You know you have been living in Quito for a while when… Saturday, October 8, 2011
-You can breath when walking uphill at 9,200 feet
-You no longer need to follow an Ecuadorian across the street to avoid getting hit by a car
-You think a $7 dinner is carísimo (really expensive)
-You’ve learned a bit about Ecuadorian history, especially dates, via street names
-You eat soup at least once every day
-You know what chévere, chuca, and chuchaque mean
-Your response to cold is “¡Achachay!”
-You can accept pan, queso, and cafecito as complete dinner (bread, cheese, and coffee)
-You expect rain almost every afternoon
-You can identify the correct blue bus, flag it down, and get on without the bus stopping
Last weekend, the Duke in the Andes program took a trip to San Clemente, a small indigenous community in the mountains. Our program director is very well connected in this community, so we stayed with indigenous host families. We had lots of interesting talks about indigenous culture, got to participate in and observe some ceremonies, etc. I did all sorts of things I never would have expected, like: plowing a field (the old fashioned way with cows and a big wooden contraption), cooking food with hots rocks and a traditional oven that was literally a giant hole in the ground, and a spiritual cleansing ceremony, among other things. Stay tuned for a post with stories and pictures from San Clemente!
The first thing I noticed was people pushing me. Excited and nervous, the crowd oscillated, jostling each other, unsure if it was better to be on the edge or not. The vaca loca approached, leaving a wake of people screaming from excitement, fear, or both. This wooden creature was about the size of a small table, painted black and white to resemble a cow. It was on a small platform with protruding handles --carried by four men the way one often images emperors and kings to be carried: hoisted laboriously above the crowd. What made this vaca (cow) loca (crazy) were the fuegos artificiales: the fireworks. This wooden statue moved through the crowd emitting fireworks, followed by a tail of white hot sparks dancing maliciously. The vaca moved quickly through the crowd, as people scattered in its wake.
I felt the crowd shift as the vaca moved in my direction. A rush of adrenaline pumped through me as I protected my eyes with one hand and clutched my small purple purse to my chest with the other. I pushed persistently like everyone else, attempting to move safely out of reach of the vaca’s flaming tail.
A few people in our group screamed with a tantalizing mixture of giddy excitement and fear. Andrés shook his head, amused. Juanito, an eccentric character and self proclaimed proponent of “long hair, don’t care,” looked at the group. “Chicos, calm down.”
Kaitlyn gave him a skeptical look. “You know someone’s hair caught on fire last year,” she replied, justifying the mad rush out of the vaca’s reach.
As my heartbeat slowed, I noticed the music, which had briefly been drowned out by the commotion in the crowd. A very energetic singer lead a band of about 20 dark haired, Ecuadorian men with trumpets, guitars, drums, and other instruments. They wore matching white pants and flowing black shirts with golden sparkles that caught the light as the musicians moved to the beat. The three men at the front of the stage were there to dance, leading the band in choreographed movements, encouraging the crowd to join in. The people filling the square were more than happy to comply. It felt like the entire town of Guapulo was there, swaying their hips and moving in the rhythmic steps of salsa, bachata, and other Latin dances.
When the fervent energy of the crowd began to fade, the band leader held the microphone close to his lips, threw back his head, and with a deep booming voice yelled: “¡VI- -VA GUA – A – AP – U – LO!” Inspired by the festivities and a love for their proud little town, the crowd cried “¡VIVA!” raising fists for extra emphasis. Scattered amongst the crowd, the extranjeros joined in, swept up by the moment, happy to be immersed in Las Fiestas de Guapulo, yearly festivals in honor of Guapulo’s patron saint.
As the dancing continued, I pulled out my camera, trying to capture some of the lively insanity and the beautiful, uniquely Latin American chaos occurring around me.
“Tori,” Caroline moved close to me so I could hear her over the noise. “Take lots of pictures. I forgot my camera, so I am going to steal your pictures.” I nodded, happy to comply. “Ohh, and make sure you get pictures of that when it explodes!”
She pointed to the large wooden structure looming over the crowd, several stories high. This tower had been carefully decorated and constructed, a center piece to the festivities toped with a heart. I was intrigued by the tower but also weary, sure after the vaca loca that this giant wooden structure would erupt in fuegos artificiales.
The dancing continued, the tightly packed throng of people pulsated, and I slowly made my way through the crowd, trying to move safely away from the giant wooden structure.
Suddenly, the wooden tower began erupting, sprouting fireworks out of the top and an opening at the bottom, where a group of men pushed the tower in a circle. As the tower rotated, it released hot white sparks in a stream much bigger and more powerful than the tail of the vaca loca. People ran into one another with nervous excitement. I pushed against the chaos until someone bumped violently into my right shoulder, moving in the opposite direction. My small purple purse that I had been guarding so carefully all night fell behind me. Before I could reach for it, a powerful hand grabbed my left arm, holding it below my shoulder. My heart started racing. Out of the corned of my eye I saw an imposing figure behind me. As he held my arm tightly, an accomplice unzipped my bag.
