Peripheral/Beloved Characters Part 2

Today I offer the second installment of beloved Ecua-characters (read the first here):

4. Draco, My Landlady's Underwear-Stealing Pooch:
Among the unanticipated benefits of living at one of the highest points in the city are the spying opportunities. And since my ancient, borrowed television sizzled into oblivion on the second day I used it in November, I have had to find other ways to procrastinate. Enter Draco, my landlady's high-energy cocker spaniel. Although Draco (yes... like the Harry Potter character) is a yippity little terror to his owners, we have a special bond. Occasionally he'll manage to get around the wooden barrier and come shooting up the 3 flights of stairs to my apartment barking madly, at which point my landlady will run out in her robe and purple slippers screaming "DRACO!! NO!! DRACO!!" hysterically until he can be corralled back down 10 minutes later.

On sunny mornings, Draco's favorite game is stealing wet underwear out of the laundry pile and running around with them in his mouth while my landlady chases him around the terrace screaming "DRACO!! NO!! DRACO!!" Sometimes he jumps several feet in the air, pulls down underwear from the clothesline, and plays keep-away while my landlandy gets angrier and angrier. High-quality entertainment.

5. "Laurita", the Freckled Megamaxi Checkout Girl Who Reminds Me of My Best Friend From College:
Here in Ambato, the Megamaxi is where I can go to take comfort in sterilized, standardized odors, pay too much for JIF peanut butter and imported cream cheese (I seriously can't find an Ecuadorian brand that tastes half as good as Philadelphia), and generally be reminded of the Walmart excess I was raised on. I go to the Megamaxi too often, but it is so damn convenient to be able to buy headphones, 12 brands of raisins, leggings and Ramen noodles all in the same store. I have a favorite checkout girl at the Megamaxi (I don't know her name, but I call her Laurita).
She's so favorite that I'm willing to wait in her line even if it means standing behind a grandma with 18 million pounds of food and a stack of coupons. Why? 1.) She looks exactly like my freckly best friend Laura (whom I miss a lot), and even has similar mannerisms. 2.) She makes non-awkward small talk and doesn't feel the need to point out that I'm a foreigner (you'd be surprised how many people inform me). 3.) She already knows I don't have a Megamaxi discount card and doesn't make me feel bad for it.

Scenes from Bogotá

Plaza de Bolivar-- Bogota's main square. The colonial buildings are pretty, but I find the history of rebel groups occasionally taking over important buildings, the military responding by firing cannons into them, etc., much more thrilling.

Bogota is known for its cold, rainy climate and horrible traffic problems-- both of which I experienced at length. This particular evening we went 10 kilometers in 90 minutes.

Another Simon Bolivar. I have never seen so many statues of the same man in such a small area. This particular Bolivar is actually him (there's another "Bolivar" which is the figure of Julius Caeser), graffiti-covered, and occasionally has clothes lines around the periphery where people dry their underwear. Way up at the top of this photo, you can spot Monserrate, a church perched on top of the mountain.

Bogota Beer Company (the other BBC). Andean microbreweries are almost non-existent, and the few I have located in Ecuador have left a LOT to be desired. Either the good beer bar has been readjusted to an extremely low level, or BBC was actually kind of impressive.

One of the 3 times I spotted the sun, although it was vague and receding beyond the cityscape.

Snapped this picture of the Colombian coat of arms about 15 seconds before I was frisked and searched by military men with big hats and bigger guns. Travel note: there is a sidewalk outside of the Colombian President's house, but you should not stand on it.

 I arrived in Colombia during the thick of my amigo's sociology thesis research, which revolves around class stratification and leisure practices in Bogota's nightclub district. Basically we went dancing and brought the voice recorder.

High/Low Art

I've loved museums since 1996, when my dad and uncle turned them into a competitive sport. One rainy afternoon, they brought my cousins, sisters and I to the Cleveland Museum of Art and set us loose on the most epic scavenger hunt of all time. Each team was given an envelop with detailed rules (no touching priceless works of art, no embarrassing your legal guardians, etc.) and a set of tasks to complete (locate a painting with animals gambling, find 5 naked women statues and name the galleries in which they are located, etc.). Besides entertaining a group of bored 8-12 year olds so they could actually enjoy themselves, my dad and uncle succeeded in turning art into a cut-throat competition, which was the primary way I garnered interest in anything as a child.

I still like museums. Here in Bogota, I've already visited three. My favorite was the Botero Museum, which features original works by contemporary Colombian painter Fernando Botero, as well as Botero's personal collection of paintings/sculptures (Dali, Picasso, Renoir, among others). I'm also fascinated by art that will never make it into a museum. And of all the urban centers I've been in, Bogota has some of the most incredible urban street art I've ever seen.

