65 days left!

So I'm supposed to continue the last journal I wrote almost a fortnight ago, but I'll do that at a later date. Right now it's about journaling.

I'm in a great mood, despite the beginning of my day. After waking up to a blocked internet in my house (again), I remembered an assignment that was due last Wednesday in Spanish class. My group got an extension on it because an idiot in my group decided not to do the whole thing even though it was CLEARLY given to him three weeks ago. Anyways, I had to go to the internet café, and after plentifully eating to appease my over-eager host-mother, I stepped out to pouring rain. I threw on a sweater and hoped it wasn't as bad as it was, but the rain worsened until I was pelted with hail. After being told my computer wouldn't connect with the internet at the café, I called my friend Gaby to pick me up so we could all go to the grocery store to pick up some needed items for my friends' hiking trip tomorrow. I walked across the street to a small, independent minimarket to pick up a pack of smokes. I made friends with the shopowner, named Lola who instantly knew whose house I lived in when I told her what street I lived on. Amidst other things in my days were a 3 hour traffic jam, baking a cooke of double chocolate chip cookies, and watching planes take off into the clouds from my friend Gaby's balcony.

Speaking of my host mother, I had this really interesting conversation with her, ethnically speaking. My friend Jessica has an allergy to gluten, which pretty much stops her from eating any type of bread. She's been regaling me with stories of how her mother stole a bag of gluten-free noodles she brought from home to make her family a dinner, her mother's insistence that if "she eats more, she'll get used to it," and how she was told she had to buy her own yogurt if she wanted to eat it for breakfast because it was "too expensive." Magda started telling me about this girl who talks to her boyfriend and speaks in English describing this "shithole" of a country (unaware that the family speaks perfect English), a girl who makes 70 eggs a day and wastes her family's energy by making her own meal, one who has a gluten allergy and is now switching families, is causing her host mother a lot of troubles, and that this makes her sad because her friend is so worried over it. I suppose this coming from someone who gets angry because I don't eat all of her food was to be expected, but I guess it just goes to show that there's always 2 sides to every story.

Last night, four of my friends were celebrating their birthday at an Italian restaurant called Capulet when my friend Michelle walked in and started bawling. Apparently two men came at her outside of her house and held her at gunpoint. She lost some money and her camera. After that, our table started talking, and someone brought up a girl named Ingrid who had her laptop, iPod, and around $55 stolen from her right outside the bus station at gunpoint. Someone else told a story about how they went to Guayaquil and got robbed of their bank cards. Although the latter had a funny antidote about how this really crude, uneducated girl began to protest when they demanded she close her eyes and they pistol-whipped her! I've been waiting for someone to do that to her forever. The robbery, yet, that's a little excessive, but she learned a valuable lesson!

My host mother and I have been getting along better because I've been eating. A lot of times, I stay out and grab a bite to eat and she gets mad at me when I don't want dinner. She kept claiming that I "needed to eat because she put a lot of amor in what she was making and she wanted to see me well-nourished." When she was telling me about Jessica, though, she described to me how after her friend finished venting, she said she had the opposite problem, which was that I wouldn't eat what I was given. This coming from a lady who serves rice, potatoes, a spinach tort, colada morada, chicken, peas, soup, juice, and potato chips all in one serving? I guess too much is better than too little, though.

We're planning a trip to Canoa, a beach city, to celebrate Nov. 2nd's Day of the Dead. The whole country makes a soupish-dessert called Colada Morada, or purple strainage. It's made with a thick, soup mora juice (which is like a giant raspberry) with freshly cut strawberry pieces. The drink is actually a dark purple because mora is a blackberry. The drink can be really sweet or kind of bitter, depending on how much sugar is added.

We had this really depressing discussion earlier today about how returning abroad is supposed to be even more difficult than arriving in the foreign country. Michelle told us about how it's because every on the trip changes drastically without their friends in tow. It then feels as if you can't mesh well anymore because the other party hasn't been abroad. Either way, I can't wait to see my family and sleep in my bed for 48 hours straight and wake up on Christmas morning! 

I guess I should probably hit the hay, it's pretty late here. But I'll try and do this again sooner!!

So I haven't written in almost a month. I'm sorry to everyone that keeps up with the blog, I've just been quite busy lately!

School's been going fairly well lately; after I got everything fixed with classes, the rest went smoothly. My Alfred Hitchcock class it really interesting, as are the rest of my classes. My professors are all really good, so I'm having a ball so far!

I'm considering switching families. My host mother's been pestering me so much lately about different things that it hardly seems worth staying. I'm not having the best time, and I think it's largely because I avoid coming "home" after school. She's even gone so far as to ask my why I walk the way I do; I've become so fed up with trying to explain that it's just how I walk that I lied and said it was a spinal disorder so she'd finally leave me alone.

The other week we went to Atacames, a beach-town on the coast in a province known as the Esmereldas. The bus trip was amazing as far as sight-seeing is concerned, minus the hour-long trek through the Andean mountains. The two-lane wide road often was missing part of the road, which had caved in and fallen to the foot of the mountain. The only thing protecting us was a two inch wide yellow caution tape that bore the words PELIGRO in thick black letters. It was a little nerve-wrecking, especially when all of my friends thought the view was so "SUPER AWESOME" that they all bustled to one side of the bus to look out the window. I later learned that stupid tourists flocking to one side of a bus is a frequent reason that the buses actually fall off the cliff, sending the passengers on a Fugitive-esque adventure, only in this case down a mountain and not just off-road.

