Following carnival and its madness, I had assumed classes would resume and continue uninterrupted for several weeks. After all, there arn't any Catholic holidays on the calendar until Semana Santa and Easter nor are there any important civic celebrations in Ecuador nor Zamora-Chinchipe.
Yet, classes were once again suspended for more than a week for the annual sports championships. In the absence of organized youth sports, students rarely have the opportunity to compete in formal competitions. The colegio, therefore, organizes a week of athletics each year in which each parallelo competes against their peers in basketball and soccer. Students can also elect to participate in an ecuavolley tournament (a national version of volleyball in which the net is a bit higher and athletes can palm the ball), table tennis, and chess.
As an avid athlete, I eagerly awaited the week of competition although I did admittedly question why sports were being prioritized over academics for such a long period of time when the games could easily occur after classes. Moreover, I was a bit skeptical of the uniform requirement; rather than utilizing “pinnies” to differentiate between teams, athletes were required to purchase their classes chosen uniform. These were not cheap; a complete uniform including the requisite shorts, socks, and shirts valued roughly $14.00. In a city in which six pound of potatoes costs $1.00, this is a lot of money.
Many students, therefore, could not afford to compete. Yet, they still had to come to school and watch their peers play in games that they love as well. Fair? No. In fact, such discrimination—and it is discrimination in my opinion-- could have consequences that will extend far beyond the end of competition on Monday. By barring impoverished students from competing without uniforms, the school is subtly suggesting that they are not full members of the community. This, I suspect, could potential increase the numbers of poorer students leaving school given that they do not seem as valued as their more affluent peers. Wouldn't it be a better idea to buy a few pinnies to use in each game and allow all to compete?
In spite of my anger regarding the uniform rule and its overemphasis on appearance as opposed to inclusivity, the week was rather enjoyable and quite interesting. As basketball is a relatively new sport in Ecuador, few teachers have even a rough grasp of the rules. I had to, therefore, referee a ridiculous number of games which proved challenging as I barely know the rules and the students have little experience in organized athletics. As they—especially the young women—rarely have the opportunity to play, few can successfully play following the rules. Thus, they resort to hitting and kicking their opponents as a means of competiting and winning. Moreover, they seem unable to control their anger on the court perhaps due to a lack of practice. Girls, therefore, expressed their frusterating by physically fighting with each other. Not an ideal situation for an inexperienced basketball referee such as myself.
4.3.12
26.2.12
The Water Wars: Ecuador
Snipers. Ambushes. Bombas.
The Water Wars have come to Zamora.
As in most communities throughout South America, the week preceding Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent are marked by a period of excess and celebration: Carnival. In Zamora, for instance, the entire city and surrounding barrios are transformed into war zones as both everyone becomes immensed in a gigantic water fight.
At any moment, you are at risk. Water balloons soar off roof tops. Students chase innocent teacher across the city while wielding water guns and balloons. If the water runs out, and it did, the war continues regardless. All simply look for other forms of harmless ammunition ranging from flour and eggs to mud and shaving cream. It is absolute mayhem. Families cruise around in the backs of pickup trucks targeting innocent passerbys; children hide in second story windows searching for unwitting pedestrians.
It is, without a doubt, my new favorite holiday.
Officially, festivites began on Friday (although many starting launching water balloons nearly a week earlier) with a gigantic party in the high school. Some activities were relatively mundane—such as tug-of-war and a three-legged race— and others were absolutely shocking including competitions to name the fattest and thinnest student in the school. Needless to say, comments regarding weight and personal appearance are considered completely appropriate in Ecuador.
Meanwhile, in the midst of the ridiculous competitions, water balloons, eggs, flour, achote, mud, and shaving cream soared through the air. I am still trying to scrub the flour out of my hair.
By Saturday morning, the official start of carnival, peaceful Zamora had been transformed into a war zone. As soon as I left my apartment, I was bombarded by balloons. After a perilous jaunt across town in which I proved unable to avoid sniper fire, I finally made it to my host family's house where I moved onto the offense and joined my young host nephews on the rooftop to launch our own balloons at passerbys unknowingly meandering through our line of fire.
After two intense days of warfare, I decided to temporarily relax on Sunday and allow my clothing to dry as much as possible. Thus, I ventured to Vilcabamba to participate in Reto 21x24 in Loja. This is a series of 21 kilometer (13.1 mile) races being hosted in each of Ecuador's 24 provinces to raise awareness about Yasuní National Park and pending oil explorations that will most likely destroy it.
The run started out well; Unfortunately, as we snaked through the valley, we lost sight of both the runners in front of us and those behind us. Completely lost, we began running in circles until finally finding some other athletes; thus, our 21 kilometer run to protect Yasuní had been transformed into a 25 kilometer odessey.
No complaints though. Cool Sierran temperatures and good company make for a great run. Not too mention some bizarre scenery. As we twisted through the mountains, we passed typical Andean villages and affluent hippie enclaves. Hundreds of hippies from across the globe call Vilcabamba home and many have constructed elaborate homes amid the hills.
Following the race, Elizabeth and I had the opportunity to venture into one such hideaway when a local PCV invited us to his weekly basketball game at the home of an ex-pat. The house was,for lack of a better term, insane. It boasted a full-sized basketball court, two water slides reminiscent of those found in Water Country, and a herd of horses. Yet, in spite of its splendor, the enclave made me somewhat uncomfortable. The mansion was located within a fortified community in which dozens of ex-pats live in extreme luxury. Meanwhile, only a few kilometers outside the gate, many Ecuadorians live in poverty. The ex-pats and the Ecuadorians rarely interact; many of the gringos have lived in Ecuador for years, yet haven't even bothered to learn Spanish..