Fernando Botero, "La Mona Lisa"

Che Guevara street art, Historical Center, Bogota, Colombia

Fernando Botero, "Guerrilla"

Callejon de las Brujas, Historical Center, Bogota, Colombia

Tourist Attempts in Bogotá

Bland Colombian beer.

Hola from Bogotá, Colombia, where I'm vacationing from my (admittedly vacation-like) life in Ecuador. Since I'm only allowed to spend 2 weeks outside of Ecuador during my entire Fulbright grant period, I came to Colombia hoping to make these 10 days good and touristy.

Turns out I'm a decent [not-quite] anthropologist and a terrible international tourist. I arrived Friday morning without a single map, guide, or idea what there was to do in Bogotá. I didn't even have a fanny pack, and I'm way too cheap/lazy to purchase a lonely planet book.

But I'm duly impressed by Colombian coffee.

I knew that my amigo Sebastián, a sociology student who presented at my table at an academic conference last summer, would be at the airport to pick me up. I knew that Bogotá is really not any more dangerous than Quito, despite the dramatically more violent way that American news portrays Colombia. And, most importantly, I knew I'd wanted to go to Colombia ever since the Study Abroad office at Denison told me I couldn't.

But this is shaping up to be the nerdiest vacation of all time. Sebastián (my unofficial guide) is currently writing a thesis on urban problems/space/class in Bogota. So I not only get to see the absurd traffic problems first-hand, but hear about their 30-year history. I've gotten a complete run-down of class segregation in different sectors of the city, the politics and (non)functioning of transportation policies, and urban renewal projects. I'm helping him with his research interviews. And, in the most non-vacation-like, non-touristy thing of all time, I'm scheduled to guest lecture in an anthropology course at the Universidad del Rosario later in the week.

I fear I'll never be a good tourist.

Amateur Encounters with Mountains

Just to be clear: I am referring to myself when I say "amateur." I grew up in Cleveland, where the biggest mountains were landfills and the most thrilling outdoor adventures to be had involved tunneling out of the house on winter mornings. My hiking partner last weekend, none other than Latacunga-based Fulbrighter Chandra, moved past "amateur" ranking long ago. She was patient with me. Here's a brief overview of our Mt. Iliniza hiking weekend:

Day 1, 2pm: After two bus rides and a thirty minute wait on the side of a highway, we arrive at a lovely hostel in El Chaupi, Ecuador. It is about 2 hours from my house in Ambato. Our goal for the weekend to get to the top of Iliniza North, a volcano we can see in the distance. In the hostel lobby, a large, rambunctious group of Eastern European climbers are sharing a bottle of whiskey. Eastern Europeans apparently don't like to wear pants very much.

2:30 pm: We drop our things in our room (warm clothes, large quantities of peanut butter, GRE study materials for Chandra) and look for the hostel owner, who has promised to drive us to the foot of the mountain so we can begin climbing. We would like to reach the refuge by nightfall, so that we can stay there overnight and do the final summit early the following morning.

3:30-6 pm: Vladimir informs us that the weather is terrible, and there has just been a tragedy on the mountain. Although the Ilinizas are usually NOT very dangerous mountains, we won't be able to do the final summit without equipment (ice picks and such) and a guide. We give up our dreams of reaching the peak, but decide to stay the night and hike to the refuge in the morning. We take a long walk around the countryside, and run into some unattended alpacas.

Day 2, 6:30 am: The weather has completely turned around. From just outside the hostel, we can see the sun rising over Volcano Cotopaxi.

7:30 am: The Iliniza Mountains (Iliniza North is on the right, Iliniza South on the left) on the morning of our hike.

8 am: We catch a ride to the foot of the Ilinizas with a Swiss man, who has driven this SUV from Alaska. Yes, Alaska. Like where Chandra is from. He is a pretty incredible man. Cotopaxi is mesmerizing and continues to dominate the countryside.

9:30 am: About 1/4 of the way to the mountain refuge. The first wave of altitude sickness hits me, hard. My vision blurs, I spend about 20 minutes sitting and trying not to barf while Chandra offers a pep talk. I never consider turning back, but I realize I'll need to do this at snails pace or risk passing out.

10:30 am: About 1/3 of the way up to the mountain refuge. Those are Chandra's ski poles, which significantly help the hiking endeavor.

11 am: We encounter packs of wild bulls at various points during the hike. This is by far the scariest part of the day, since these are notoriously dangerous animals. We reroute.

1 pm: We reach the Iliniza refuge, which was our goal.