When we arrived in Atacames, we stayed in a hotel called Hotel Marcos, which was beautifully adorned with stained turquoise bed sheets and little sand bugs everywhere. It was here that I was introduced to my first live cockroach, smushed on the floor with it legs helplessly flailing above its body, seemingly crying "please don't step on me!" to passersby. Our hotel was across the street from the beachfront; the other side of the street was adorned with a million little tiki-hut type bars that played nothing but reggae and reggaeton. The first night we arrived around midnight and we all helped ourselves to some jarras of a drink called Caipiriña, which includes the country's aguardiente, a sugar-cane derived alcoholic beverage that tastes a lot like black licorice. I can't stand black licorice. So I gulped it down the best I could and hobbled back to the hotel to fall asleep amidst a strobing light fixture and a family of sand bugs.

I don't think I've really captured the essence of our hotel. The lady who initially greeted us was overweight and had a large boil under her left eye, and was excited when we notified her that we needed a room. She showed us the rooms and asked for $7 per night (which is pretty standard for an off-season hostel) which we agreed to, happy that we at least had a place to stay. Upon further inspection, we quickly noticed the lack of toilet seats, the boasted "air conditioning" (which consisted of a table fan screwed into the ceiling) and the maid service, which I'm sure was just a nickname for the bugs scuttling across the floor. That first night we were drunk, so we really didn't care.

We woke up early the next morning and found a place to eat breakfast, and were hassled right away by a man who wanted to take us on a tour of the humpback whales for $15 a person. We bartered him down to 2 people for $15, and we soon found ourselves out on the Pacific whale-watching. The $7.50 was well spent-- every few minutes a whale would show its dorsal somewhere in front of us, and our boat would zoom closer to get a better look. At one point we were about 15 feet away from a whale, which oddly coincides with the times my intestines started to twist and turn inside my abdomen. Turns out the egg that I ordered for breakfast was probably not the best idea. The ensuing two hours were most definitely the most uncomfortable I'd ever been in my life, and I wasn't really sure of the Spanish word for diarrhea, so I just sat still hoping the tour would be over soon. On return to land, I bolted for the toilet-seatless toilet while my friend paid for me.

The beach was a neat place, but incredibly touristy. Every 10 feet there was someone selling shaved ice, ceviche (which probably shouldn't be served from beachside carts), ice cream, and fresh fruit. I swam the first day I was there, but salt walt is super dehydrating, so that was about it for me. At one point I went back to the pool at our hostel because it just felt a lot more clean.

The pool was actually at our second hostel, called "El Tiburón" (the shark), which was pure luxury compared to the first. We tried to sneak out of our first hostel, as we discovered Tiburón an hour after check-out time, but the lady stopped us and told us we were breaking contract. The fact that we hadn't signed a contract played a big role in our decision, and we were convinced of leaving when she tried to make us pay for two of our other friends who arrived the very next day and needed a place to put their backpacks. She claimed that a backpack in a room is like a person staying over night. We rolled our eyes and shoved past her.

Tiburón had hammocks, a waterslide, a pool, new sheets in every room, and no cockroaches (they fumigate, we were told).

(MORE ON THIS TO COME, I HAVE TO GO SALSA DANCING RIGHT NOW)

La Mitad del Mundo

School has been wreaking havoc on my life as of late; I believe I finally have a set schedule. What’s more, it really ought to be set, because if I can’t add a class anymore and dropping one would not only put me below full time status, but would also incite a $50 fine which I’m not about to pay.

            Our French class has continually been put on hold because of no available room space. Actually, a number of my friends and I were initially excited when we started school, because we saw that a lot of our classes were in a building marked AULAND. Imagine how stupid we all felt when, attempting to find the building, we were told it stood for Aula Indeterminada (Undetermined Room).  Yea. Stupid foreigners, right?

            Anyhow, to continue with French, which I need for my minor, I had to move to another class at a time that conflicted with my Quichua class. So I had to drop that one and find another class that wasn’t full and was at least remotely interesting to me, if not applicable toward my St. Norbert classes. I settled on German. I also chose a class called The Films of Alfred Hitchcock, which should be interesting to say the least.

            This past week my friend Mallory turned 23, so we celebrated accordingly at a place called Loco Por Futbol (Crazy for Soccer).  It was a decent time with hamburgers bigger than those I serve at Red Robin (imagine that!). We then made our way to Chupito’s, a bar with shots for only $1.50. One of the best things about Quito is that you can take a taxi downtown for about $2, so getting pissed up is never really a problem. What IS a problem, however, is that after getting home I’ve thrown up twice now from drinking. I don’t ever really drink much, but I think the altitude is something not to be reckoned with. I’ll have to be more careful about that in the future.

            Anyhow, I had Friday off, on Thursday night a bunch of us went to buy tickets for the soccer game on Saturday and then see a movie in the middle of the city. We saw a horror flick called “El Orfanato” filmed in Spain. It was a great movie, and I was surprised that I could understand almost fully all of the dialogue.

            On Friday, a bunch of us took a trip on the Teleférico, a cable car that suspends passengers above a huge sloped mountain and offers a panoramic view of the entire city of Quito. After being in the tiny car for about twenty minutes with my knuckles as white as the cable car itself, I was astounded at the beautiful view before me. Quito’s long and narrow perimeter wasn’t visible even on the top of the mountain, where the air was a good twenty degrees cooler. It was also significantly more difficult to breathe, and so as my friends ventured up the mountain further, I decided to stay behind and have a smoke. The buzz was much better than normal.

            After almost having a panic attack on the way down, my friends and I decided to celebrate by going shopping in the city center. I got my hair cut for a dollar (the price was about right) and then went shopping at a nearby mall where all the clothes are rip-off designers. I got a D&G sweatshirt and a few T-shirts after haggling with a few of the shopkeepers, and then met up with my friend Nate who recently bought a car because he hates busses. I don’t understand how you can hate busses so much where you’d want to waste $6,000 on a car in Quito, where the traffic is so horrible it would take you 20 minutes to go around the block, but I figured if he had the money that must be motive enough.

