The All Purpose Ointment

This post is dedicated to Kryssa. Thanks for the inspiration to write and then copy-paste it from facebook. 

I once got a really bad insect bite on my hand while I was living with my host family. Long story short, I scratched too much and it started bleeding so I covered it with a band-aid to both help with the healing and to remind me of my scratching misfortunes. When I walked out into the living room and saw my host mom sitting on the couch I knew I'd made a mistake. There was no way I could make it to the kitchen without her noticing the wound on my hand. She asked what was wrong and before I could escape, she grabbed my hand, removed the band-aid, shouted something in Spanish to my host sister, and did her best to explain to me that she had something to "fix it". Moments later my host sister arrived with a jar. My host mom (who still held my hand captive) rubbed on some "ointment" from the jar and released my hand. Not but an instant after my new-found freedom was acquired did I feel THE. MOST. INTENSE. BURNING. SENSATION. at the site of the bite. I tried desperately to explain to my host mom in some sort of broken Spanish that MY HAND WAS ON FIRE!!! She nodded and said that it would sting a little, but not to worry. It was at this point that I reached for the jar. I turned it around, searching for any semblance of a label, only to find that the magic ointment was none other than Vicks VapoRub. Never. Ever. Again. From there it was a brisk walk to the bathroom, some vigorous scrubbing, a plethora of Neosporin, a new band-aid, and finally some light praying. 

Practicar

 Practicando

I’m winding down for the night and have just brushed my teeth, changed into my pijamas and climbed into bed. Sweet relaxation! Well, aside from the 20 chickens that live next door who apparently were celebrating something by the noise their party was making outside my bedroom window. Despite the chickens, I decide to read a little before falling asleep, so the light in my room was still on when I heard a knock at my door. Instinctively I look at my watch. It’s 10:30 p.m. I’m sufficiently confused but answer with “si?” and my host mom asks if she can come in. I tell her of course and so she opens my door and as she’s standing in the doorway asks if I can give English lessons to a little boy that lives in our neighborhood because his mom would really appreciate that. I wasn’t sure why she had to ask me at this hour, sure I’d give the boy lessons sometime. We had even discussed the idea of me creating an English club in our neighborhood. So I tell her yes and she leaves. About 15 minutes later I get another knock on my door. I’m almost done reading as I’ve underestimated my tiredness level but again answer with “si?” and my host mom enters and asks what I’m doing. I tell her I’m finishing up reading before bed. Then she tells me that the boy and his mother are in the house waiting for me to come give the boy an English lesson. IN THE HOUSE! AT 10:45 p.m. ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. I was kinda of shocked. Well, really shocked. Such dedication. This little boy must really want to learn. In my surprised state I pulled on a hoodie and went out into the living room. And then my heart melted.  This little boy was adorable! He was so cute and sweet and polite. All the frustration and confusion I felt was gone. We hung out at our table, looking over his English book, helping him prepare for the quiz he was to have the next day. It was really fun and rewarding and his mother seemed to really appreciate it a lot. After a point we finished our conversation and practice and I was feeling decently confident that the boy would do fairly well on his quiz and was mostly just worried about the amount of sleep he’d get as pretty much the only factor working against him. I said goodbye to the boy and his mother, that it was nice to meet them both, to let me know if he ever needs more help and wished him luck on his quiz. A few days later, I went for a run and on my way saw the boy walking up the path I was running down. I waved and smiled and stopped for a moment to say hello, and asked him how his quiz went. He smiled back and said he’d gotten 100%.  Touché little boy, touché.  =)