The view from the refuge. That's the first snow I've touched since leaving Ohio. And those are clouds... below us.

1:30 pm: Inside the refuge, an Ecuadorian family and their mountain guide is cooking lunch and invites me to join. I wonder how the 10 year old made it up the mountain. I pass on their lunch for my mushy PB+J, mostly because Chandra and I want to get back down the mountain before the rain/snow/cold comes. I notice that the people who signed the refuge guestbook the previous day were from Canton, Ohio.

4pm: We get lost going down the mountain. We find ourselves again, nearly miss some wild bulls, and finally reach the bottom. There are no cars leaving the mountain, so we begin another 8ish kilometer walk to the hostel, completely exhausted and in the middle of nowhere. After 90 minutes, a car drives past and picks us up. It is an Ecuadorian couple. The woman asks us what we're doing in Ecuador, and we mention Fulbright in passing. She tells us in perfect English that she is a former Fulbrighter.... she got her MA in Environmental Planning from Yale. There are probably 200 current/former Fulbrighters (either Ecuadorian or American) in this entire country right now, so it was probably the strangest coincidence of all time.

7 pm: Back in Ambato in bed. My entire body hurts for the next 3 days, but it was completely worth it.

New Camera's First Steps

I finally have a camera. All electronics in Ecuador are imported/ absurdly expensive, so I spent 3 1/2 months pouting and staring longingly at my old camera's screen-of-death before purchasing a new one. My amigo Raaj saved the day by bringing me a new one from the States. Here are some semi-pointless pictures I took while testing it out:

While other finalists to Emory's PhD program in Anthropology were flown to Atlanta this weekend to interview with faculty members, I had my interview via Skype in this bedroom. My face was awkwardly projected into a classroom. I wore a collared shirt and sweatpants.

Driving past Quito's airport, which is treacherously situated in the middle of one of the busiest parts of the city. Planes hit houses every few years, making it one of the most dangerous airports in the world. The government has been building a new airport, arguing about it, running out of money, and re-starting building for several years now.

Old-town Quito. Beautiful colonial architecture; unique topological features; high crime.

Facebook Pet Peeves

Disclaimer: I'm not directly targeting your Facebook usage patterns (don't send hate mail!). You can read about other people's Facebook pet peeves here and here.

1. Using Facebook as the Exclusive Way to Make Contact and/or Communicate Important Things: I have 1,027 Facebook friends. When you write on my wall, 1,027 people have the option of seeing it. In terms of communication, I consider that the equivalent of shouting across a crowded mall. Don't get me wrong...I love when people write on my wall. It makes me feel loved, and more importantly, proves to the public that other people love me (important to my online identity construction). But Facebook doesn't exactly communicate "I care about you deeply" or cultivate the trust/intimacy important to real-life relationships.

I appreciate Facebook for disseminating the mundane and hilarious, as well as the superficial connections it preserves. It can be leveraged for things of importance (like special announcements, or consciousness-raising) in certain, carefully-thought-out ways. Other things just deserve a phonecall. Or a blog.

2. Abuse of the "like" and "meta-like" buttons: When used properly, the "like" button becomes a sort of internet nod-- a way of saying, "yeah, I saw this, and even though I'm too lazy to write an actual comment, I appreciate it showing up on my mini-feed." But the more recent feature of being able to "like" individual comments-- what I have deemed the "meta-like"-- is almost never permissible in my opinion. In particular, I dislike when people have entire conversations through Facebook comments, mutually "liking" every single thing the other person says. I present the following short exchange as evidence:

In this example, person M initiates conversation by writing on Person A's wall. Person A "likes" this, since he/she likes EVERYTHING anyone writes on his/her wall (thus devaluing the "like" button, in my assessment). Person A writes a response, which Person M then "meta-likes"-- as if the fact that he/she just said "I adore you" can't be validated unless a meta-like occurs. Although I consider myself a forward-thinking progressive, I implore Zuckerman & company to remove the meta-like. I also ask my Facebook friends to consider reserving "like" for things you appreciate in a special way.

3. Overuse of caps lock and/or exclamation points: I perceive this as screaming, and I'm not a big proponent of screaming. Comments that might warrant exceptions to the all caps/multiple exclamation points rule include, "I JUST WON 16.3 MILLION DOLLARS IN THE LOTTERY!!!!!" and "THERE IS A HUGE TSUNAMI HEADED IN THE DIRECTION OF OUR CITY!!!!!" 

Acceptable phototags (I am present).

