It's true. As stated by the title of this blog post and a delightful children's book, everybody poops.
And some poop more than others.
For the past week, I haven't had many adventures outside of work because I have been hiding in the bathroom. I was recently struck by a bout of severe diarrhea lasting several days. Although I have not been sick often since arriving in Quito ten months ago, it wasn't completely surprising. Gastrointestinal problems (AKA diarrhea) is the most common health problem besetting Peace Corps volunteers in Ecuador and worldwide.
Why so much gastrointestinal distress? Some can be attributed to new, albeit relatively harmless, bacteria unknown to volunteers' bodies before going to another country. The majority, however, comes from more sinister sources: harmful bacteria, parasites, worms, and amoebas. Due to unsafe water supplies and subpar food handling in markets and restaurants, the “culprits” enter volunteers' digestive tracts and they are soon racing to the bathroom far too often. Whether inadvertently consuming juice made from tap water when visiting a friend or buying a pincho (a shish kabob made of beef, sausage, peppers, potatoes, and plantains available on most street corners) from a vendor who forgot to wash his hands after handling raw meat, there are dozens of ways to contract these pests even if the volunteer consciously boils all water and thoroughly cooks all meat at home.
As volunteers, however, we are lucky to have numerous resources available to counteract bacteria, parasites, worms, amoebas, etc. We are counseled by Peace Corps medical staff in Quito as to how to do stool samples and, depending on the result, which medicines will have us back to normal as soon as possible. In the meantime, our medical kits are equipped with large supplies of rehydration salts so we can avoid dehydration. Mixed with Gatorade, the salts don't even taste too bad.
Many others plagued by these pests and the consequential diarrhea are not so lucky. Across the world, diarrhea is the second leading cause of death amongst children under the age of five; generally, it is not the poop that kills them but the resulting dehydration. Unfortunately, oftentimes, the very dirty water than made them sick in the first place is the only liquid available to quench their first and they become even sicker.
Death from diarrhea is entirely preventable--access to clean water, access to resources to rehydrate, knowledge. It should be easy. It should be prevented today.
After all, everybody poops. The lucky ones, like me, spend a few days gulping Gatorade spiked with rehydration salts. The unlucky, on the other hand, don´t have the opportunity to tell (or blog) their tale.
4.4.12
20.3.12
Where There Is No Doctor
In spite of universal free healthcare, the impoverished Ecuadorians often lack access to adequate medical care. Statistically, there are 15,866 doctors in Ecuador who serve a population of roughly fourteen million. These numbers are not particularly alarming; they are, in fact, similar to those in most other Latin American countries. Yet, they are not indicative of the realities found in many Ecuadorian communities. Citizens living in poorer and more rural regions, such as the Cantón of Chinchipe, face a far bleaker situation in terms of their health. Often there are no doctors within hours of some communities.
Ultimately, although medical care is guaranteed under the 2008 Constitution, those living in the mountainous jungles of Chinchipe and other widely impoverished and rural zones do not have access to adequate healthcare. Fortunately, there are efforts underway to remedy the problem...no pun intended. A group of American doctors, for instance, recently conducted a health brigade in underserved communities throughout the county including Vallalodid, Porvenir, Palanda, San Fransisco, Zumba, Chito, and San Andres. As a local Peace Corps volunteer, I was asked to accompany the group and provide cultural insights while helping in any way possible (mainly by providing basic information on the importance of boiling drinking water, adequate hydration, and sun protection). Throughout the week, I had the opportunity to observe many of the obstacles hindering universal access to adequate healthcare as well as the impact basic medical care can have on an entire town.
Why do many Ecuadorians lack access to healthcare? In some communities, such as Chito, there is simply no healthcare facility. The town's sub-centro de salud closed more than seven years ago and has yet to reopen. Given that Chito lies more than three hours from the nearest “sizeable” community—Zumba-- along twisting dirt roads prone to landslides (I should know...our medical team's bus was almost pushed off a precipice by a river of mud streaming across the road), residents cannot easily trek to the doctor. One town, San Andres, is so remote that there is significant in-breeding and incest, which has resulted in many severely disabled residents. Thus, many forgo medical care in spite of the obvious need. One woman, for instance, had broken her arm years ago and never received car. The bone was never set; thus, it now protrudes from her arm and she cannot use the arm without enduring agonizing pain. In another, more disturbing case, a man had cut his leg while using a machete several years ago. The wound had since become infected and bacteria had consumed much of his lower leg. Our doctors prescribed an antibiotic that may kill the bacteria, but without the possibility of a skin graft, he will most likely never have a usable leg again. Had he visited a doctor in a timely manner, perhaps this disabling wound on his leg could have been avoided.