            The ride back home to quick change before a Friday night party we went to proved interesting to say the least. Almost all the cars here are standard, and the hilly terrain caused Nate to clunk out three times, the worst of which was when we were stopped heading upwards on a hill. In order to move forward, he had to release the clutch and floor the gas just right, and we almost hit the truck behind. I vowed never to ride with him again, which lasted about 3 hours until I needed a ride home.

            The party was almost impossible to find, tucked away in a gated environment guarded by giant structures similar to toll booths. We arrived promptly and I had a really great time; a huge group of my friends from school came and we all danced. I probably had a little too much of  a good time, as after this party was the second time my dinner came up at 3 am.

            The next day, the same group went to a soccer game, which is a qualifying game for Ecuador in the World Cup, held in 2010 in South Africa. These games are intense, and I donned a jersey, a huge clown-ish hate, some face paint and a giant five-foot flag that I waved every time our team scored the 3 points we did. At one point, Bolivia scored (only once) and the team’s fans, who were pocketed throughout the stadium, proudly screamed with delight and held their flag high. I kid you not, half the stadium turned to these fans and yelled obscenities like hideputa (son-of-a-bitch). At one point, the entire stadium began to chant it, at that alone was a sight to see. Imagine an entire stadium (see pictures) chanting a swear word. I swear, I learned more potty talk there than I have in my entire 12 years of Spanish. The police presented themselves multiple times to stop mini-riots that broke out in the crowd. It was absolutely ludicrous.

            Following the game, a bunch of us went out drinking (I swear it's the national pastime here) and then went salsa dancing, where I received some lessons in the dance that everyone in the country seems to be a professional at. I got home around 1:30, anxious for today’s trip to la Mitad del Mundo (middle of the world) where you can do some amazing things.

            Santiago picked us all up around 11:30 and we drove to the monument, which boasts to be at the very center of the earth. What’s comical is that the actual equator (proved through GPS tracking) is about 300 meters south, where another museum sits, which we promptly visited.

            We took a tour and learned about the native tribe that thrived on the equator hundreds of years ago, complete with shrunken heads, actual dead tarantulas and anacondas. I shot a dart through a tube and hit a tiny cactus target and learned about the equinox on the equator. The tour included some really interesting demonstrations, including watching water turn clockwise about two feet north of the equator and counterclockwise just south of it. I balanced an egg on a nail (there is almost no centrifugal force), and was lifted in the air by four people who only used their first two fingers on each of their hands. The forces also make it considerably more difficult to walk in a straight line with your eyes closed. It was all really interesting.

            Then we visited a volcano crater, where people have made a small society. At around 4:00, the clouds all move in, and you can’t see into the valley, and we watch the fog creep down the sides of the mountain, blanketing the rock in a cottony mass. It was really neat.

            It was another great weekend, filled with some interesting sites and awesome learning experiences. I think next weekend we’re going to Otavalo, where they have a huge market. Should be fun!

This is the monument (which isn't correct) that marks the middle of the world.

This is a diagram showing how to shrink heads. It was pretty graphic.

This is me trying to balance myself on the equator. Difficult!

OHMYGOD! I balanced an egg on a nail!

This is how the natives harvested good energy. I happen to be doing it at the ACTUAL center of the earth's surface.

Given the crazyness of all this middle-of-the-world talk, I though it appropriate to be upside down near the monument.

Outside the soccer stadium.

An entire section of the field was draped in a gargantuan flag depicting the words "Ecuador, Mi Pais" or "Ecuador, My Country"

Look at all those yellow jerseys!

Mark, Mikaela, Felipe, Santiago, Kayla, Marshall, Margaret, Mikaela, Rachel and me

Just before my salsa lesson!

My best friend in Ecuador, Margaret.

Baños

This weekend was an absolute blast [for the most part]. Thursday night a bunch of us went out to an Argentinian steakhouse and then went dancing. It was fun, except when I'm in a large group of people, I tend to sweat a lot, which procures quite a bit of stink-eyes.

After a severely hung over Friday morning, a bunch of us decided on a whim to take a 3.5 hour bus ride to a tourist city called Baños (which literally translates to 'Baths'). The town is known for its large indigenous population and natural hot springs. Unfortunately, the combination of these two things made it impossible to enjoy either, as the multiple times our group tried to enter the Springs it was chock full of the indigenous. But we still were able to do a lot of other things.

I guess I'll start earlier. We (and by we I mean five of my gringo friends) decided to meet at 11:30 at a nearby bus station and leave from there. One girl stayed over at two of my other friends', so she had to travel a half an hour each direction to pack some stuff, so we pushed our meeting time back to 1. Then another of our friends decided he wanted to come, and one of our original group decided to invite this (uneducated, annoying, and altogether quirky and unwholesome) girl he was seeing, thus inspiring other to invite other people, and so on and so forth. Our group grew to about 15 people, which is an abhorring number of people to travel with. 

After thinking the bus station was one way, then directing our taxi cab to two incorrect locations, we finally found the "Terminal Terrestre" which is home to busses that travel all over Ecuador. After boarding our bus and buying some alcohol (a native brew called "Cristal" [not the expensive kind]), we were soon on our way. Our bus driver was absolutely nuts. It was nerve-wracking enough driving over steep cliffs with guard-rails of approximately five inches, but he felt the need to pass everyone. Keep in mind, this guy was passing sports cars and motorbikes by driving into on-coming traffic. Often times, passee would speed up, stranding our bus in a lane with traffic traveling the opposite way. When this happened, cars would often careen toward us, forcing the driver to change lanes to the left AGAIN into a non-existent lane, teetering on the edge that led into deep, rocky basins. I was in the second row, so I could see absolutely everything that was happening, and let me tell you, it was not so much fun.