4. Being tagged in photos that aren't actually photos of me: When I get a notification that someone has tagged me in a picture, I am simultaneously filled with dread and excitement. I love looking at other people's pictures, especially when I might appear (the internet cultivates a kind of self-obsession, doesn't it?). Dread because roughly 50% of the tagged photos are unsuitable for the light of day or just plain unflattering. That said, I feel extreme (seriously irrational) disappointment when I get a tag notification and it turns out to be a party invitation, an e-card, a shameless marketing campaign, etc. Huge let-down.

5. Excessive expressions of love and happiness through status updates: Excessive online perkiness kills me, because it reads as false. I agree that love is a special thing, and, as your friend, am pleased that you are bubbling over with joy. But you needn't notify the world every time you and your partner share a special moment together.

Love in the time of Facebook.

Peripheral/ Beloved Characters

 Character (noun): While they may be minor figures to outsiders viewing Kim's "real" life, characters are of central importance in her action-packed, half-imaginary inner narrative. They are judged according to one or two defining traits. Characters tend to be either beloved or despised (grey area is reserved for people with whom actual relationships are built). In this installment, I bring you a few of my most beloved characters:

1. Leonardo the Laundromat Owner (or Ecuadorian Mister Rogers): Leonardo is the soft-spoken grandfather who owns a laundromat 3 blocks from my apartment. He is also known as "Ecuadorian Mr. Rogers" for his kind demeanor and impressive assortment of wool knit cardigans. Each Monday afternoon, when I bring him a stack of clothes that smell like equator sweat, chlorine and second-hand smoke, he greets me with a smile and a warm "Hola Senorita Kimberly!" Then he gives me every cent of the money which fell out of my pockets in the dryer during the previous load. Growing up, the rule in my house was that if someone else had to remove your clothes from the dryer, they were entitled to whatever bills were left behind. This provided motivation to do your own damn laundry. Also, to be clear: I HAVE figured out how to use the concrete pit to wash clothes by hand. However, it turns out I'm too lazy to do so. I do not feel guilty since I am supporting Leonardo's business, which, by the way, is decorated like a preschool classroom. Sometimes I imagine Henrietta Pussycat herself in the back washing my underwear.

I never claimed to be a photoshop expert.

2. Short Shorts Dude at Bakery: A block from Leonardo's laundromat-of-love, I frequent a bakery and pay 50 cents for a delicious loaf of bread made approximately an hour before my arrival. If I am lucky, Short Shorts Dude will be there to serve me the bread. SSD's family appears to own the bakery, but SSD himself seems more committed to soccer than baked goods. He is constantly sporting very short Umbros, a grass-stained jersey, flip-flops, and a playful attitude-- not really something you see everyday in ultra-conservative, chilly Ambato. To be fair, he does have extremely impressive thighs that deserve to see the light of day. I often linger on the white versus wheat decision in the hopes that Short Shorts Dude, young and wedding-ring-less, will cease to be a character by making a crucial move into the "acquaintance zone." My carbohydrate intake has gone through the roof.

3. Children on the First Floor Who Are Terrified of Me:

Proof that I don't terrify all Ecuadorian children.

There is a family that lives on the first floor of my house. The family includes multiple young children and young cousins-of-those-children, all of whom enjoy playing loud games in our front gated area between the hours of 2-4 pm. Since I like children as long as they are not my responsibility whatsoever, I wave and try to initiate friendly contact whenever I pass by. At the sight of me, they-- without fail-- scream and run inside the house. Once inside, they promtly peek their eyes through the curtains, watch me open/close the gate, and make sure I am at a safe distance before reemerging and resuming their game. Although I initially thought they were just nervous around strangers, I have lived here for three months and once-- only once-- gotten so far as a quiet "hola" out of any of them. I am a bit offended, but they remain beloved because I am hopeful we will be friends some day.

Adjustment, Home, and Anthropology

Ambato,  or the left side of my terrace

(i have been writing about and pondering some of these ideas for well over a year-- hoping to do them a tiny bit of justice in one tiny blog post):

I am hardly ever shocked when I walk out my front door anymore. Volcano erupting in the distance? Yup. Ten year old selling me chocolate on the bus to support his sick mother? Avoid eye contact. Armed guard watching a robbery occur, instead of stopping it? That sucks.

I assume the lack-of-surprise is a normal consequence of spending 8 months living/working in Ecuador, as well as a few years researching Ecuadorian cultures and politics. This is my real life (normal, slightly boring), not a vacation (absolutely thrilling!) or some sort of self-congratulatory challenge to overcome ("I am adventurous and bilingual and awesome and learning SO MUCH!"). The vast majority of days I simply get up, drink coffee, work, pay bills, and hang out with my friends. Probably what I would be doing in the States.