Yet, simple access to a hospital, sub-centro de salud, or a pharmacy does not guarantee access to quality healthcare. In one of the most alarming cases seen throughout the week, a twelve-year-old girl visited the clinic with her mother. The young girl—who had already dropped out of school to work on the family's farm—had a bacterial infection in her lungs complicated by an untreated case of asthma. Her mother, recognizing the severity of her daughter's illness, had brought her to a local pharmacist who sold her a large supply of medications including codeine. In many patients, this would not be problematic, but codeine is contraindicated for those with restricted airways (asthmatics for example). Such medicines could, therefore, severely harm the girl. Yet, the untrained pharmacist did not recognize the problem and sold the drugs; had the mother not sought out one of the few sources of medical aid in the community, her daughter may, in fact, have been better off. Yet, not knowing, the mother purchased the drugs. Luckily, the mother then brought the girl to our clinic and the doctors purchased the dangerous drugs before giving the child a more appropriate drug regimen to heal her lungs. A happy ending—except for the sad reality that the asthma is a chronic condition and the girl's mother admitted that it is unlikely she will be able to refill the medication when the girl's new inhaler when it runs out of abuterol in a few short weeks.
The absence of enduring medical care highlights a major problem facing the medical brigade. We are only in each community for a few short days at most; yet, many common conditions require on-going care. For instance, one major healthcare issue is high blood pressure. Although this cannot be cured, it can be regulated by various medications provided the patient follows the same regimen for the rest of their life. If they stop taking the pills, perhaps because they run out, then they blood pressure will spike. It is, therefore, better to never medicate than to begin the drug regimen and stop. Given that follow-up is impossible, our doctors thus needed to decide whether the patient would even be able to refill the medication before deciding whether to give it in the first place. Moreover, some conditions cannot even be addressed as it is far too dangerous to do so without ongoing care. Perhaps one the most delightful patients was 74-year-old Rosa. Always smiling and giving unsolicited advice on marriage, the elderly women lives far in the countryside caring for her severely disabled daughter alone. She has thrived under difficult conditions since the loss of her husband nearly two decades ago. Yet, it is becoming increasingly difficult as she suffers from a severe case of Parkinson's disease. She trembles constantly; she can no longer walk for long periods without toppling over. Medication would help her; unfortunately, the powerful drug regimen must be overseen by a doctor and, as this is impossible, the best remedy available was a relatively benign sleeping pill to help her sleep and calm her nerves.
Not only are many of our patient's conditions untreatable due to their living conditions, but these same living conditions also create many of the conditions. The most common complaints—“machete” elbow and parasites—are virtually unavoidable for the majority of the patients. “Machete” elbow is our nickname for pains caused by farm work; a shocking percentage of the patients arrived with chronic pain stemming from farm work. Logically, to address these pains stemming from repetitive motions, the farmers should avoid using their machetes, milking cows, etc. This is not, however, an option in agricultural communities in which there are few jobs other than farm work and the complete lack of income make retirement utterly impossible. Moreover, many of the patient's conditions stem from the environment in which they live. Amoebas and parasites, for example, proved endemic as many tap water is far from clean and many families get their water from nearby brooks and streams. While boiling water can certainly help, it is not a certain cure as dirty water is often unavoidable; after all how many can refuse a nice cool juice offered by a neighbor who does not boil their water when temperatures soar? Thus, as one mother aptly pointed out, her children have parasites simply because of where they live. They don't do anything and it certainly isn't their fault. It just happens.
A lack of infrastructure capable of supplying impoverished families with clean water is only one of many structural problems hindering the Ecuadorian healthcare system. As a teacher, one of the most bothersome related to education—often the patients lacked the knowledge necessary to protect their health. From not boiling water to eating diets consisting solely of rice and yucca while discarding fruits, the lack of knowledge was constantly imperiling their health. Moreover, many did not have the skills necessary to follow complex drug regimens. No one can be expected to remember how to administer a handful of medications; yet, we often could not write out instructions given our patients never learned to read which is not particularly surprising given that many eleven and twelve-year-old patients had already dropped out of school.
Not only did local structural problems hinder the brigade's ability to help its patients, but the structure of the brigade itself often compromised its success. Many of its problems were, however, unavoidable. For example, the brigade often worked in churches with several doctors crammed into one room. Thus, there was very little privacy for patients reporting their health problems, which proved particularly uncomfortable for many women reporting gynecological problems (unsurprising given that the average women probably had at least ten children). Thus, many seemed reluctant to provide relevant details and, I suspect, some refused to acknowledge such problems at all which is to be expected as their neighbors were often peering through the open windows or crowding around nearby tables eager to hear their complaints.