I figured a little alcohol would call me down, and so reaching into our bag, I opened up the Cristal. Imagine my surprise when I smelled it and there was no stench of vodka or tequila, just a stagnant odor of crushed-up peas lingering in my nostrils. I practically vomited all over my friend Marshall in the next seat. 

When the alcohol proved to be an impossible option, I laid back and prayed for it to be over, but it only got worse. The driver continued to pass cars, now not only on mountain edges, but while going around curves where the traffic was impossible to predict. He also did not turn his headlights on the entire drive, which began at 6:00 pm (the sun sets here at 6:20, remember) and ended three and a half hours later.

As much as I thought I was going to die, I was much relieved when we arrived in Baños all in one piece. We immediately went out to eat at a Swiss Bistro (it was difficult finding room for 15 of us to eat together) and then to a bar, but most of us retired early, exhausted from traveling.

It was agreed that our entire group was to go bike-riding the next day, which proved to be an interesting feat.  Entrusting our safety to an 18-year-old Ecuadorian tour guide, we all went biking through the Andes to see a few "cascadas" (waterfalls). At one point, the road entered a mountain, and with no other passable route, all fifteen of us had to ride about 500 m (nearly 1800 ft) through a straight tunnel with no lights. It was possible to see the other end of the tunnel, but about half-way through, it became pitch black, which is dangerous with 15 bikers going 15 different speeds. I was third in line almost the entire tour (which I found ironic considering I had a cigarette in my mouth half the time), so I only had to worry about 2 people in front of me in the tunnel. When we exited, all of us stopped to wait and make sure nobody was left behind. When there was only 13, some of us began to worry. We yelled into the tunnel, and were then informed by our British friend Megan that Rick (her traveling mate) and an artisan named Leah who was staying at our hostel were still in the tunnel. Megan noted that she had heard a few rocks skid, but didn't think it sounded much like a grave fall, but her estimate proved wrong as we heard the squealing of tires and a car quickly turn on its headlights (yeah, NO ONE drives with their headlights on here, even when they're in a pitch-black tunnel) followed but the shadow of Rick in front of the car, bending over to pick up his bicycle. Both Leah and Rick exited the tunnel about 5 minutes later, Leah bloody and ripped-up from flipping over Rick after he fell. It was comical, largely because Rick spent the morning saying he hadn't ridden a bike since he was seven and wasn't much looking forward to biking, followed by Megan's echo that Rick is probably the most un-athletic person she knows.

After that adventure, we visited "El Manto de la Novia" (the veil of the fiancée), which a waterfall that you can visit but taking a cablecar hundreds of feet about the rocky Andean terrain. That was really interesting; someone like me who is scared of everything traveling by a thin cable. Needless to say, my face was white upon return to land.

We also visited "El Pailon del Diablo", a waterfall named from the devil's face that appears in the rocks at the bottom. I'll post pictures when I get them, they're AMAZING, but the hike down to see it was brutal. We literally walked to the bottom of the Andes, no easy feat, and then had to climb and crouch through cave walls nearly a yard tall (if you can imagine Gollum from Lord of the Rings, you can get a pretty clear picture) to walk behind the waterfall and view its power in full force. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring at the same time. The sheer power of the water hitting the ground and bouncing back up reminded me of a miniature Niagara Falls. 

We visited one more cascada called El Machay, where we all swam. It was awesome. Imagine a blue lagoon with 2 giant waterfalls falling from above. The only unpleasantry was the rocky bottom of the stream with cut my feet up a little bit, but it almost seemed like a scene from Turistas. We all stripped to our underwear and just jumped in. Incredible.

Anyways, after that, the bike trip went smoothly. Some of my friends went bungee jumping and some almost got hit by oncoming traffic, but we all got back in one piece safely. That night we took a volcano tour that began at promptly 9:15. We had all decided we were hungry beforehand, so I spoke with the hostel owners to ask what was fast, cheap, and good, because we decided to eat together at 8:30. After hearing of a place that serves great Ecuadorian food, some idiot in our group decided to veer off toward a place called Café Good, which took an average of 45 minutes to prepare anything with meat on the menu. Nobody bothered to ask, however, so I was entrusted with the task of returning to our hostel where we were supposed to meet for the volcano tour, and demand of the guide that she wait another 15 minutes for everyone to arrive. I was furious. I may not have intricately planned where we were eating, but I had a plan and this stupid girl blew it all off to go somewhere on a whim, and all 15 of us followed her like lemmings. I wish she would have fallen off the Chiva that we traveled on (sort of like a short bus, but you can ride on top) to get to the top of the mountain.

The next day 5 people decided to go horse-back riding, which cost $25 that a third of the group didn't have, and they stayed persistent even though it was freezing and rainy. I stayed behind with my friend Mook who took the Canadian artisan Leah up on her offer to put a wrap through his dreads. Everyone left periodically through out the day, separately, the weekend having taken its toll on our collective friendships. I will never travel with a group that large again.

After another three and half hour ride that took almost four, I arrived in Quito, but not after suffering about 5 soiled baby diapers and a smushed bus filled with people who don't shower. See, the bus lines here like to make extra money, so even though every seat is filled, the driver picks up people on the side of the road who pay half the price to stand the entire way and make the ride uncomfortable for the rest of us. The corruption is so prevalent in this country, its very disempowering to know that even though I paid fully for my ticket, I can't prevent the bus companies from doing what they want to do. 