I don't wish to imply that the ex-pats should not be building lavish homes; they earned their money and, therefore, have the right to spend it as they please. Yet, whydo they live in another country if they barely ever interact with their Ecuadorian neighbors and learn about their culture?
After spending a day in the Sierra—where cool temperatures make the water balloons even less desirable—I ventured towards Yantzaza. Given the soaring temperatures in the jungle town, several PCV friends and I immediately joined the mayhem. Armed with water balloons and buckets of water, we began prowling the streets ambushing other rabblerousers. Hours later, dripping wet, we finally wandered back to a local PCVs house knowing that we had most definitely rocked carnival.
It's just a shame it's a bit cold in the United States in February; otherwise Carnival 2014 would definitely be coming your way.
The Water Wars have come to Zamora.
As in most communities throughout South America, the week preceding Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent are marked by a period of excess and celebration: Carnival. In Zamora, for instance, the entire city and surrounding barrios are transformed into war zones as both everyone becomes immensed in a gigantic water fight.
At any moment, you are at risk. Water balloons soar off roof tops. Students chase innocent teacher across the city while wielding water guns and balloons. If the water runs out, and it did, the war continues regardless. All simply look for other forms of harmless ammunition ranging from flour and eggs to mud and shaving cream. It is absolute mayhem. Families cruise around in the backs of pickup trucks targeting innocent passerbys; children hide in second story windows searching for unwitting pedestrians.
It is, without a doubt, my new favorite holiday.
Officially, festivites began on Friday (although many starting launching water balloons nearly a week earlier) with a gigantic party in the high school. Some activities were relatively mundane—such as tug-of-war and a three-legged race— and others were absolutely shocking including competitions to name the fattest and thinnest student in the school. Needless to say, comments regarding weight and personal appearance are considered completely appropriate in Ecuador.
Meanwhile, in the midst of the ridiculous competitions, water balloons, eggs, flour, achote, mud, and shaving cream soared through the air. I am still trying to scrub the flour out of my hair.
By Saturday morning, the official start of carnival, peaceful Zamora had been transformed into a war zone. As soon as I left my apartment, I was bombarded by balloons. After a perilous jaunt across town in which I proved unable to avoid sniper fire, I finally made it to my host family's house where I moved onto the offense and joined my young host nephews on the rooftop to launch our own balloons at passerbys unknowingly meandering through our line of fire.
After two intense days of warfare, I decided to temporarily relax on Sunday and allow my clothing to dry as much as possible. Thus, I ventured to Vilcabamba to participate in Reto 21x24 in Loja. This is a series of 21 kilometer (13.1 mile) races being hosted in each of Ecuador's 24 provinces to raise awareness about Yasuní National Park and pending oil explorations that will most likely destroy it.
The run started out well; Unfortunately, as we snaked through the valley, we lost sight of both the runners in front of us and those behind us. Completely lost, we began running in circles until finally finding some other athletes; thus, our 21 kilometer run to protect Yasuní had been transformed into a 25 kilometer odessey.
No complaints though. Cool Sierran temperatures and good company make for a great run. Not too mention some bizarre scenery. As we twisted through the mountains, we passed typical Andean villages and affluent hippie enclaves. Hundreds of hippies from across the globe call Vilcabamba home and many have constructed elaborate homes amid the hills.
Following the race, Elizabeth and I had the opportunity to venture into one such hideaway when a local PCV invited us to his weekly basketball game at the home of an ex-pat. The house was,for lack of a better term, insane. It boasted a full-sized basketball court, two water slides reminiscent of those found in Water Country, and a herd of horses. Yet, in spite of its splendor, the enclave made me somewhat uncomfortable. The mansion was located within a fortified community in which dozens of ex-pats live in extreme luxury. Meanwhile, only a few kilometers outside the gate, many Ecuadorians live in poverty. The ex-pats and the Ecuadorians rarely interact; many of the gringos have lived in Ecuador for years, yet haven't even bothered to learn Spanish..
I don't wish to imply that the ex-pats should not be building lavish homes; they earned their money and, therefore, have the right to spend it as they please. Yet, whydo they live in another country if they barely ever interact with their Ecuadorian neighbors and learn about their culture?
After spending a day in the Sierra—where cool temperatures make the water balloons even less desirable—I ventured towards Yantzaza. Given the soaring temperatures in the jungle town, several PCV friends and I immediately joined the mayhem. Armed with water balloons and buckets of water, we began prowling the streets ambushing other rabblerousers. Hours later, dripping wet, we finally wandered back to a local PCVs house knowing that we had most definitely rocked carnival.
It's just a shame it's a bit cold in the United States in February; otherwise Carnival 2014 would definitely be coming your way.
11.2.12
Stereotypically Peace Corps
Under the scorching mid-morning sun, the other competitors and I lined up in front of the church in El Pangui. After months of training, I was finally going to race in Zamora-Chinchipe. I was, of course, quite excited in spite of the less-than-desirable conditions including muddy and uneven roads and temperatures that soared to well over 100 degrees.
As we stood waiting for the race to begin, roughly 2 ½ hours later than scheduled, the coordinators madde an announcement. Due to the weather conditions, the women's race was being shortened to roughly 7 kilometers as opposed to about 9 kilometers. The men would still run the full route, he explained, but the women, being weaker, could reasonably only be expected to do six loops through the Amazonian city of about 6,000.
This announcement shouldn't have been too surprising; rural Ecuadorian communities are often extremely machista and women are only beginning to enjoy significant athletic opportunities. Moreover, even in the United States, a country that prides itself on gender “equality,” female cross country athletes in the NCAA run less than their male counterparts, Yet, I could not believe it.
