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.
28.1.12
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.
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