I went to a bookshop called Papiros yesterday to pick up 2 text books from a store required by my Spanish class. After getting home, I realized that they had given me two of the same books, so now I have to take another hour bus ride just to exchange them. How annoying.

I have class soon, so I better stop here. I believe I'm going to a soccer game this weekend, so that should be fun! Hasta pronto...

Chuchaki Moral

            Today was the first day of classes, which went pretty well. I miss my first one, because I tried to find my schedule on the computer, but I don’t have internet at home and the internet here was initially really slow until I got my computer configured.  Spanish went well, but I wasn’t expecting too much of a challenge as I’m stuck in a country where everyone only speaks Spanish, and the class is less advanced than a few I have taken at St. Norbert.

            Last night was CRAZY! They had an orientation party at a place call Mulligan’s located in the Mariscal district, which they warned us never to go to. Our ticket included two beers, but the majority of students bought more and got really hammered and then proceeded across the street to smoke hookah.  I might this really awesome guy named Santi who offered to take us (two girls and me) home, and he started showing off by careening through the hilly streets and fast speeds and slamming on the brakes. Needless to say, this dangerous activity didn’t happen without consequences. The car spun out of control, slamming his tire onto the curb (which in Quito can range anywhere from 10” to a foot and a half) and dislodging the tire from the rim of his car. Everyone was alright, and I found it ironic that his first car accident (or minor annoyance) happened when he was showing off. But everyone was fine, so it didn’t much matter.

            I got about 5 hours of sleep last night due to having to take a taxi home with a girl who had no idea where she lives. This was the same girl who kept asking Santi what his favorite school was (expecting an enthusiastic BELOIT, where she comes from). That school has an outrageous drinking problem, as was evidence in this tiny girl. At about 5’4”, she downed nearly ten beers and regaled us all with stories of her university’s “drinking team” and their nightly encounters. After we finally found her house, my friend Margaret gave perfect directions to her house. We had a little trouble finding my house as well, but the cab driver seemed content with everything. I got home around 3:30 and only had to get up at 8, which was extremely difficult. Once I got to school, however, the sickness quickly left me, and I was able to spend time with all of my friends.

            At the party I met a girl name Michelle from Canada. Although I was surprised at how little she represented the typical Canadian (she only said “eh” about once every five minutes), I didn’t fail to take notice of the small pronunciation differences. She doesn’t live in a house, she lives in a hewse. But it doesn’t really matter much, because the poor pronunciation gives way to an absolutely astounding and perfect French accent from her childhood near Ottawa. There are two other guys in our program from Canada, one name Guillaume and one named Colin. They’re all super friendly, and we all took a trip to the grocery store yesterday (hilariously called SuperMaxi, which sounds like a gargantuan sanitary napkin) and to the cell phone store to purchase phones.

            I also pretty much completely remade my schedule, dropping Sanskrit which I really excited to take. Unfortunately, the class ends at around 7, when it is completely dark in Quito. I don’t know if I mentioned, but the sun rises and sets at 6:30 every 12 hours. You can set your watch by it.

            At around 3, I returned home (safely, which gave me a lot of confidence about my traveling skills). My host mother brought me to hem my pants that I had bought, and I think I can pick them up tomorrow. While in Cumbayá, I went to a store selling videos, expecting to buy something that would entertain me for the rest of the evening, as my host family tends to keep to themselves (which I am more than ok with). I bought 2 seasons of Sex & The City, a season of the Simpsons; Run, Lola, Run and Juno. And what was my final price, you ask? An astounding $22.25. Normally, that would cost me over one hundred dollars in the States. The movies are all pirated, but their quality is just as good as the originals, as I soon found out when I got home.

            I had a headache after watching one movie, and went to bed around 7:00 pm. I think my host mother prepared me dinner, but I slept soundly throughout the night, most likely from the five hours I received the night before. A full twelve hours later, I started it all over again.

Orientación

The last two days have been particularly stressful. The more I stay in this place, the more I feel as if the way I live my life is one giant sin. I woke up this morning, insistent on ignoring any part of the conversation I had had the night before with Magda, and the morning was off to a pretty brisk start.

            I woke up at 5:45 am, as my 9:00 am arousal the day before left me feeling like a lazy oaf thanks to my host-mother, who briefly mentioned she thought she’d have to wake me up if I’d have slept any later. This was said from a woman who told me I could sleep late given that it was a vacation day. Regardless, I took a shower for about fifteen minutes. This is more time that I have spent bathing myself in the last two days put together, as this morning I realized that you have to just barely touch the knob if you want anything other than scalding-cold water to dump on your head. The problem with this is that barely touching the knob also reduces the water pressure, so even if I had wanted a quick shower, I would have had to have stayed for as long as I did just to get the soap off of my body. Magui arose at around 6:45, a full thirty minutes after I was ready. By that time I had retired back to bed, fully clothed, with some reading material.

            We took the buses to Cumbayá where orientation was to take place. The buses jerk everyone around, more so those who were standing for lack of room, which we had to do because of the packed bus. Without explaining whom you paid or what you did, Magui did everything like a robot, and I was left deducing what I could from the two green and white transfer tickets she grasped firmly in her hands. “Tienes que buscar el rojo de la esquina, y después el verde que tiene CUMBAYÁ escrito enfrente,” she told me. These were about the only words she spoke on the 40 minute ride, but I was at ease knowing that at least silence granted me amnesty from her counseling.