There was no time to complain, however. Within seconds, the race had begun and a herd of runners began charging through the town. By the end of the first loop, I had opened a huge gap on the other women and was running with a pack of male runners. For the next five laps, I wove amongst them while listening to spectators commenting on the “impossible”--a woman running amongst the men.
After completing the six laps, I crossed the finish line in first place in the women's competition. To my great annoyance, the race officials chose to comment on my “beautiful eyes” as opposed to my performance in the race when they greeted me after I won. Why comment on my achievements when you can discuss my appearance? After all, in the words of a fellow female PCV, some Ecuadorians seem to believe that women are only here for men's viewing pleasure.
As my anger mounted, I was suddenly swarmed by children and teenagers hoping to congratulate me. Not only did they comment on a job well done, but many mentioned that they could not believe that a woman could run with the men. It was, in seemed, almost unfathomable to them. Yet, they had just seen it. They had to believe it in spite of the machista values and stereotypes that are all too common in many rural communities.
Ultimately, will it matter? Probably not. But, being foolishly optimistic, I like to think that maybe a few of the girls will start training and stop listening to local values that put far too much emphasis on traditional gender roles and not enough emphasis on pursuing your goals and doing what you love whether it falls within traditional male or females spheres.
As we stood waiting for the race to begin, roughly 2 ½ hours later than scheduled, the coordinators madde an announcement. Due to the weather conditions, the women's race was being shortened to roughly 7 kilometers as opposed to about 9 kilometers. The men would still run the full route, he explained, but the women, being weaker, could reasonably only be expected to do six loops through the Amazonian city of about 6,000.
This announcement shouldn't have been too surprising; rural Ecuadorian communities are often extremely machista and women are only beginning to enjoy significant athletic opportunities. Moreover, even in the United States, a country that prides itself on gender “equality,” female cross country athletes in the NCAA run less than their male counterparts, Yet, I could not believe it.
There was no time to complain, however. Within seconds, the race had begun and a herd of runners began charging through the town. By the end of the first loop, I had opened a huge gap on the other women and was running with a pack of male runners. For the next five laps, I wove amongst them while listening to spectators commenting on the “impossible”--a woman running amongst the men.
After completing the six laps, I crossed the finish line in first place in the women's competition. To my great annoyance, the race officials chose to comment on my “beautiful eyes” as opposed to my performance in the race when they greeted me after I won. Why comment on my achievements when you can discuss my appearance? After all, in the words of a fellow female PCV, some Ecuadorians seem to believe that women are only here for men's viewing pleasure.
As my anger mounted, I was suddenly swarmed by children and teenagers hoping to congratulate me. Not only did they comment on a job well done, but many mentioned that they could not believe that a woman could run with the men. It was, in seemed, almost unfathomable to them. Yet, they had just seen it. They had to believe it in spite of the machista values and stereotypes that are all too common in many rural communities.
Ultimately, will it matter? Probably not. But, being foolishly optimistic, I like to think that maybe a few of the girls will start training and stop listening to local values that put far too much emphasis on traditional gender roles and not enough emphasis on pursuing your goals and doing what you love whether it falls within traditional male or females spheres.
10.2.12
Barro, Fango, Lodo and MUD!
Although the Spanish language has far fewer words than the English language, it still has a plethora of terms for mud incluing barro, fango, and lodo. And, following recent trips to Nangaritza and Vilcabamba, I understand why. During the rainy season in Ecuador, everything turns to mud and, it appears, I will neer have white socks again.
As we did not have classes at the end of the first week of February, several PCVs and I trekked to Nanagaritza to spend the night in the rainforest along the Peruvian border. It seemed like it would be a simple trip; catch a bus to Guaysimi in Zamora and hire a camioneta to take us to cabins in the village of Las Orquideas about 1 ½ hours beyond Guaysimi. Yet, our plans were derailed soon after leaving as the rainy season had created new rivers crossing the dirt road. The camioneta we had hired in Guaysimi could not pass. We had no choice but to pay the driver and abandon the truck and continue on foot. Thus, we forded the river on foot (in spite of our reservations after years of dying tragically fording rivers in Oregon Trail), carrying our food, backpacks, guitars, etc. above the swirling water. Although it was a bit nerve wracking to walk through the quickly moving current, we finally made it across and contiinued until we arrived at our cabin and briefy settling in before trekking through the vegetation to a beautiful waterfall.
Early the next morning, we borded a boat on Rio Nangaritza in spite of the pouring rain. For the next couple hours, we cruised past Shuar communities only accessible by canoe en route to El Laberinto de Mil Ilusiones. Upon arriving we began a relatively short hike through knee deep muck and towering rainforest greenery to the caves.
In spite of the muddy uphill trek, it was a worthwhile journey with a rather jarring end. Soon after encountering the caves, we wandered upon a faded warning sign alerting us to a surrounding minefield. Only a couple decades ago, Ecuador and Peru were briefly at war over the province of Zamora-Chinchipe and its immense mineral wealth. During this period, the Ecuadorian government laid minefields along the border (and, presumably, the Peruvian government did the same in its territory). Although the war soon ended, the minefields remain and, according to our local guide, continue to kill. Only last year, a man was killed by a landmine only a few yards from the trail. Given the remote location and impoverished population, I suspect that the fields will never be cleaned—an extremely costly and dangerous process and will continue to leave all at risk. Ironically, Ecuador retained the land and the precious metals beneath it, but, in the process, made the land much more perilous for all. Moreover, most local populations will not benefit from the mines, the largest of which are not even operated by Ecuadorian companies but by the Canadian multinational corporation Kinross.