Bailoterapia

Bailoterapía

There are three things here in Ecuador that are each of the utmost importance. They are, in no particular order; soccer, religion and dancing. Soccer? Check! Religion, mmm, not so much. And dancing? Well, I’m pretty sure my Spanish seriously outranks my dancing skills, which when you think about the fact that I’ve recently confused the verbs “to fall” and “to get married”, that I can not explain when a pot is boiling over, but instead can only say “look! Look!” and frantically point at the stove which is sure to erupt and spew its contents everywhere any moment, this does not mean good things for my dancing abilities. But, as with everything, Ecuadorians laugh and smile and kindly say “poco a poco”. So. Being that dancing is among the top 3 things of utmost importance, there’s groups and studios all over for dancing, aside from discos (clubs) where people go out do dance. And the name of these aforementioned institutions is… “Bailoterapia”. I think this is one of those names that I just can’t get over. It’s funny every time. Dance therapy. Well sort of. I think that the idea is that it’s more of what we’d consider to be work-out dance classes in the States. But still. I can’t shake the idea of dance therapy from my mind. That is, until Bailoterapia is happening IN OUR HOUSE! It’s 10:00p.m. and once again I’m home getting ready for bed when I hear the music. Slowly it gets louder. Another knock on my door that I finally hear and it’s my host sister Karly inviting me to join her and her friends in the living room for some dance time. I respectfully decline, explaining that I have no rhythm and am very afraid of damaging either myself or some part of the house if I were to attempt dancing here. It takes a little convincing and the help of my host mother who is laughing at the situation before I get off without having to join. This makes me feel better and relieved until I get back to my room where I can hear the music start to crescendo (whooo! Check me out using a music term! Despite not being 100% on its meaning, I think Wade would be proud).  Either way, this situation is not conducive to my sleep schedule.  Eventually I admit defeat and head out to the living room to watch for a few minutes before attempting another shot at a REM cycle. The resulting 10 minutes were highly entertaining and fully of twists and turns! Eventually though, time got the best of me and shoved in some squishy purple ear plugs (thanks Dad!) and drifted off to sleep.

Running

Corriendo

It was a Tuesday. I woke up and spent the morning, into the early afternoon, at my high school observing English classes and occasionally reading English passages out loud for my teachers (because I have the native pronunciation down really well), and helping students with their assignments and questions which is by far my favorite part, especially with the younger classes who are always really cute. Anyhow, when I arrived home it was roughly 5:00p.m. I was feeling somewhat inspired and decided I’d go for a run (I must have really been inspired because I pretty much hate running) to and around the small lake that’s by my house. So I’m dressed, (in capri pants a UF t-shirt, whoo! And Go Gators!), and have my ipod in hand, and my keys and some spare change perfectly tucked into my sports bra. As I’m walking out my bedroom door, I hear our front gate open and seconds later my host mom walks into the house. “Hola Yessi!!!” she says to me and asks me what I’m doing. I explain that I’m about to leave to go for a run and I ask her how she is doing and how her day was. She says that all is well and tells me that I should come with her, that I can go to the park with…(for the protection of her identity)…Karly (my youngest host sister who’s 15) and that I could run there. Immediate suspicion. Bad vibes. My instincts are screaming no! this is a bad idea! So, I asked for more information about the park. Where is the park? (by my host grandmother’s house)What’s at the park? (A basketball court and some grass) Is she sure I can RUN at the park? Yes, yes, of course, come on! She says to me. So we walk outside and I meet my host grandfather for the first time. Turns out he is essentially the sweetest man ever! andddd the spitting image of the old man from the movie UP. Spitting. Image. So, we get in his car and drive to my host grandmother’s house, which driving on the uneven roads and cobblestone was more like Mr. Toad’s Wild Adventures ride—a small but significantly scary roller coaster like journey, where still, sitting in the back of the car I experienced what would be the bulk of our hydraulics. We eventually arrive, surprisingly unharmed, and as we get out of the car my host mom whips out her phone. I didn’t have to take another step towards the house to know that not only were we not at the park, but Karly wasn’t either at the park or my grandmother’s house. In confirmation of my suspicions, I hear my host mom tell Karly to come to the house and take me to the park. Seriously? Okay. Apparently Karly didn’t know about this plan back when my host mom concocted it because she showed up with two of her cousins. After they arrived, my host mom instructed them to take me to the park. As I’m walking I’m wondering how this is all going to go down. I’m a Gringa and they’re walking me to a park so that I can go running. Okay. That much we know. But, assumptions aren’t valid here. I had initially figured that maybe Karly would be exercising or interested in going to the park as well if not that she was already there. Wrong. Her and her cousins were each wearing skirts and heels. Not park ready clothing. So as we’re walking, I’m becoming more and more impressed by their ability to traverse the cobblestone in their without dying, but I’m still unsure about the running. What are they going to do while I run? Where will I run? What is happening in my life??? So we walk to “park #1”. The basketball court. This park is a basketball court on a hill. No funciona bien. Awkwardly I tell them that while yes, I had wanted to run and that’s why we’ve been walking, that it’s really okay, there’s no space and it’s actually not a big deal, I can just go running tomorrow.  Eso no funciona tampoco. They insist we go to another park. So we walk to park #2, this time a volleyball court. On our way I explain that we should just return to my host grandmother’s house because it seems silly for me to be the only white girl here running especially around the volleyball court where 8 Ecuadorian men are going at it. They smile and laugh a little and try to convince me that it’s not strange or awkward for me to run around the men while they sit in their skirts and heels and watch. I beg to differ. So I say again that it’s truly okay that I’ll just run later. They say they know of one more “park” that we can go to. There was no getting out of another try so right as I’m about to explain the English idiom “three strikes, you’re out” we arrive. It’s another basketball court but this time there is a decent amount of grass space. Not enough to really run on or around, but significantly more than the other two “parks” so it makes sense why they’d take me here. With one exception. As we’re nearing the basketball court it takes me a while to notice the grass space because on top of it sits a very large blue tent. I’m distracted by the tent and wonder about its contents. As we approach it, I see that a line of 3 people (no one else is around) has formed at its entrance, and the sign above it in bright yellow and white lettering, reads, “Circus”. I just about die. The CIRCUS??? Really? A circus?! The only potentially usable grass space was occupied by a CIRCUS. Of course. I mean really why wouldn’t there be a circus here, out in a barrio far away from the center of the city, in a very low-traffic area. Karly and her cousins begin walking around the tent, and point to the tiny bit of grass space not being overtaken by it and suggest that I run there. Not going to happen. People might come and think I’m part of the act! I have to stand my ground. I insist again that it’s really fine and that we’ve walked so much anyway that I’ve gotten good exercise and that because of this I’ll just try and run tomorrow. This seemed logical enough so we returned to my host grandmother’s house where we spent the next three hours doing, well, nothing. =)