My skin crawled. I knew exactly what was happening. These men were robbing me and amidst the chaotic crowd, the music, the fireworks, no one else noticed. My heart beat rapidly. I tried to calm it, tried not to move. I did not want to these men to think I was protesting. In orientations for every international program I have done, I have been taught to let people rob you. It is not worth the risk of fighting it – that is how you get hurt.
The crowd swelled like a giant wave, pushing me sideways. The grip on my arm slackened. I looked up. For a brief moment, I looked into the dark eyes of a man in a red warm up jacket with white stripes. We both knew that he had stolen my cell phone, and we both knew I was not going to do anything about it. If he wanted it that badly, he could have it.
“¡SHIT!” I swore violently, frustrated at what had just happened. The odds were against me. In my year of crazy international travel, I was bound to get robbed or pick pocketed at some point. But just because I was expecting to be robbed, didn’t mean I was happy about it.
I looked at the ground, hoping unrealistically that my phone would be there, that is had fallen out of my purse – all the while knowing that it has been taken in a carefully orchestrated, well practiced plan.
I was frustrated. More than anything I felt blonde, very aware how much I stood out, how easy it was to identify me as a foreigner. I moved away from the wooden tower, away from the crowd, away from the fireworks, disenchanted.
From the edge of the square, I watched the tower rotating. People in elaborate costumes jumped among the crowd. The tower blazed brilliantly, a heart lit up against the inky night sky. It really was beautiful. This was a moment of joy, of celebration, of community, and I was here, dropped into what felt like another world. I sighed, releasing my tension and frustration.
I heard the energetic music and people’s laughter. As the flaming tower finally began to die down, our group gathered, slightly breathless, unable to believe what we had just been a part of.
“¡Ahhh, that was incredible!” Caroline said, smiling broadly. She and the rest of our group glowed with happy excitement. “But there is no way anything like that would ever be allowed in the US.”
New Names and New Places Saturday, August 27, 2011
Enjoying a view of the mountains on my walk home from class
I bounce forward as a passenger pushed their way into the seat behind me. Its 9:06 on Saturday morning August 27th. I am seated in 19C, watching the other passengers board the plane around me. I’m surrounded by a mosaic of languages: Spanish, English, French, and Creole intertwining with each other as my fellow passengers file by.
“Mama,” a small girl with a head of cascading brown curls and mischievous smile tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mama, ¿adondé vamos?”
“A Miami, mija.” Her mother looked down at her tenderly.
“Ohh,” the little girl crooned, comprehension dawning on her small face. “Me-am-ee.” She said the word slowly, over emphasizing each syllable – Miami, my first step before flying to Quito this afternoon.
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I am a jumble of emotions: excitement, nervousness, uncertainty, contentment, anticipation. What awaits me in Ecuador? I hardly know. I will meet Sofía at the airport and then… then the world will be in Spanish. Voy a vivir en el mundo hispano, en américa Latina. The words come rather quickly. All week I have been trying to move rusty cogs, coaxing my brain into remembering the many verb conjugations and vocabulary I have picked up over the years. I love Spanish. The language is so melodic and interesting with sounds that tickle my ears – the growling gre in tigre, the hopeful je in viaje. The pronunciation comes quite naturally now, although I distinctly remember plodding slowly through words in my sixth grade Spanish class, over pronouncing syllables, my tongue and brain working hard to create unfamiliar sounds.
My first Spanish class began as most do. Señor Torres greeted the class in his Columbian accent and walked around the room asking and repeating questions until we all started to understand the pattern. ¿Comó estás? ¿Comó se llama? People answered nervously. Es-toy bi-en. Me lla-mo Mea-ghan. Many English names seemed out of place in Spanish answers. The interplay between native and foreign, comfortable and unfamiliar confused minds and mouths, leading to pronunciation that was somewhere between the two languages. This gray area was not the place to learn. We had to dive into Spanish, enter a red river, the color of a burning sunset, flowing quickly and unpredictably. Students were transformed. Molly became Margarita, James became Jaime, and Harry with his strange combination of letters picked up another name entirely – Raúl, Hernesto, or another Spanish name that to Harry was quite new and exciting. As for me, I switched from Tori to Victoria, saying the v with a Spanish softness that almost made it sounds like a b, bic-toria. I loved that my name translated so naturally. It bodes well for people with the travel bug like me. Victoria is like Maria. Both woman could be introducing themselves outside the snowy Kremlin in the cold streets of Moscow, at a decadent wine tasting in Tuscany, or at the feet of the giant Cristo Redentor in Río. The names work across continents, languages, and time, allowing the namesake to move smoothly across borders and find connections in new places.