            When I arrived at school, I sat down and was soon greeted with a warm and friendly hug from Margaret about two minutes into the presentation. The campus is absolutely gorgeous, with architecture borrowed from various cultures to construct the gym (or la pagoda, as they call it, a Japanese style building with a large, open interior to allow for various sports), the Offices of Administration (Da Vinci, built like a Greek temple), and the book store, which is a modern-design sight to behold with windows all along the exterior. Amidst luscious Japanese cherry trees and stone fountains, students were lazily reclined with their computers in tow. We have been instructed to never bring out laptops to school, as it runs the risk of burglary while on the bus. I still don’t know how I’m supposed to access the internet if I can’t take advantage of USFQ’s free wireless internet (which, by the way, Margaret has with her host family. JEALOUS!).

            Orientation focused largely on the issue of security, which I understood, but it startled me that it was the main focus for everything. I still don’t know when I’m supposed to get my books, or even where my classes are. I suppose I will find that out tomorrow; perhaps Margaret and I can go together to make it a little more fun.

            Magda picked me up promptly at 1:30 and fed me a large lunch, after which I asked her if it would be alright if I went to the internet café down the road. I needed to stop at a cajero automático (ATM) first, however, and she told me to take a taxi to el Banco Pichincha. I don’t know how to hail a cab, and she said the fare would be less than a dollar, so I figured I could find it myself. After walking about 10 blocks and seeing nothing but tight-cornered individual shops (and about 20 hair salons, seriously, do Ecuadorians need that many?) I gave up and headed back toward the internet store with my $3 in cash in my pocket. Let me tell you, I knew being in Ecuador as a gringo would probably cite a lot of stares from the natives, but I wasn’t prepared when a toothless old man holding his dog began to chant homosexual, homosexual when I walked by. I wanted to turn around and say, “No, Americano. Nice try, but the nice clothes just mean I come from a wealthier country than yours,” but I couldn’t because, well, for one I was afraid he’d bite me and give me rabies. Second, he was right. I am gay. But how the hell did he know that?

            This preoccupied the majority of my thoughts on the way to the internet café. I know I exhibit somewhat less of what is typically expected from a male, but is it really that obvious? People can tell by how I walk? This scares me, as I now am beginning to see myself as one of those flamboyantly feminine gays that I vowed I would never become. I promptly called my mom from una cabina telefónica and just started crying. How am I supposed to live in a place where I feel insecure in almost every single part of the city? What’s more, I’m not just a target for people wanting to rob a well-to-do American, now those with a vengeance against homosexuals can wreak havoc on me as well.

            My mother did a swell job of calming me down, as she always does, urging me to contact Maricarmen in the Office of International Programs at USFQ, who sets up the family stays. While moving away from the this family is the very last thing I want to do, it might be necessary. Then again, I have believed everything that I have learned about this culture from a sixty-year-old woman, who may not know the modern ways of society. I was told today that they do have gay pride parades and a gay-friendly sector of town, but machismo has greatly slowed the progression of civil rights. As the vice president so eloquently recounted today, “We are not the United States. Ecuadorians will say to you that all blacks are lazy because they simply believe it to be true. We never had a Civil Rights Movement like the US.” This means a lot, especially because Civil Rights set ground rules for just and unjust treatment of those different from oneself. Maybe the university environment will help make me feel more at home.

            Tonight we’re having a Fiesta de Integración at a place called Mulligan’s Pub & Grill. Hopefully it will help ease some of my fears, as I certainly can’t do a lot worse. It sucks feeling trapped in this basement room, listening to nothing but the cackles of my host-brother and host-mother from the blare of the television. It reminds of that movie Matilda.

            I just have to remind myself to be strong. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t expect it to be like this, especially after I’ve spent so much time trying to master Spanish. I’m way ahead of some of my counterparts, as was visible from some people in my tour group today who got flustered after not forming a verb correctly and defaulting to English. But, alas, life is difficult. I have to remember as well that I come from a country with many more opportunities and a lot more advances than this third-world zone of hypocrisy. Bueno, ya he escrito suficiente para hoy. Hasta mañana (si todavía estoy VIVIENDO mañana).

San Agustín Hates the Gays!

Today was interesting, tiring, disappointing, beautiful, crazy and oh-so-different. I woke up this morning a little late (around 9:00 am, which for me is super EARLY) and Magda had prepared pancakes for me. She also poured me a cup of Colombian coffee before I had a chance to say I dislike coffee, so I gulped it down quickly, chocking the experience up to having tried actual Colombian coffee. Needless to say, it still tastes just as bad. It's just from a different country.

After breakfast, we were planning to go to immigration to process my visa. Before leaving, my host mother and I began to sift through all the papers and make sure they were in the proper order. When we couldn't find a slip of paper to vouch for "entrada al país" (or the stamp that they put in the passport when you arrive, for those of you that don't speak Spanish), I couldn't find it in the passport. This is a major problem because it basically is proof that I actually entered the country legally through the airlines. After pretty much freaking out (I felt horrible because my host mother had to accompany me to the airport to find out why my book wasn't stamped), we were directed to three different offices. Keep in mind this is the third time I've been to the airport in three days. HECTIC. The immigration officer sifted through my passport and found the stamp, a collection of light (very light) words that, upon first glance, simply appeared to be the shadow of George Washington's head of a background picture of Mount Rushmore. The trip to the airport proved to be needless, as the stamp had been there all along.

Still feeling like the day was a slow-ticking time bomb, we headed to the middle of town to register my visa. We had to wait for two and a half hours. It was like the DMV from hell. Finally, everything was worked out, and we began to head home. I had mentioned to Magda that the cool weather up here (due to the high elevation) made me think I should probably buy some more pants. She concluded that we would venture out after lunch to see some churches and monuments, and also visit the Centro Comercial.