Musica

Musica

So, I am hesitant to write this story and keep my newest endeavor secret. But, alas! I am currently trying to learn to play the guitar. I have no musical talents, history or knowledge. I do not know the names of the notes and chords that I am trying to learn in English, nevertheless their Spanish equivalents. Yesterday I attended my second guitar lesson. Two other Volunteers in Loja also attend this class, which is how I learned of its existence. I walked in (after waiting outside for 20 minutes after the time the class was supposed to start, which I realize could have been a lot worse) and my teacher, well, we’ll call him Wade, so Wade immediately confuses me with one of the other volunteers. Note: she has bright blue eyes and long blonde hair, but yes, she too is still is a gringa. Either way, the important part about this confusion is that this other Volunteer reads music and plays the piano. So Wade begins by trying to confirm that I know all these things. Musical term, musical term, musical term and musical term. I am shaking my head at him indicating that really I know nothing about what he is saying. He almost looks kind of sad, but I brush it off. I sit down and take my guitar, placing the majority of it on my left leg so it rests comfortably there. Three times Wade adjusts my positioning; how I’m sitting, how I’m holding the guitar, the angle I’m facing, etc. He doesn’t seem satisfied, but when I ask if what I’m doing is okay, he says “mas o menos” and then he sits down. Well, at this point I can deal with “mas o menos” so I’m happy for the good news. We begin with practicing our scales? I’m still not sure of the terminology but either way, we start with what I now know to be the sixth string and put each of our four fingers (the thumb rests on the back of the neck of the guitar and does not have a finger number, sorry  thumb) on each of the four….well, come to think of it I’m not sure the name in English and only remember that in Spanish it starts with a “t” but the lines that go horizontally across the guitar neck. We play the string first in the air then place our fingers on the strings and play, then go back up or down and we do this a few times with each of the strings. Then we start practicing notes and chords or something, and Wade adjusts my fingers accordingly and praises me when I don’t screw up too badly. Which I think is nice. =) Actually, Wade is a really great guy, an excellent guitar player and a good teacher as well. He is very nice and encouraging, and I think my new motto here would have to be “poco a poco” (little by little), because everyone seems to say this to me quite frequently. =) So, we’re practicing and one of the moves is to strum the guitar strings. Before explaining this movement in detail (which really just means demonstrating it) Wade asks to see my hands. He looks at my nails and says okay. Here’s the thing. Your left hand holds the neck of the guitar, and so you have to keep those nails short. But your right hand, you need to grow your nails out long so you can pluck? strum? play? the strings.  Internally I’m horrified. This does not sound appealing.  Will my guitar playing dreams die with my unwillingness have my hands imbalanced? Maybe. I just keep thinking that I can’t have my left’s nails short and my right's long. Super shallow, but also this extends beyond aesthetics. How will I type? How will I text? How will I pick things up? Imbalanced.  =) So, I just nod in agreement to be nice (it’s a cultural thing to be indirect so I think I’m adapting well), and observe Wade’s nails. Not okay. Anyway, our lesson continues and (I should also mention that the boy who came in for the next hour’s lesson was using a pick to play.) I begin to learn how to strum the guitar. And I’m terrible at it. I’d either swing and miss the guitar completely or hit one string like I was trying to launch an arrow at Wade. But he just sat there and simply said “poco a poco”. So I’m practicing and he’s working with the other Volunteer who was there too, and then soon enough I’m improving and we’re both practicing with Wade alternating commands at each of us. But then, quite suddenly the commands get less and less. I’m thinking this is a good sign and Wade must be happy and proud at my improvement. But then, I look up and no, there is no sense of happiness or pride in us, Wade is sleeping. Sleeping!!! In the middle of our lesson! I nudge the other volunteer and after looking at him she laughs a little and admits, that we really must be terrible if he has become so bored and has fallen asleep. Asleep! Dear goodness. You know things are bad when you’re playing and your teacher can’t hold on any longer and slips away into dream land. So, we take this as a sign that we should practice more. The lesson ends soon after and then, when the next set of students shows up, ones that are incredible and talented, Wade wakes up and excitedly introduces us to them. We listen to them play for a minute and it’s beautiful. We smile, thank Wade for the lesson and head out. “Poco a poco”. =) 