A few days and about four bars of soap after leaving Nangaritza, I was traveling once again albeit only for a brief interlude. On Superbowl Sunday, I trekked to the village of Vilcabamba, famed for the longevity of its population and the large number of gringos seeking immortality who have moved there. In the morning and afternoon, I once again spent hour sludging through the mud while hiking. Once again worthwhile, although I've had to spend far too much time scrubbing my clothes on my piedra recently. After the hike, we ventured to the lone restaurant showing the Superbowl. A local PCV had persuaded the owner to show the game; as he used to live in Boston, he agreed to open his restaurant which is normally closed on Sunday nights and allow us to watch the madness. It was a great game; until the final minutes when the Patriots lost anyways, and we thus headed back to our sites mourning the loss as we prepared to resume work the next morning.
As we did not have classes at the end of the first week of February, several PCVs and I trekked to Nanagaritza to spend the night in the rainforest along the Peruvian border. It seemed like it would be a simple trip; catch a bus to Guaysimi in Zamora and hire a camioneta to take us to cabins in the village of Las Orquideas about 1 ½ hours beyond Guaysimi. Yet, our plans were derailed soon after leaving as the rainy season had created new rivers crossing the dirt road. The camioneta we had hired in Guaysimi could not pass. We had no choice but to pay the driver and abandon the truck and continue on foot. Thus, we forded the river on foot (in spite of our reservations after years of dying tragically fording rivers in Oregon Trail), carrying our food, backpacks, guitars, etc. above the swirling water. Although it was a bit nerve wracking to walk through the quickly moving current, we finally made it across and contiinued until we arrived at our cabin and briefy settling in before trekking through the vegetation to a beautiful waterfall.
Early the next morning, we borded a boat on Rio Nangaritza in spite of the pouring rain. For the next couple hours, we cruised past Shuar communities only accessible by canoe en route to El Laberinto de Mil Ilusiones. Upon arriving we began a relatively short hike through knee deep muck and towering rainforest greenery to the caves.
In spite of the muddy uphill trek, it was a worthwhile journey with a rather jarring end. Soon after encountering the caves, we wandered upon a faded warning sign alerting us to a surrounding minefield. Only a couple decades ago, Ecuador and Peru were briefly at war over the province of Zamora-Chinchipe and its immense mineral wealth. During this period, the Ecuadorian government laid minefields along the border (and, presumably, the Peruvian government did the same in its territory). Although the war soon ended, the minefields remain and, according to our local guide, continue to kill. Only last year, a man was killed by a landmine only a few yards from the trail. Given the remote location and impoverished population, I suspect that the fields will never be cleaned—an extremely costly and dangerous process and will continue to leave all at risk. Ironically, Ecuador retained the land and the precious metals beneath it, but, in the process, made the land much more perilous for all. Moreover, most local populations will not benefit from the mines, the largest of which are not even operated by Ecuadorian companies but by the Canadian multinational corporation Kinross.
A few days and about four bars of soap after leaving Nangaritza, I was traveling once again albeit only for a brief interlude. On Superbowl Sunday, I trekked to the village of Vilcabamba, famed for the longevity of its population and the large number of gringos seeking immortality who have moved there. In the morning and afternoon, I once again spent hour sludging through the mud while hiking. Once again worthwhile, although I've had to spend far too much time scrubbing my clothes on my piedra recently. After the hike, we ventured to the lone restaurant showing the Superbowl. A local PCV had persuaded the owner to show the game; as he used to live in Boston, he agreed to open his restaurant which is normally closed on Sunday nights and allow us to watch the madness. It was a great game; until the final minutes when the Patriots lost anyways, and we thus headed back to our sites mourning the loss as we prepared to resume work the next morning.
28.1.12
The Rhythm of Life
In Zamora, the first days of January not only mark the beginning of a new year, but also the start of the rainy seasons. For the past month, I have been brutally roused from my dreams by the sound of torrential downpours beating on the tin roof of my apartment nearly every morning. The rains continue until mid-morning when the sun temporarily emerges and the temperature soars. For a moment, we enjoy magnificent views of the already verdent hillsides that are now scarred by long swathes of reddish mud from the frequent landslides and the sparkling blue skies until storm clouds gather once again and the cycle continues.
Despite of the onslaught of rain, life in Zamora has resumed its rhythm. Much of my week is spent in the high school learning about education, Ecuador, and the intricacies of the English language. In terms of the educational system, I am becoming increasingly vexed by many of the structural problems found in Ecuador and beyond. For example, in each grade level, there are several classes—denoted as A,B,C and so forth—that remain the same until students specialize in their fourth year. Once I began teaching in the colegio, I almost immediately noticed that the students in A tended to behave better than those in other classes and receive higher grades. I was told that it had to do with previous scholastic performance, but I have since learned that this is not the case. Rather, classes are formed as students matriculate in the colegio. At first, this seems somewhat fair; it's first come, first serve after all. Yet, it creates classrooms in which the parents prioritized enrollment in the colegio—often indicating that they highly value education-- and classrooms in which the parents lagged behind for whatever reason. I suspect that the majority still value education; they just lack the time and resources necessary to enroll their children promptly. Unfortunately, this may suggest that they also do not have the time and resources needed to support heir children throughout the year. Thus, the colegio has classes with deeply involved parents who even organize impromptu mingas to paint the classroom and others in which no parents arrived for mandatory meetings with the directors of each class. Given the importance of parental involvement in education, this obviously creates a chasm between the classes with some overflowing with involved parents and others with very few if any active guardians. An inbalance—much like that created by the introduction of charter schools in the United States—consequently forms between the classes.