After a lunch or rice, beans, avocado, ice cream, pork, and a cheesy soup with popcorn inside, we ventured to the Centro. The roads are all at a steep incline and the majority of them are one-way, which made me think of how French villas are often pictured, with dirty laundry hanging high above the heads of pedestrians. Except in place of dirty laundry, there are large signs advertising everything, tight-cornered shops selling everything from individual cigarettes to jewel-encrusted lizards to Diesel jeans. After parking the car in this teeny tiny stall (I swear, my host mother has super-powers when it comes to parking a car in a 10" x 6" area), we shopped around a bit and I got 2 pair of jeans and a pair of Bermudas for $50. That may seem like a lot, but the jeans were both Diesel (which range from $140-$180 in the US) and Speedo. Increíble!

After this we walked around and visited a lot of churches, including el Convento de San Agustín. More like a museum, we pay "sueltos" (tips) to enter and the tour guide talking rapidly about the history of this intricately-adorned nunnery. From the ceiling hung golden mini-pineapples, gargantuan 30" paintings adorned the walls, and we even got to visit the catacombs. We saw multiple churches, whose inside were encrusted with pure gold and statues of saints and wooden sepulchers. I wasn't able to take pictures, but I got some of the outside of the building and I'll post them tomorrow.

Anyhow, this is kind of where the day took a digger. My host mother mentioned to me multiple times that I'm "gordito" (a seemingly friendly way to call me fat) and on the right home, she kept telling me about how the Ecuadorian public was staring at me (which I knew) not only because I was white (which I believed was the reason) but because I was so flamboyant and obviously gay. Last night she expressed her beliefs that she respects who I am, but believes it to be wrong, a genetic defect. I understand that this is the culture, and the "machismo" view kind of hinders self-expression when it comes to gays, but she went so far as to "counsel me", as she put it, that I should act less gay in public. Not only that, but it was "obvious" to her and her children that I was gay when I sent my photos over the internet before arriving, and that they all "sat around laughing". I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to the fact that my host family thinks I'm a big fat (literally) homo. Not only that, but this experience is supposed to broaden my horizons, and if I have to close off who I am and change how I act, aren't I actually limiting my horizons? I know Magda doesn't mean to be offensive, just blunt, and I respect her and her discriminating culture because it's all the family knows, but I almost began crying in the car when she told me she was laughing at me before I arrived, but immediately stopped, because that would be feminine and atypical of a male. 

So now I'm trying to not really talk at all. I think I'm going to stop wearing vests, because as I've said before, you can spot a gay a mile away if he's wearing a vest. I've always been open, but it's difficult to respect the culture here while maintaining my own actual persona. I've always been behind U.S. bashing because the majority of the idiosynchrosies that are observed by foreigners are usually true, but how am I supposed to respond when the woman who claims to completely respect me regardless of my sexual orientation explicitly speaks of her ill-thoughts about gay adoption? I'm sorry, but if I'm the one who is culturally limited, why is it that I can speak your language and am living in your country whilst you cannot even correctly pronounce Ellen DeGeneres? (Seriously, it sounded like Helen Deechenerts, it took like 2 minutes to figure out what she was saying). The lady is seriously blunt, and friendly when it comes to amicable conversation, but no more talk about gay. Ever. I think I'll politely refuse to comment if it comes up again. I've been able to adapt to a lot of things, but usually people maintain some sort of open-mindedness or they wouldn't host international students, am I right? Apparently not.

Anyhow, I know that was a rant, but it sucks not feeling comfortable in your own skin. The only English contact I've had in the last 2 days was journaling on here and reading my David Sedaris books, which, while hilarious, don't do much for making me less homesick. Tomorrow I get to see Terra and Margaret, which will hopefully calm me down a little, but I think until then I'll keep to myself. I feel as if I've been entirely adequate as a house-guest-- politely asking to use the internet for no more than 30 minutes at a time, thanking my host-mother graciously for every meal, I even gave her $30 today for gas (which, by the way, is only $1.48 a gallon here). After that, she opened up a little, but in return from being polite (which is more than I can say for most Americans), I get ridiculed about my sexuality. This is AWESOME.

I can't wait to start school. Maybe the students at USFQ will be more tolerant as a younger generation should be. That way, I can build a routine and not have to worry about how my host-mother views her host-son. And seeing Marg and Terra will help immensely.

Don't worry, Mom. I can handle my own. It's nothing I haven't dealt with. It's just usually I don't have to LIVE with ignoramuses. More on this tomorrow.

First Full Day in Quito

Well, after a particularly stressful trip to Ecuador, things seem to finally be falling into place. When I initially left Chicago on the 22^nd, my first plane was delayed by an hour and a half. Stranded in Houston, Texas, a particularly friendly Albertan name Allison befriended me, and we shared a shuttle to the Baymont Hotel.

Immediately after settling in my room, I made my way to the bar and met Rubén. As we got to talking, it became pretty clear that he was gay when he described his general dislike for sports and love of Gloria Trevi. I found it ironic that I had found what was most likely the only gay person working within a mile (read: male) radius. What can I say? We can smell each other.

The next morning I met up with Allison on the shuttle, accompanied her through security and waited for almost three hours for me re-routed flight to Miami. Having been advised to expect turbulence because of tropical storm Fay, I began to freak out. I sat next to a girl from Lubbock name Eva Ceja (read: Eva Eyebrow) and began hyperventilating (or so it seemed) when the plane began to veer and dip. Two bottles of ($6) wine promptly calmed my nerves. I found it odd and particularly annoying that a flight to Miami from Houston is 2 hours and 18 minutes, while a flight from Chicago to Houston is only 2:05. Nevertheless, I arrived safely and began searching for the gate to Quito.