Moreover, the doctors in the brigade only spent a day in each community; thus, they were often unaware of other resources available to patients. For example, a fourteen-year-old girl arrived with a baby. Both appeared healthy; the girl just had a lengthy list of somatic complaints. The doctor soon began peppering her with questions, trying to find why she seemed to unhappy and reported so many complaints. He soon learned that her significantly-older husband was abusive; yet, she felt she could not leave nor return home. She needed counseling and help, yet apart from some advice, there was little that could be done. No one on our team was familiar with any support available in Palanda for women in abusive homes or even if such resources exist.
In spite of it all, the brigade made a difference. Given the lack of follow-up care, we will never know how many of our patients thrived. Yet, their gratitude, smiles, and the endless stream of “Dios le pagará” (literally, God will pay you) indicated that many will awake feeling better tomorrow, even if its only a bit of a placebo effect. One middle-aged man, who walked for hours to the clinic with his elderly mother, even returned the following day to give us a trash bag stuffed with machete guayabas (a delicious fruit) as a means of saying thank you. Others offered us a place at their table even though they can only feed their children white rice a few times per day. Their generosity was often overwhelming; without a doubt, whether cured or not, their reactions suggested that even the mere attention of a doctor truly mattered.
And, for some, the doctor's advice did cure. Last year, many of the doctor's had treated a three-year-old boy about to die of pneumonia. While they provided the best care possible given the circumstances, they had to leave before it was certain he would survive. Imagine their delight, therefore, when the same four-year-old boy with and enormous smile bounded into the clinic to say hi and thank the doctors who likely saved his life.
Ultimately, although medical care is guaranteed under the 2008 Constitution, those living in the mountainous jungles of Chinchipe and other widely impoverished and rural zones do not have access to adequate healthcare. Fortunately, there are efforts underway to remedy the problem...no pun intended. A group of American doctors, for instance, recently conducted a health brigade in underserved communities throughout the county including Vallalodid, Porvenir, Palanda, San Fransisco, Zumba, Chito, and San Andres. As a local Peace Corps volunteer, I was asked to accompany the group and provide cultural insights while helping in any way possible (mainly by providing basic information on the importance of boiling drinking water, adequate hydration, and sun protection). Throughout the week, I had the opportunity to observe many of the obstacles hindering universal access to adequate healthcare as well as the impact basic medical care can have on an entire town.
Why do many Ecuadorians lack access to healthcare? In some communities, such as Chito, there is simply no healthcare facility. The town's sub-centro de salud closed more than seven years ago and has yet to reopen. Given that Chito lies more than three hours from the nearest “sizeable” community—Zumba-- along twisting dirt roads prone to landslides (I should know...our medical team's bus was almost pushed off a precipice by a river of mud streaming across the road), residents cannot easily trek to the doctor. One town, San Andres, is so remote that there is significant in-breeding and incest, which has resulted in many severely disabled residents. Thus, many forgo medical care in spite of the obvious need. One woman, for instance, had broken her arm years ago and never received car. The bone was never set; thus, it now protrudes from her arm and she cannot use the arm without enduring agonizing pain. In another, more disturbing case, a man had cut his leg while using a machete several years ago. The wound had since become infected and bacteria had consumed much of his lower leg. Our doctors prescribed an antibiotic that may kill the bacteria, but without the possibility of a skin graft, he will most likely never have a usable leg again. Had he visited a doctor in a timely manner, perhaps this disabling wound on his leg could have been avoided.
Yet, simple access to a hospital, sub-centro de salud, or a pharmacy does not guarantee access to quality healthcare. In one of the most alarming cases seen throughout the week, a twelve-year-old girl visited the clinic with her mother. The young girl—who had already dropped out of school to work on the family's farm—had a bacterial infection in her lungs complicated by an untreated case of asthma. Her mother, recognizing the severity of her daughter's illness, had brought her to a local pharmacist who sold her a large supply of medications including codeine. In many patients, this would not be problematic, but codeine is contraindicated for those with restricted airways (asthmatics for example). Such medicines could, therefore, severely harm the girl. Yet, the untrained pharmacist did not recognize the problem and sold the drugs; had the mother not sought out one of the few sources of medical aid in the community, her daughter may, in fact, have been better off. Yet, not knowing, the mother purchased the drugs. Luckily, the mother then brought the girl to our clinic and the doctors purchased the dangerous drugs before giving the child a more appropriate drug regimen to heal her lungs. A happy ending—except for the sad reality that the asthma is a chronic condition and the girl's mother admitted that it is unlikely she will be able to refill the medication when the girl's new inhaler when it runs out of abuterol in a few short weeks.
