10 Days in 10 Scenes

The infamous Jenny Lewis just departed Ecuador after a 10-day visit. It was my sister's first-ever passport stamp, first-ever experience not speaking the local language, and first ever chance to meet EcuaKim-- the similar but peculiarly South American version of the sister she knew last summer. We successfully meshed my normal life in Ambato with a huge amount of travel. Since Ecuador is the most biodiverse country in the world and totally bite-size (about the area of Colorado-- you can pass through 17 ecosystems in a 1-hour bus ride)-- it's easy to see a lot in a small amount of time. Here are 10 scenes that sum up Jenny's visit, from the freezing cold highlands to the Amazon rainforest:

1: Cathedral in Baños

 

 2: Quilotoa Crater Lake

 

 3: Huddling for warmth by the wood stove at hostal in Quilotoa

 

 4: My favorite bar in Ambato, because they play primarily American classic rock

 5: Team Sportivo Ambato (my friends) winning the local basketball championship

 

 6: Derek Zoolander Llama at the Parque de la Familia in Ambato

 

 7: All-day whitewater rafting trip on the Jatunyacu River in the Ecuadorian Amazon (city of Tena)

 

 8: Bus ride from the Amazon back to the highlands

 

 9: Dinner at a restaurant in Quito, overlooking the colonial center at sunset

  10: Most delicious ice cream in the world at Crepes and Waffles, at El Jardin mall in Quito

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Fulbright

Team Ecuador English Teaching Assistants
(note the creepy Senator Fulbright photo in background)

I receive a worldwide Fulbright newsletter every month. Usually, they feature a grantee that is eradicating some awful illness in Indonesia while simultaneously saving baby dolphins off the coast, preparing their manuscript about how to preserve indigenous knowledge, and redesigning curriculum in 17 elementary schools during their spare hours.

I don't do that. I teach my optional English classes, which sometimes are attended by real-life students. I camp out during my 10 "office" hours (I don't have an office) per week and hope people come chat with me. My side projects are vague and scattered around different areas, resisting one coherent "look what I did" summary. What I do accomplish-- and pretty well-- is living my 22nd year of life in pursuit of things that make me happy. I attend a lot of birthday parties, drink coffee with my friend’s grandmothers, and do things like figure out how to grill meat in my laundry pit (this has hands-down been my proudest accomplishment over the past 7 months).

Finally found the best way to use that pit.

I recently attended a conference in Quito for all the 2010-11 English Teaching Assistants in the Andean region. In addition to learning how to teach English a little better, it was a good opportunity to get feedback from other ETAs during the long middle-of-grant months. I learned that most grantees want to attach a narrative to what they do. We have Fulbrights because we are smart, highly-motivated people who were able to unify our entire past/present/future of intellectual pursuits into two 1-page essays. Our lives are stories, and we're good at telling them.

I also learned that the ETA experience can be most challenging for the exactly type of personalities that tend to win ETA grants. We enter hoping to make huge linguistic/cultural inroads. We learn along the way that most of these inroads are quiet, and we may never see many of them. (this is probably generalizable to the teaching profession as a whole). We start projects that we never finish, we spin our wheels in Ecuadorian bureaucracies, and we waver between inspiration and desperation.

Part of our mid-grant conference took place in a jungle resort.

Let me go Oprah for just a second here. I had a mentor in college who helped me enormously to change my orientation from results-driven to process-driven. In other words, he introduced the idea that almost all of my dissatisfaction stemmed from the relentless need to see huge results and talk about them. There's another possibility-- emphasizing the input/process rather than the output/results. This goes for school, work, spirituality, relationships, whatever.

Quito's colonial center/ virgin statue from afar

I love my Fulbright because it has become a test in that. And I think I'm doing well. I appreciate my work and I love my students. I love that when my students see me in public, they come and talk to me in English (even if it’s mostly to show off). I love grilling meat in my washing pit and wasting time with friends, as well as hearing those friends pick up my random English colloquialisms ("no Kim, he hasn't got a popsicle's chance in hell"). I'm having fun in the process, and during my last 10 weeks, plan to continue that.

Volcano Chronicles

As a general rule, Ecuador does not enjoy extensive international news coverage. We're like the awkward middle child of Andean nations, living in shadows of our more interesting siblings Colombia and Venezuela. However, any article which can include the phrase "volcano hurled truck-sized pyroclastic boulders more than a mile" will undoubtedly win some mainstream media time.

My house in Ambato is about 30 kilometers from the Tungurahua Volcano, which last week had its biggest eruption in several years (I wrote about a smaller eruption in November). If you, blog readers, are anything like me, your primary knowledge of volcanic activity stems from that 1997 Tommy Lee Jones/ Ann Heche disaster movie "Volcano." The most important things to know about this cinematic masterpiece are it's tagline-- "The Coast is Toast"-- and a quote from Time on the movie poster-- "You'll Have a Hell-Lava Time!" In one scene, leading characters Amy and Roark discuss how the L.A. subway system is being overtaken by lava:

Volcanic haze + ash on my outdoor toilet.