Earlier in the flight, I had introduced myself to Eduardo, a friendly young Colombian, excited to be going to Bógota, home for his 29th birthday. When his mother arrived a few minutes later settled down between us in seat 18B, he introduced us.
“Mama, this is Tori.” She smiled but looked confused by his quick introduction. He repeated by name slowly, “Tor-ri.”
Grasping my name, she turned to me, “Mucho gusto.”
I thought about this introduction as out place rapidly approached Miami and made a decision. Me llamo Victoria. It makes sense. These four months, this semester in Ecuador is basically an extended Spanish class anyway. Why not translate my name?
Posing near the breath taking mountains at "La Mitad del Mundo" -- The Middle of the World
We spent our last few days in South Africa in Kruger National Park or as South Africans call it "The Kruger." While on safari in "The Kruger," we saw many incredible animals. Here are some photos from our safari adventures.
This elephant was in musk and annoyed by the car that had come to watch him. Another little pink car drove quite close to him and made him angry. Thinking our large, white minibus was another animal and a threat, the elephant started to charge at us. Zed made a quick decision and drove around him. We were all pretty nervous, but it turns out ok.
After two incredible months, countless adventures and new challenges, a tediously long plane ride, and a brief bout with gastric E-coli (from which I am now fully recovered), I am back in the US. I got back on Tuesday, July 5th and am starting to settle back into life at home. I am sorry I did not post very many updates during my last few weeks in South Africa. The end of our stay in Manguzi was a whirlwind, and for most of our final week of travel with the rest of the Robertson group, I did not have internet access or time to write. But fear not, I still have lots more to share about my experiences in South Africa. I will continue to post creative writing pieces, pictures, stories, and reflections, so feel free to keep reading J
The lights flickered and went out. I sighed and kept stirring the mashed potatoes. Lauren and I were at the stove, putting the finishing touches on the meal we were preparing for our host family.
The lights blinked on, starting the sounds of water boiling and the house humming with electric energy. Elizabeth started to cheer, “Yaa-ay..,” but before she could finish the power quickly went out again, throwing the house into darkness. The process continued several times before we decided the power really wasn’t coming back on.
“Ohh well. At least we finished cooking,” I said as I turned off the stove and took the potatoes off the hot burner. Elizabeth laughed, “Too bad we are missing Scandal! though.” We were all a little disappointed about that. Every night we tried to finish cooking by 7:30pm, so we could watch this South African soap opera together. It is our host family’s favorite show, and Elizabeth, Lauren, and I had grown quite fond of it. Soap operas here air Monday to Thursday in the evenings. The immensely popular shows are an interesting reflection of the diversity of South Africa. The shows have a variety of different story lines and characters who speak in English, isiZulu, and Afrikaans, catering to different South African ethnic groups. Luckily, the English subtitles throughout the show make it possible for me to understand everything.
“Phila,” Lauren called to our nine-year-old host brother. “Come here, boo. Bring the phone, and we can go find flash lights.” The two of them disappeared down the hall, followed by the glowing light of the cell phone. Armed with flash lights we began serving dinner. We had made chicken with chakalaka (a tasty South African sauce with spices and lots of vegetables), garlic mashed potatoes, and sautéed onions, peppers, carrots, and tomatoes. Our host sister Fanele had dug up a few candles, which cast a soft glow over the room. Nqobile and Lauren were seated on couches facing each other across the room, a candle on the table between them.
“Nqo,” she looked up as Lauren got her attention. “Its almost like we are on a date.” Everyone in the room laughed.
Nqobile’s name starts with one of the many Zulu clicks, which felt so foreign when I first arrived here. My tongue was unaccustomed to making noises like that. After considerable practice, I mastered Nqobile’s name, which was definitely one clicking word I needed to learn. It was a particularly good word to learn because Nqobile is the South African version my name, meaning victory in isiZulu. In Zulu culture, names are beautiful and full of meaning, having direct translations that many English names lack. The children in our house, Phila and Fanele, have names that mean “we have to live and be many” and “you have to thank God” respectively.
We lounged in the kitchen with Phila and Fanele. The meal was finished and dishes were cleared away in the kitchen. We didn’t have running water and used buckets of rainwater to wash the dishes by hand in the sink. The sink was divided in half, one dirty sink where dishes were sudzed up scrubbed and another clean sink where dishes were rinsed and put in the drying rack. We didn’t need power to do the dishes but had decided to wait to do them until the power came back on, and we could see better.
Phila had his face buried in the couch, muffling the sounds of the song he was humming. You could call Phila shy, but a man of few words would probably be a more appropriate description. The quick-footed soccer star rarely answered our questions with more than a word, if he answered them at all. It wasn’t until Fanele suggested it that we realized that his quietness with us was because he is not very comfortable speaking English, particularly in comparison with the talkative Fanele. Earlier in the evening during dinner Phila had made a comment that had everyone laughing.