The absence of enduring medical care highlights a major problem facing the medical brigade. We are only in each community for a few short days at most; yet, many common conditions require on-going care. For instance, one major healthcare issue is high blood pressure. Although this cannot be cured, it can be regulated by various medications provided the patient follows the same regimen for the rest of their life. If they stop taking the pills, perhaps because they run out, then they blood pressure will spike. It is, therefore, better to never medicate than to begin the drug regimen and stop. Given that follow-up is impossible, our doctors thus needed to decide whether the patient would even be able to refill the medication before deciding whether to give it in the first place. Moreover, some conditions cannot even be addressed as it is far too dangerous to do so without ongoing care. Perhaps one the most delightful patients was 74-year-old Rosa. Always smiling and giving unsolicited advice on marriage, the elderly women lives far in the countryside caring for her severely disabled daughter alone. She has thrived under difficult conditions since the loss of her husband nearly two decades ago. Yet, it is becoming increasingly difficult as she suffers from a severe case of Parkinson's disease. She trembles constantly; she can no longer walk for long periods without toppling over. Medication would help her; unfortunately, the powerful drug regimen must be overseen by a doctor and, as this is impossible, the best remedy available was a relatively benign sleeping pill to help her sleep and calm her nerves.
Not only are many of our patient's conditions untreatable due to their living conditions, but these same living conditions also create many of the conditions. The most common complaints—“machete” elbow and parasites—are virtually unavoidable for the majority of the patients. “Machete” elbow is our nickname for pains caused by farm work; a shocking percentage of the patients arrived with chronic pain stemming from farm work. Logically, to address these pains stemming from repetitive motions, the farmers should avoid using their machetes, milking cows, etc. This is not, however, an option in agricultural communities in which there are few jobs other than farm work and the complete lack of income make retirement utterly impossible. Moreover, many of the patient's conditions stem from the environment in which they live. Amoebas and parasites, for example, proved endemic as many tap water is far from clean and many families get their water from nearby brooks and streams. While boiling water can certainly help, it is not a certain cure as dirty water is often unavoidable; after all how many can refuse a nice cool juice offered by a neighbor who does not boil their water when temperatures soar? Thus, as one mother aptly pointed out, her children have parasites simply because of where they live. They don't do anything and it certainly isn't their fault. It just happens.
A lack of infrastructure capable of supplying impoverished families with clean water is only one of many structural problems hindering the Ecuadorian healthcare system. As a teacher, one of the most bothersome related to education—often the patients lacked the knowledge necessary to protect their health. From not boiling water to eating diets consisting solely of rice and yucca while discarding fruits, the lack of knowledge was constantly imperiling their health. Moreover, many did not have the skills necessary to follow complex drug regimens. No one can be expected to remember how to administer a handful of medications; yet, we often could not write out instructions given our patients never learned to read which is not particularly surprising given that many eleven and twelve-year-old patients had already dropped out of school.
Not only did local structural problems hinder the brigade's ability to help its patients, but the structure of the brigade itself often compromised its success. Many of its problems were, however, unavoidable. For example, the brigade often worked in churches with several doctors crammed into one room. Thus, there was very little privacy for patients reporting their health problems, which proved particularly uncomfortable for many women reporting gynecological problems (unsurprising given that the average women probably had at least ten children). Thus, many seemed reluctant to provide relevant details and, I suspect, some refused to acknowledge such problems at all which is to be expected as their neighbors were often peering through the open windows or crowding around nearby tables eager to hear their complaints.
Moreover, the doctors in the brigade only spent a day in each community; thus, they were often unaware of other resources available to patients. For example, a fourteen-year-old girl arrived with a baby. Both appeared healthy; the girl just had a lengthy list of somatic complaints. The doctor soon began peppering her with questions, trying to find why she seemed to unhappy and reported so many complaints. He soon learned that her significantly-older husband was abusive; yet, she felt she could not leave nor return home. She needed counseling and help, yet apart from some advice, there was little that could be done. No one on our team was familiar with any support available in Palanda for women in abusive homes or even if such resources exist.
In spite of it all, the brigade made a difference. Given the lack of follow-up care, we will never know how many of our patients thrived. Yet, their gratitude, smiles, and the endless stream of “Dios le pagará” (literally, God will pay you) indicated that many will awake feeling better tomorrow, even if its only a bit of a placebo effect. One middle-aged man, who walked for hours to the clinic with his elderly mother, even returned the following day to give us a trash bag stuffed with machete guayabas (a delicious fruit) as a means of saying thank you. Others offered us a place at their table even though they can only feed their children white rice a few times per day. Their generosity was often overwhelming; without a doubt, whether cured or not, their reactions suggested that even the mere attention of a doctor truly mattered.
And, for some, the doctor's advice did cure. Last year, many of the doctor's had treated a three-year-old boy about to die of pneumonia. While they provided the best care possible given the circumstances, they had to leave before it was certain he would survive. Imagine their delight, therefore, when the same four-year-old boy with and enormous smile bounded into the clinic to say hi and thank the doctors who likely saved his life.
4.3.12
Play Ball
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.
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.
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.
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