Miami’s airport is disorganized and annoying. If it hadn’t been for the help of a very polite flight attendant, I think would have yelled bomb and then hid behind a palm tree. For starters, the airport is shaped like a gigantic horseshoe with gates A through H spanning the curve. After landing in H, I exited the terminal and headed toward terminal D. It was severely annoying that I had to leave a terminal and re-enter security, but my layover was about an hour and ten minutes from exit to takeoff, so I wasn’t too worried. As I briskly power-walked my way across the floor, I began to notice that all of the security lines for each terminal were getting longer and longer. As I approached the F gates, I heard a voice over the loudspeaker call, “Ryan Reed, please report to terminal H gate (indistinguishable) to retrieve a lost item.” I immediately realized that I had left my wallet on the plane. Thankful that I would have it in my grasp before I realized it was missing on the plane to Quito, I realized that a re-entry to terminal H would require waiting in a security line stretching longer than a ticket counter for the Jonas Brothers, finding the item and then sprinting toward terminal D to make a flight in a little under 40 minutes. That, my friend, would be impossible, even for Superman.

I’m going to pause here because I remember something that happened just before I heard my name on the loudspeaker. Because airport terminals are entirely non-smoking (that includes the outside unless specially designated), I decided I need a smoke to calm my nerves. I walked out the doors (knowing I’d have to re-enter security anyhow) and began to follow the signs that read “Designated Smoking Area This Way.” After passing several entries back into the airport, I saw a sign that had the same message, but pointed in the opposite direction. I figured I’d walked right past the area, and began to backtrack. About twenty steps away, I again saw the same five words, except this time the arrow was pointed directly up. Not north, UP. Apparently my only hope would have been to be Superman after all, as only he could have reached the designated smoking area that was apparently hovering between the first and second floor outside of terminal G.

Anyhow, after giving up on my smoke and freaking out about my wallet, I made my way to the Continental Airlines baggage check-in, where I was told I needed to obtain a white slip of paper granting me access to re-enter terminal H without going through security. With only two people working and a line of 30+ people forming behind me, two foreign idiots lazily and slowly aided a Russian family with 4 kids who packed, unpacked, and repacked their bags to meet the weight requirements and a little boy who couldn’t fly without his grandmother’s permission. She, however, was not there. After waiting in (the front of) the line for nearly 35 minutes (and being accused of some Miami Hispanic trash that I had skipped in line because the only people he saw in front of him were two old ladies), the man behind the counter told me that my lost article was being delivered to American Airlines, the airline of my connecting flight. I then had fifteen minutes to get through security and board the plane before take-off. Luckily, when I reached security, the guard saw that I was running late and led me through a line with only 2 people. I made it to the gate, but the lady who was boarding told me she had never heard about any wallet.

I was about ready to explode. I couldn’t leave for Quito without my wallet, which had $200 in cash, my ID and my only bank card in it. After barely holding back punching the attendant for American, I was tapped on the shoulder by a beautiful stewardess (who at this point gave off a luminescent glow given her angelic presence) who politely asked if my name was Ryan Reed. I saw my wallet and she said she needed to call my dad, which she had done for me, and reported to him that everything was great and that I was safely on my way. Thank the Lord for Continental Airlines. And fuck the Miami Airport staff.

Anyhow, the plane ride to Quito went smoothly, especially after the fiasco I had experienced, but nobody had warned me the descent into the Quito airport was like being dropped from a skyscraper. Given Ecuador’s mountainous terrain and Quito’s position as a valley entirely surrounded by mountains, the plane has a very limited time to reach a very specific point on the (only) runway if it doesn’t want to plow into the city nestles in the side of Mt. Pichincha. We landed safely, and assumed my luggage to have arrived the previous day given my absence on the connecting flight from Houston, and left to find my host mother and brother, patiently awaiting with an 8.5 x 11” sheet of paper with my name written in bold letters.

We picked up a few necessities at a nearby convenience store and drove home. The plane arrived at 6:30 pm, and the entire city was black. Because of Quito’s elevation, the sun sets here around 6:15 at night, blanketing it with 12 hours of pure darkness. So far it’s pretty cool.

The house is beautiful. It is long and narrow with a patio in the middle. I have a bedroom in the basement with my own private bathroom, which suits me well as I sleep better when it’s a little cooler outside. I stayed up with Magdalena (my host mother) and Gabi (host brother) chatting until nearly eleven when, exhausted, I went to bed.

Today was the day we returned to the airport to retrieve my luggage, which actually was on the flight that I was on, so I could have had it when I needed it. I unpacked, and we took a short ride to Cumbayá where my University is. Because today is Sunday it was closed, but I got to see where it would be. The buildings here are colored with beautiful hues of green and blue, and shades of adobe decorate the luscious green hills. In Quito, it is impossible to turn in any direction and see anything but a mountain or a volcano. In some directions, as was today, the top of the mountains are invisible; they are covered by clouds. The city’s 1.5 million people drive (horribly), and at high speeds often careen around the sides of the mountains. Multiple times today I had to remind myself that I was in the hands of an experienced driver, otherwise I would screamed, fearing that we were going to fly off the side of the road, hundreds of feet below.

After viewing the university, we stopped at a place for lunch called the “Palacio de Friteros” or something like that. It was very strange. The whole place was packed, because it was a weekend. We ordered our food at the cashier, and in order to secure ourselves a table, we sat at a dirty one recently occupied and waited for the busser to clean it. The busser then verifies the order and delivers it. It was odd purposefully sitting at a dirty table, but I’m told the restaurant isn’t as dense during the weekdays. Afterward, we drive home via a tunnel through one of the mountains. If I were a Verizon customer, I would have tried to get reception, and if I did, I would have asked, “Can you hear me now?” It would make the perfect commercial. 

These are some pictures of my room.

And there's some more. Enjoy.