nearly a year since you came to this country and maybe you still wake up and can barely feed your kids; your food ration coupons withdrawn after you surpassed the allotted period of food aid. Maybe you still walk the streets trying to conseguir trabajo (acquire work) however piecemeal and by whatever means necessary; some days you cook, some days you clean, some days you just simply sit and wait. But wait for what? Initially it was the day when you could flee your country to relative safety nearby. Then it was the day when you interviewed with those officials, pleading for your life and your children’s welfare. Then it was the day you knew the food aid would come. The clothes would come. A verdict would come. Then it was when, when, when.

Market days

But maybe you already know nothing changes. You can’t afford more than beans and rice, no nutrients for your growing kids. No one will hire you because you are Colombian, no work to keep the family stable. Your children are mercilessly belittled by students and teachers alike, no reprieve even behind scholastic doors. Yet still every day you come home and wonder maybe. Maybe today things will change. Maybe today will be different. 

When I joined a team dedicated to durable solutions, for quite some time I had no idea what that really meant. Sure I had grown accustomed to hearing of medios de vida (livelihoods) that enable impoverished families to get back on their feet with some form of income-generation. But the idea of durable solutions en sí was fairly new. So much of relief assistance is predicated upon humanitarian emergency standards—disaster strikes and organizations flock to the field to administer immediate support. Imminent danger passed, those same organizations (and often their funds) withdraw leaving whole populations to wonder what next. This is referred to as the ill-tended relief to development continuum, that treacherous path between emergency response and the road to long-term recovery. This is the very nexus in which so many refugee families are caught in a limbo that leaves them at times fed, clothed, housed yet without a way to move forward. Hence durable solutions—sustainable, impactful, and lasting intervention that builds resilience and the ability to withstand future shocks. So much more than just finding a job.

Cotacachi

For the past three months, I have been fortunate to participate in three budding projects taking shape among refugee populations in Ecuador—building a stepladder out of ultra-poverty through a model that helps families graduate from stages of pobreza (poverty) with consumption support, skills training for the workplace, and savings; another project connecting young people to livelihoods opportunities (internships, scholarships, etc.); and a third providing access to credit and formal financial institutions. (Some wonder why the latter would even make a difference, but you think about what your life would be like if you were barred from opening a bank account, were unable to store up safe savings for a rainy day, or could not access that vital seed capital to get you to the next step in your business, education, or mortgage.) Each of these projects aims to help cushion families from that next lethal and unexpected blow that they just might not recover from. We often take for granted our social safety nets and the very social capital (friends, family, neighbors) that casts a vital lifeline in times of crisis. For refugees, that is the first thing to go in a strange new home away from home. 

Teleferico. What exactly am I doing, you ask?

I have gotten many questions about just what exactly I am doing in Ecuador right now. Well, so far I've have spent a great deal of time researching whether we are meeting our mandate to provide durable solutions and how we can gear our programs to better do exactly that. Some take monitoring and evaluation for granted, as tool to be applied to please donors, but the way I see it, at the end of the day M&E is what keeps us honest in the provision of aid. It is what reminds us of why we are here, what we came to do and for whom and how and when. 

So what exactly am I doing? Precisely what Fulbright brought us here to do: live, learn, and try to love the process, or at least like it when the going gets rough with all the myriad trials and tribulations of adjusting to a new country and new life. Most days I just have to remind myself to appreciate every moment, even the painful bumps and hiccups, however difficult that may be. Because at the end of the day, at the end of my stay, the fondest memories are the memories I carry home for the holidays and all the days to come—days winding my way through markets, dancing down the aisles for festivals, diving into new dishes, meeting hoards of new faces, and going on trips to take in all the breath-taking sights along the way. And with every step of this program in the name of cultural immersion, there’s some hope that maybe I'm designing programs that truly will make a difference, maybe someone can wake up to a life filled with just a few less maybes. A life where not going home for the holidays will mean feeling a little more at home in a new home for the holidays and every day. Maybe, just maybe. Because then with the grateful words, big smiles, and warm hugs of comfortably, even happily, settled individuals, we´ll know we’ve been doing the job just right all along. And just maybe I won’t need my evaluations to tell me that after all ;)  

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!