And, without question, all of the students in the colegio should have access to the same resources and support networks. Those with parents deeply involved in the school are not necessarily smarter; after all, on a recent test taken by all of my students in octavo (seventh grade), 8C had a higher class average than my other octavo classes in spite of their reputation as a mischievous bunch that barely ever studied. And the students in all classes – A, B, C, D, and E continue to impress me. Some—who are only twelve years old—work shining shoes, selling produce, and collecting bus fare for hours after school in order to help their families. Others live without parents who immigrated to Spain years ago. In some cases, they are not even living with relatives. One fourteen-year-old recently revealed that he lives with his seventeen-year-old brother with no adult supervision—they cook, they clean, and they survive without much help while their parents work across the Atlantic.
Apart from teaching past tense verbs and learning about the challenges facing my students, I have recently begun another project at the high school. As a means of demonstrating the value of recycling and eventually decorating the school, we recently planted oodles of flowers in pots made from recycled tires. Eventually, we would like to plant vegetables—a healthier snack than almost anything currently available to students during break (salchipapas anyone?)--and create a garden of sorts that addresses various issues simultaneously including trash management and nutrition.
Yet, while I often feel as if I live in the colegio, life procedes beyond its gates as well. Babies are born— many, many, many babies considering that 1/10 Ecuadorian women is pregnant or nursing at any given time—, adults marry, and the elderly die. Recently, I've had the opportunity to experience the latter two events.
Last weekend, an Ecuadorian friend married and I attended the wedding. The ceremony was scheduled to begin at 7:00, but, in typical Ecuadorian fashion, even the priest arrived late. At 7:30, the bride finally waltzed down the aisle and the ceremony began. It was surprisingly similar to a wedding in the United States; apart from the language, the only notable difference occurred when the newlyweds were tied together with a rope and left así for the remainder of the mass. I later discovered that this is not, however, an Ecuadorian tradition nor a Zamoreñan tradition; it was just the couple's crazy idea. Following the ceremony, there was a reception in a rather ritzy hosteria in the countryside. After gourging ourselves on impossibly delicious food and cake, the dancing began and proceeded until nearly all men under the age of thirty had jumped into the pool and, unfortunately, succeeded in throwing the gringa in as well. Luckily, it is never cold in Zamora-Chinchipe.
Only a few days after the wedding, Zamorans awoke to much more depressing news. The father of the colegio's rector, essentially the principal, had passed away after a short, intense battle with cancer. According to Ecuadorian tradition, the body remained in the home until it was buried the following day with friends and family watching over it. Thus, the staff of the colegio went to the home on Monday afternoon and accompanied the rector and his family for a bit. The following day, classes were also cancelled and we attended the funeral. Although Ecuador is predominantly Catholic, the family is evangelical. Thus, a ceremony—which about half the city attended—was held outside. Although it appeared solomn near the family, the other areas proved a bit raucious. Vendors were even selling shaved ice along the fringes of the crowd. After the ceremony, the family carried the coffin the the cementary, which was about ½ from the house and the amassed crowd trailed behind, blocking the roads. Once we finally arrived, the coffin was placed within on its shelf as bodies are generally not buried in the ground in South America and the crowd dispersed.
Despite of the onslaught of rain, life in Zamora has resumed its rhythm. Much of my week is spent in the high school learning about education, Ecuador, and the intricacies of the English language. In terms of the educational system, I am becoming increasingly vexed by many of the structural problems found in Ecuador and beyond. For example, in each grade level, there are several classes—denoted as A,B,C and so forth—that remain the same until students specialize in their fourth year. Once I began teaching in the colegio, I almost immediately noticed that the students in A tended to behave better than those in other classes and receive higher grades. I was told that it had to do with previous scholastic performance, but I have since learned that this is not the case. Rather, classes are formed as students matriculate in the colegio. At first, this seems somewhat fair; it's first come, first serve after all. Yet, it creates classrooms in which the parents prioritized enrollment in the colegio—often indicating that they highly value education-- and classrooms in which the parents lagged behind for whatever reason. I suspect that the majority still value education; they just lack the time and resources necessary to enroll their children promptly. Unfortunately, this may suggest that they also do not have the time and resources needed to support heir children throughout the year. Thus, the colegio has classes with deeply involved parents who even organize impromptu mingas to paint the classroom and others in which no parents arrived for mandatory meetings with the directors of each class. Given the importance of parental involvement in education, this obviously creates a chasm between the classes with some overflowing with involved parents and others with very few if any active guardians. An inbalance—much like that created by the introduction of charter schools in the United States—consequently forms between the classes.
And, without question, all of the students in the colegio should have access to the same resources and support networks. Those with parents deeply involved in the school are not necessarily smarter; after all, on a recent test taken by all of my students in octavo (seventh grade), 8C had a higher class average than my other octavo classes in spite of their reputation as a mischievous bunch that barely ever studied. And the students in all classes – A, B, C, D, and E continue to impress me. Some—who are only twelve years old—work shining shoes, selling produce, and collecting bus fare for hours after school in order to help their families. Others live without parents who immigrated to Spain years ago. In some cases, they are not even living with relatives. One fourteen-year-old recently revealed that he lives with his seventeen-year-old brother with no adult supervision—they cook, they clean, and they survive without much help while their parents work across the Atlantic.
Apart from teaching past tense verbs and learning about the challenges facing my students, I have recently begun another project at the high school. As a means of demonstrating the value of recycling and eventually decorating the school, we recently planted oodles of flowers in pots made from recycled tires. Eventually, we would like to plant vegetables—a healthier snack than almost anything currently available to students during break (salchipapas anyone?)--and create a garden of sorts that addresses various issues simultaneously including trash management and nutrition.