Our host Mama turned to us. “Do you know what Phila said?” We shook our heads. “He said it is hard to eat your dinner with a fork.” Phila looked at her before turning his gaze back to his plate, giggling but a little self-conscious none the less.
“I’m sorry, Phila! Of course you can use a spoon. I’m sorry we did not think to get you one.” I looked at him apologetically, hoping he wasn’t too embarrassed.
“Here boo,” Lauren cooed. She walked purposefully out of the kitchen and handed Phila a spoon, which he happily accepted. The spoon was one of many examples of the countless cultural differences small and large we encountered every day. It was impossible to recognize and learn about all of them. That wasn’t the point anyway. Instead we needed to be willing to admit our cultural blunders and rectify them when we could. Luckily our utensil choice was an easy problem to fix.
After dinner was finished and the dishes cleared away, Elizabeth, Lauren, and I sat around the living room with Fanele, Phila, and Zodwa. Mama and Nqobile had gone outside, probably to check on the power and their mother who we affectionately called Ma Agnes. Ma Agnes was a tough, dignified older woman with wrinkled skin and thoughtful eyes. She was thin but by no means frail. On several occasions I had been shocked to see her walking home with a giant jug of water balanced nonchalantly on her head. It took me considerable effort to carry these jugs to the house, so sixty something year old Ma Agnes’s ability to carry these heavy jugs on her head baffled me. She certainly was a remarkable woman. She spent most of her days cooking and sitting on a straw mat outside of her house. She sat draped in mix matched cloth, chatting with the peg-legged Mr. Cross and her other friends while drinking beer or shucking peanuts for samp (a delicious Zulu dish with peanuts cooked to a soft consistency). Ma Agnes was a woman who had seen her country transformed. Born black under the strict, legislated inequality and injustice of apartheid, Ma Agnes had been barred from many opportunities. She had undoubtedly suffered considerably as a result of apartheid, a system designed and orchestrated by white people. Yet despite the tumultuous past she had endured, Ma Agnes welcomed Elizabeth and I, white Americans, into her home. Each day we walked by her on our way to and from the hospital. Neither of us spoke more than a few words of the other’s language, but we communicated none the less, smiling, giving each other hugs, searching our brains hopefully for words the other might know. Ma Agnes was the proud matriarch of a large and successful family. I respected her greatly and only wished we could have talked about her great multitude of life experiences.
“Hmm, hmmmm, hmm” Phila hummed into the couch, his face buried in a cushion.
“What are you singing, Phila?” Elizabeth asked. “That sounds familiar.” Phila did not answer, choosing instead to flash his usual bashful smile. I looked at Fanele. “Do you know the song he is singing?”
“Yes.”
“Can you sing it with him?” Fanele looked at me, her eyes gleaming with a bit of false modesty. Fanele was shy about it but was a great singer. Often when the house was quite or while she was chopping vegetables she would sing top American or South African hits or some of the gospel songs her Mama was so found of. When Lauren, Elizabeth, and I had come from work earlier that day, Fanele had organized a singing game for all of us. She made a numbered list of popular singers. Lauren, Zodwa, Phila, Elizabeth, and I had to pick numbers and then sing songs by those artists. Elizabeth and I quickly discovered that we didn’t actually know the words to many of the songs, but Lauren, who has a beautiful voice, helped us out. Fanele judged and scored the whole competition. My rendition of the Michael Jackson song “Billy Jean” earned me second place, behind Lauren.
“Tsamina mina eh eh” Fanele had overcome her hesitation and started singing. “Waka waka eh eh.” We all joined in. This Shakira song was one of the anthems of the 2010 FIFA World Cup and had been nearly as popular in the US as it was here in the cup’s host country South Africa. Armed with words that had traveled around the world, our voices joined together. “Tsamina mina zangalewa. This time for Africa!”
Zodwa, Fanele, and Phila in the backyard
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Summer Snapshots
This past Thursday, June 16th was Youth Day, a South African national holiday in honor of the youth who died during anti apartied protests in Soweto in 1976. Our host family had the day off from school and work, and we were pleasantly surprised to wake up to breakfast for everyone.
On Youth Day, the whole family and some of our host family's friends from Manguzi went to Black Rock beach, a beautiful secluded beach about an hour from Manguzi down bumpy dirt roads.
Last weekend we met up with the rest of our group of Robtertson Scholars in Saint Lucia. This is a picture of all of us on a boat ride in the estuaries, where we saw lots of hippos. It was fantastic to be able to spend time together, reflect on our experiences at work and in homestays thus far, and refocus for our last two weeks of work.
A special thanks to Elizabeth for always taking group pictures, bringing her camera, and sharing images with me!