Childhood tree in Cleveland, Ohio

I'm beginning to identify as a resident of Ambato instead of a perpetually culture-shocking student. This has added a new dimension to my interest in "home" as a concept-- both cultural (in my research) and personal (in shaping my own identity). Let's start with this conversation, which I have at least 2x/week:

Random Eucadorian (usually a cab driver): So where do you live?

Me: I live in Ambato.

Person: No, no, but where are you from?

Me: The United States.

Person: Where?

Me: I was born in Cleveland. My family lives in South Carolina.

Person: So are you from South Carolina or Cleveland? 

Me: Both. Actually... neither. I think I might be from Virginia.

Person: But when you return to the United States, where is your home? Where will you live?

Kim: ... I don't know the answer to either of those.

"Ecos en el Muro," Enrique Estuardo Alvarez

I frustrate people. Ecuadorians want me to claim a place that is not Ecuador-- that is other-- so they can understand why my Spanish is a bit off, and perhaps recommend tourist destinations to me. Likewise, people in the United States want me to claim a singular locale as "home." They want to ask "where are you from?" and get the same answer every time. Yet I remain perplexed-- what is the socially correct definition of "home": Where I was born (Cleveland)? Where my sister is buried (Newport News)? Where my family lives (South Carolina)? Where I live now (Ecuador)? Are we counting my most recent four years in college (Granville), or was that just a stopover?

In one of my favorite self-relexive anthropological texts ever-- The Vulnerable Observer-- Professor Ruth Behar illustrates how struggles for "home" are at the heart of many anthropologists' intellectual and personal endeavors (and how the intellectual/personal divide is totally false). They straddle borders. They often had childhoods of movement which prepare them for “the professional rituals of displacement that are at the heart of anthropology” (21). They go elsewhere, but eventually end up "confront(ing) the self who observes" no matter how far they travel.

"Quito de la nube negra," Guayasamin, 1987

Clearly, I'm an outsider here in Ecuador (I'm also not an anthropologist yet). There are days when I feel so outside-- SO other-- that I can hardly understand how I ended up here or what right I have to be doing research here. However, there are lots more days when everything just is. Totally normal...normally awesome, normally tragic... like a home.

Along with the satisfaction of adjustment (theories of culture shock might put me at the final stage), I admit to feeling a bit stagnant-- almost guilty-- about adjusting. My research questions are changing, but I'm not sure how. I don't get angry about the same things. Often, I find myself overlooking the suffering and poverty that saturates this place. I travel and don't notice mountains that once literally brought me to tears. I'm certain this has significant implications for both my personal life and the direction of my research (again, not that those are terribly different). I can't, however, say what that direction is yet.

And next year's words await another voice

Both of my parents are now blogging. While we recognize that few people care, this confirms that, as Lewis', we also believe we have things worth saying. Here they are:

Marcia's One New Thing, wherein she remembers a friend who recently died of cancer by committing to learn/do/experience something new every day in 2011. This allows her to write about topics as varied as pre-Ecuador elliptical training, to our family fish Orangy-McOrangy-Pants (and the occasional fish baby massacres that occur in our tank).

Jim's Visionary Gleam, wherein he reconciles former identities as an "English major, poet, aspiring novelist and teacher" with current undertakings as a school administrator and gardener. And, in his first blog post, discusses the prospects for teaching the French Revolution through Lady Gaga.

Electronic Holidays

Sophie

I officially survived my first Holiday season away from home. It appears Christmas does go on, even if I'm not partaking in the many where-did-this-even-come-from Lewis family rituals. It didn't feel the same. But I still had some pretty great bonding time with friends/stand-in family here in Ambato.

Me

I consider Skype a miracle for anyone living in-between or far-away.The highlight of Christmas Day was opening presents with my family via webcam. Calling home and seeing your dog's nose pushed up against the computer can seriously take the edge off homesickness. And what fun is it to give a present if you don't get to see the other person open it? Or at least have the opportunity to defend your choice (I'm telling you Dad, people are going to LOVE the llama design on that sweater)?

Jenny

I was in good company during my electronically-mediated holidays. About 10% of all Ecuadorians have migrated out of the country (that's almost 2 million people). Everyone here has someone close to them working abroad. In Ambato, I've met at least 3 of my friend's family members via webcam-- I've been Skyped into Miami, L.A., and New Jersey in the last week. At midnight on New Years Eve, Marco and I went into the streets to watch the fireworks and dolls burning (...another blog post). A friend held her laptop up to the chaos in the streets. On the screen was an Ecuadorian woman sitting in her Los Angeles apartment, waving and crying. It reminded me I wasn't the only one trying to make sense of the Holidays away from home.