Yet, while I often feel as if I live in the colegio, life procedes beyond its gates as well. Babies are born— many, many, many babies considering that 1/10 Ecuadorian women is pregnant or nursing at any given time—, adults marry, and the elderly die. Recently, I've had the opportunity to experience the latter two events.
Last weekend, an Ecuadorian friend married and I attended the wedding. The ceremony was scheduled to begin at 7:00, but, in typical Ecuadorian fashion, even the priest arrived late. At 7:30, the bride finally waltzed down the aisle and the ceremony began. It was surprisingly similar to a wedding in the United States; apart from the language, the only notable difference occurred when the newlyweds were tied together with a rope and left así for the remainder of the mass. I later discovered that this is not, however, an Ecuadorian tradition nor a Zamoreñan tradition; it was just the couple's crazy idea. Following the ceremony, there was a reception in a rather ritzy hosteria in the countryside. After gourging ourselves on impossibly delicious food and cake, the dancing began and proceeded until nearly all men under the age of thirty had jumped into the pool and, unfortunately, succeeded in throwing the gringa in as well. Luckily, it is never cold in Zamora-Chinchipe.
Only a few days after the wedding, Zamorans awoke to much more depressing news. The father of the colegio's rector, essentially the principal, had passed away after a short, intense battle with cancer. According to Ecuadorian tradition, the body remained in the home until it was buried the following day with friends and family watching over it. Thus, the staff of the colegio went to the home on Monday afternoon and accompanied the rector and his family for a bit. The following day, classes were also cancelled and we attended the funeral. Although Ecuador is predominantly Catholic, the family is evangelical. Thus, a ceremony—which about half the city attended—was held outside. Although it appeared solomn near the family, the other areas proved a bit raucious. Vendors were even selling shaved ice along the fringes of the crowd. After the ceremony, the family carried the coffin the the cementary, which was about ½ from the house and the amassed crowd trailed behind, blocking the roads. Once we finally arrived, the coffin was placed within on its shelf as bodies are generally not buried in the ground in South America and the crowd dispersed.
15.1.12
Quémala, Quémala
“Burn it. Burn it.” Seconds after the chant erupted amongst the assembled family members, the pile of large dolls had been doused in gasoline and set afire. As the dolls roasted, children and adults alike began jumping over the inferno and dancing in the streets. The dolls, representing the bad of the past year, were burning and optimism about the good to come in 2012 had set in throughout Zamora.
Although the coming of the New Year is celebrated across the globe, traditions obviously vary significantly depending local culture and beliefs. In Ecuador, the night begins sedately before erupting into to wild party lasting well past dawn.
Rather than spending New Year's eve surrounded by gringos, I decided to return to Zamora amongst my Ecuadorian friends and neighbors. Unsurprisingly, given the importance of family in Ecuador, the early evening was generally spent surrounded by relatives. I did not, however, spend it alone although my entire family resides in the northern hemisphere as another teacher in the colegio generously invited Will and I to have dinner with his family.
Following the meal, we meandered through Zamora looking at the elaborate displays of “año viejos” or male dolls representing the bad of 2011. The paper maché creations were beautiful; not only did they often caricature unpopular politicians, but they often held signs with witty statements decrying political and personal decisions made during the past year. Although I enjoyed seeing the dolls, it was somewhat bittersweet knowing that the artwork would be set aflame only a few hours later at midnight.
In spite of the clear and breezy night in the jungle, not all was tranquilo in Zamora. According to Ecuadorian tradition, the widows of the año viejo lurked in the streets seeking help. This belief manifests itself as dozens of adolescent boys dressing in women's clothing and blocking roads while begging for money. On almost every road in town, groups of men in women's attire had strung ropes to stop cars who they then subsequently bothered until they received a few coins. It was, to put it mildly, a truly odd sight.
After wandering through almost the entirety of Zamora, Will and I joined our friend Mayra and her family to watch as they burned their año viejos and celebrated the beginning of 2012. We watched as the dolls burned in the street and joined the family as they danced to salsa and cumbia music as the clock struck midnight. By 1:30, we had all shifted down towards the riverfront and discotecas where we joined several other friends and danced until dawn. Literally. I left at 5:30 AM and was later informed by several Ecuadorian friends that I had missed out by leaving so early. The party, it seems, did not end until 8:30 AM.
Although the coming of the New Year is celebrated across the globe, traditions obviously vary significantly depending local culture and beliefs. In Ecuador, the night begins sedately before erupting into to wild party lasting well past dawn.
Rather than spending New Year's eve surrounded by gringos, I decided to return to Zamora amongst my Ecuadorian friends and neighbors. Unsurprisingly, given the importance of family in Ecuador, the early evening was generally spent surrounded by relatives. I did not, however, spend it alone although my entire family resides in the northern hemisphere as another teacher in the colegio generously invited Will and I to have dinner with his family.
Following the meal, we meandered through Zamora looking at the elaborate displays of “año viejos” or male dolls representing the bad of 2011. The paper maché creations were beautiful; not only did they often caricature unpopular politicians, but they often held signs with witty statements decrying political and personal decisions made during the past year. Although I enjoyed seeing the dolls, it was somewhat bittersweet knowing that the artwork would be set aflame only a few hours later at midnight.
In spite of the clear and breezy night in the jungle, not all was tranquilo in Zamora. According to Ecuadorian tradition, the widows of the año viejo lurked in the streets seeking help. This belief manifests itself as dozens of adolescent boys dressing in women's clothing and blocking roads while begging for money. On almost every road in town, groups of men in women's attire had strung ropes to stop cars who they then subsequently bothered until they received a few coins. It was, to put it mildly, a truly odd sight.