Amy: Roark, Roark. There's lava in the red line. This just came through on the radio. The lava had overtaken a subway train in Macarthur park and completely destroyed it.
Roark: Is it still flowing?
Amy: It stopped. But there's more under us. There's has to be something feeding this. We know that the lava broke through here at the tar pits and created this vent, and we know that it broke through at Macarthur park, so that means it is literally traveling underground over a course of at least eight miles.

Unfortunately my own scientifically-correct volcanic encounters aren't quite as sexy. Tungurahua's eruption is a bit like being sneezed on by Hell. While not in any mortal/physical danger like the villages immediately surrounding the volcano, we here in Ambato do get our fair share of snot. The worst is when the ash-- which last week was blown 7 kilometers into the atmosphere-- begins to fall on the city. If it's raining, ash falls like mud (it literally rains mud) or if it's dry, as sand/chunks of particles.

Ambato's current nuclear explosion-like backdrop.

My first instinct during ash falls is to put my mask and sunglasses on, close my windows/doors, and wonder why I live here. Most Ambateno's first instinct is to wash their car. Apparently wet ash dries into a concrete-like paste which can ruin paint and floors. Ash also burns your eyes, dries out your skin, and-- as one of my students warned me when I walked into the University without a hat-- "YOUR HAIR WILL FALL OUT!" ... I have my doubts about the last one.

Everyone stares at me here anyway.

Of course, Tungurahua's eruption does pose a much more real threat to villages/populations directly in its path. This is not just a physical/mortal threat, but an economic threat to small-scale farmers. Villagers around Tungurahua are reluctant to evacuate during eruptions for a few reasons:  1. Ash needs to be cleaned off crops (ie a farmer's livelihood) ASAP if they are to be salvaged, 2. You can't just leave livestock (again, their livelihood) for weeks at a time and hope they're fine upon return, and 3. This volcano has been erupting for a decade, and nothing THAT bad has happened yet.

An un-erupting Tungurahua over Ambato in February.

I am thankful that the worst volcano side effects where I live are extra sweeping, increased visine/lotion usage, and a ridiculous looking paper mask. Occasionally I hear the volcano's gurgling and am certain a wall of lava is going to overtake the city streets, but I'm learning to replace my disaster-movie youth with my disaster-preparedness adulthood.

Things Calvin Saw

This is a drawing from Bill Watterson's 3160th and final Calvin and Hobbes strip, published on December 31, 1995. In it, Calvin and Hobbes trek through newly-fallen snow and wonder aloud about the possibilities that await them: "Everything familiar has disappeared! The world looks brand new!"

When I was 9 years old, I went with my parents to a farm in rural Illinois and picked out a nervous-looking shetland sheepdog puppy to take home. My sisters and cousins met us at the car and we proceeded to fawn over him for 13 years. Although we named him Calvin-- after the adventure-seeking and spunky cartoon character-- it soon became clear that our Calvin was nothing of the sort. He was timid and yippy, a methodical herder who was only happy when the whole family was indoors and safe from the suburban children and squirrels waiting outside. This week, Calvin died, on the eve of his 13th birthday.

2007: Calvin in local paper under the caption "Hairy Potter"

Our dogs become like family by providing a warm and steady presence in our lives. But dogs do something else as well: they watch us. In fact, house dogs are privy to some of the most private and raw moments of human existence. They watch us eat and get naked and get desperately ill. They're startled awake by our slamming doors, they see us in pajamas and prom dresses, they wander over from the corner as we stub our toe and collapse in tears about the incivility of the universe. We mourn our pets when they've reached the end, but I think we're also mourning the things they saw.

1999: Calvin, Anna and Catie on Christmas morning.

For his part, Calvin saw our family across 5 houses in 3 different states. He saw several tornadoes, a hurricane that sent a tree into our roof, a few flooded basements, and at least one "the-cat-is-on-fire" incident. In all likelihood, he saw my first kiss. He saw my little sister Anna grow three feet. He saw our family shrink, and like us, smelled the flowers that filled every corner of the house when we lost one of our own. He saw me leave the house at 4:30 am for swim practice and return with icicles dangling from my hair. He sat in my room as I packed quickly for college, and again as I unpacked slowly 4 years later.

2007: Calvin and Hobbes in a snowstorm.

I suppose Calvin could have been more adventurous, or you know, at least able to walk on a leash without wiggling out to run home and sit patiently on the doorstep. But I think I'd rather have a dog who provides a warm, fuzzy sense of home when I return from my own adventures/misadventures. In that respect, Calvin was absolutely perfect.