After wandering through almost the entirety of Zamora, Will and I joined our friend Mayra and her family to watch as they burned their año viejos and celebrated the beginning of 2012. We watched as the dolls burned in the street and joined the family as they danced to salsa and cumbia music as the clock struck midnight. By 1:30, we had all shifted down towards the riverfront and discotecas where we joined several other friends and danced until dawn. Literally. I left at 5:30 AM and was later informed by several Ecuadorian friends that I had missed out by leaving so early. The party, it seems, did not end until 8:30 AM.
1.1.12
Neither HOME nor ALONE: Christmas in Ecuador
Given that the vast majority of Ecuadorians identify as Christian, Christmas is an incredibly important holiday in my new home. Preparations began in mid-November much as they would in the United States. Stores began selling gifts and Christmas swag—my favorite being icicle lights and paper snowmen given that it will never snow in Zamora barring another ice age. Globalization much?
By the start of December, preparations had begun in the colegio. On the final Friday before Christmas, each class was allowed to prepare a Christmas party. This seems relatively benign—students ostensibly only miss one day of classes—but preparations consumed almost the entirety of the month. In reality, most missed almost all classes in whatever subject is given by their head teacher or dirigente.
The parties were, however, a resounding success. Students prepared gigantic meals, traded gifts, danced, and played games. And competed in an enormous cake fight and, somehow, forgot that I am a teacher and covered my in peach and strawberry flavored frosting. I definitely lost round one, but I'm not worried—cake and other such ammunition is available in January as well.
In addition to celebrating with the students, the colegio conducted a Christmas dinner for staff in a stunning restaurant on a hill in nearby Cumbaratza. The food was delightful and included both shrimp and turkey (traditional Christmas fare in Ecuador) as well as far too much chocolate and dessert. The evening ended with a few hours of salsa, merengue, cumbia and my two left feet struggling across the dance floor.
After celebrating with my collegues at the Christmas dinner until nearly 2:00 AM, I raced back to the penthouse to grab my things and begin my trek to Puerto Lopez, the beachside town where I planned to spend the holidays with several of my friends. I had my travel plans arranged down to the minute: 2:30 bus to Loja arriving at 3:50 followed by a 4:00 bus to Cuenca and so forth. Thus, imagine my horror when I discovered that the 2:30 bus to Loja had been cancelled without warning. How would I arrive in Puerto Lopez before nightfall?
The Christmas miracle, obviously. As I stood on the nearly vacant platform in dismay, a cab driver from Loja approached. As he needed to return to Loja, he offered to take four passengers waiting for the non-existant bus for only $5.00 each (the fare between Zamora and Loja usually runs about $30). On a whim, I accepted the offer and somehow arrived ontime to catch my terrifying bus to Loja that may have been both the fastest and most terrifying bus I have taken in Ecuador. Several bus rides later, I finally arrived in Puerto Lopez. After briefly checking into the hostel, I joined my friends on the beach to relax alongside the waves and chat about the absurdities of life in Ecuador.
Christmas day soon arrived and, as the early bird I am, I crawled out of bed long before the others to enjoy a run along the beach and amid the tropical dry forest surrounding the small fishing town. Although interesting to see, tropical dry forest is resoundingly ugly. It consists of dense scrubland and squat leafless trees (that photosynthesize through their greenish-brown bark) and dirt.
By noon, everyone had emerged from our rooms and we ventured to the beach to lounge in the sun, frolic in the waves, and become insanely sunburn in spite of the thick layers of sunscreen applied almost hourly. Gotta love equatorial sun. Too soon, we watched the sunset, enjoyed Christmas dinner, and wandered back to the hotel where we curled up with childhood Christmas movie classics (Love Actually and Home Alone)H, a box of wine, and the hostel owner's pitbull. For a moment, everything was tranquilo.
Suddenly, as we took detailed notes on who has it worse in Home Alone—Merv or Harry—the dog jumped up and sprinted into the underbrush and ate a possum the size of a small cat. As we constantly reitereated throughout the week, that is a no. Then, lusting more blood, he proceeded to attack another smaller dog on the premises. That is definitely a no.
Slightly terrified, we eventually rescued the small dog with the help of the hostel owners and the dogs were removed to the owners' rooms in the complex. And we once again relaxed and debated the level of pain inherent to being blow torched on the head versus stepping on nails and assorted Christmas ornaments.
By 4:00AM, we tumbled into bed absolutely exhausted. Luckily, we did not need to rise particularly early in the morning as we only planned to spend another day lounging in the sun and playing soccer amid the waves.
We did, however, need to arise early on Tuesday as we planned to trek to Isla de la Plata—a nearby island affectionately known as the “Poor Man's Galapagos.” After a lengthy boatride to the island on which I saw a whale, we spent several hours hiking around the barren scrubland and watching the infamous blue footed boobies. Their feet were, I believe, the only thing with any color on the entire island.
Following the hike, we returned to boat and snorkled in the tropical waters. I spotted several sea turtles, oodles of brightly colored fish before a friend noted an eerie dark shadow on the bottom. It was either a shark or a string ray (RIP Steve Irwin). Regardless, I was not about to take any unnecessary chances; it was definately time to return to the boat and head back to the mainland.
Although we had originally planned to return to our sites early Wednesday AM, we decided to delay our return for several hours. As the sun rose behind a thick layer of clouds at 5:45 AM, a friend and I ventured down to the beach to watch local fisherman bringing in their catch and essentially auctioning it off to restaurant owners and vendors. It was absolute mayhem made even better by the big bowl of encebollado (fish and onion soup) that we purchased from a vendor catering to the fishermen.
After loitering for a bit, we returned to the hostel, and went for a run along the beach before scouting out buses for the beginning of our epic trip home which included a man announcing to the bus that he was going to rob us (he didn't), a man essentially yodeling for more than an hour, meeting two former PCVs from Costa Rica in the 1970s now working at a medical clinic in nearby Guadalupe, and far too many crying and screaming babies.
Exhausted after 14 hours crammed onto various buses, I finally arrived in Zamora and lugged my bags back to my penthouse thinking that it was, without a doubt, the best and weirdest Christmas ever.
By the start of December, preparations had begun in the colegio. On the final Friday before Christmas, each class was allowed to prepare a Christmas party. This seems relatively benign—students ostensibly only miss one day of classes—but preparations consumed almost the entirety of the month. In reality, most missed almost all classes in whatever subject is given by their head teacher or dirigente.
The parties were, however, a resounding success. Students prepared gigantic meals, traded gifts, danced, and played games. And competed in an enormous cake fight and, somehow, forgot that I am a teacher and covered my in peach and strawberry flavored frosting. I definitely lost round one, but I'm not worried—cake and other such ammunition is available in January as well.
In addition to celebrating with the students, the colegio conducted a Christmas dinner for staff in a stunning restaurant on a hill in nearby Cumbaratza. The food was delightful and included both shrimp and turkey (traditional Christmas fare in Ecuador) as well as far too much chocolate and dessert. The evening ended with a few hours of salsa, merengue, cumbia and my two left feet struggling across the dance floor.
After celebrating with my collegues at the Christmas dinner until nearly 2:00 AM, I raced back to the penthouse to grab my things and begin my trek to Puerto Lopez, the beachside town where I planned to spend the holidays with several of my friends. I had my travel plans arranged down to the minute: 2:30 bus to Loja arriving at 3:50 followed by a 4:00 bus to Cuenca and so forth. Thus, imagine my horror when I discovered that the 2:30 bus to Loja had been cancelled without warning. How would I arrive in Puerto Lopez before nightfall?
The Christmas miracle, obviously. As I stood on the nearly vacant platform in dismay, a cab driver from Loja approached. As he needed to return to Loja, he offered to take four passengers waiting for the non-existant bus for only $5.00 each (the fare between Zamora and Loja usually runs about $30). On a whim, I accepted the offer and somehow arrived ontime to catch my terrifying bus to Loja that may have been both the fastest and most terrifying bus I have taken in Ecuador. Several bus rides later, I finally arrived in Puerto Lopez. After briefly checking into the hostel, I joined my friends on the beach to relax alongside the waves and chat about the absurdities of life in Ecuador.
Christmas day soon arrived and, as the early bird I am, I crawled out of bed long before the others to enjoy a run along the beach and amid the tropical dry forest surrounding the small fishing town. Although interesting to see, tropical dry forest is resoundingly ugly. It consists of dense scrubland and squat leafless trees (that photosynthesize through their greenish-brown bark) and dirt.
By noon, everyone had emerged from our rooms and we ventured to the beach to lounge in the sun, frolic in the waves, and become insanely sunburn in spite of the thick layers of sunscreen applied almost hourly. Gotta love equatorial sun. Too soon, we watched the sunset, enjoyed Christmas dinner, and wandered back to the hotel where we curled up with childhood Christmas movie classics (Love Actually and Home Alone)H, a box of wine, and the hostel owner's pitbull. For a moment, everything was tranquilo.
Suddenly, as we took detailed notes on who has it worse in Home Alone—Merv or Harry—the dog jumped up and sprinted into the underbrush and ate a possum the size of a small cat. As we constantly reitereated throughout the week, that is a no. Then, lusting more blood, he proceeded to attack another smaller dog on the premises. That is definitely a no.
Slightly terrified, we eventually rescued the small dog with the help of the hostel owners and the dogs were removed to the owners' rooms in the complex. And we once again relaxed and debated the level of pain inherent to being blow torched on the head versus stepping on nails and assorted Christmas ornaments.
By 4:00AM, we tumbled into bed absolutely exhausted. Luckily, we did not need to rise particularly early in the morning as we only planned to spend another day lounging in the sun and playing soccer amid the waves.
We did, however, need to arise early on Tuesday as we planned to trek to Isla de la Plata—a nearby island affectionately known as the “Poor Man's Galapagos.” After a lengthy boatride to the island on which I saw a whale, we spent several hours hiking around the barren scrubland and watching the infamous blue footed boobies. Their feet were, I believe, the only thing with any color on the entire island.
Following the hike, we returned to boat and snorkled in the tropical waters. I spotted several sea turtles, oodles of brightly colored fish before a friend noted an eerie dark shadow on the bottom. It was either a shark or a string ray (RIP Steve Irwin). Regardless, I was not about to take any unnecessary chances; it was definately time to return to the boat and head back to the mainland.
Although we had originally planned to return to our sites early Wednesday AM, we decided to delay our return for several hours. As the sun rose behind a thick layer of clouds at 5:45 AM, a friend and I ventured down to the beach to watch local fisherman bringing in their catch and essentially auctioning it off to restaurant owners and vendors. It was absolute mayhem made even better by the big bowl of encebollado (fish and onion soup) that we purchased from a vendor catering to the fishermen.
After loitering for a bit, we returned to the hostel, and went for a run along the beach before scouting out buses for the beginning of our epic trip home which included a man announcing to the bus that he was going to rob us (he didn't), a man essentially yodeling for more than an hour, meeting two former PCVs from Costa Rica in the 1970s now working at a medical clinic in nearby Guadalupe, and far too many crying and screaming babies.
Exhausted after 14 hours crammed onto various buses, I finally arrived in Zamora and lugged my bags back to my penthouse thinking that it was, without a doubt, the best and weirdest Christmas ever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)