Name for a Baby? 

(Don't worry I can still ride the roller coasters)

“?Quieres ir con nosotros hasta la casa de Marta?” Yeah, see, I’m not sure either. Though, my Spanish has improved some. I can now say the word “if” which I find I am using fairly frequently…for example “If I don’t feel sick tomorrow…” and “if I wanted to say…then I would…” So, you see, the conditional is also important too. Anyway, back to Marta. First of all it takes me a second to realize that this is an invitation. Would I like to join my host family in going to Marta’s house. Well, seeing as how I don’t know Marta or where she lives, or anything really about the situation, of course I will go. So, I leave with my host family and walk around the corner to Marta. It turns out that Marta is my host father’s sister. Perfect. Now I have a frame of reference. She has two small children, ages 4 and 1 and one baby, who is 4 days old (well a few days ago he was 4 days old). Mind you, it should be known that no one here speaks any English, so me figuring out these details is an accomplishment in and of itself. So. I meet everyone in the family, and end up sitting with the women a bedroom with the baby. They are talking and on and off I will have a side conversation with one of them. I think at one point I got too excited and way ahead of myself when I tried to explain that while Florida is a fairly hot state, that going to college in Gainesville meant that it was also sometimes very cold. Thinking about winter passed and I remembered how terribly hot it would get in Gainesville during the summer. Now up until this point I’d been getting by speaking in my broken Spanish. But in my English mind all I wanted to do was explain how because Gainesville was in the center of Florida, well, at least far enough away from the coast, that we had no sea breeze and thus no water in the air (humidity) so the summers were worse because of how dry it was. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, wow, Jessica can explain that in Spanish? How awesome! But then, you’d be wrong. Very, very wrong. The next five minutes consisted of me trying to say the word air, gesturing, gasping and saying “air” in English. It was torture. They were all laughing and shaking their heads at me, and finally one of them said, “Ah, aire?” Really. Really. The word air is a cognate. Wow. So we move past that and I mention “no agua en el aire” and they looked even more confused. Why would there be water in the air? Do you mean…rain? Ugh! No, no I don’t mean rain. I mean water in the air. So you see how ridiculous I sounded. I finally learned that humidity is actually “humedad”. Great. Another cognate. Anyway after the water in air fiasco, my host mom gave Marta’s baby a bath. He was not happy. A few minutes after he was dry and curled up on the bed again, I asked what his name was. From a cultural perspective the answer was very unexpected. “The baby doesn’t have a name yet” they said. I nodded back in understanding. Then without warning or explanation, they all proceeded to ask me the names of every male in my family. Naturally I started with my father (you’re welcome dad ;) ) and then began listing off names, with a great amount of hesitation and a slight amount of concern. Stuart is my father, Jared is my brother, etc. and then it dawned on me. I could accidentally be naming their baby, right now! Panic. I can’t name someone else’s child! And then as the eternal seconds passed I realized that not only could I be naming their son, but that their son would be named after one of my family members. So, as we flash twenty years into the future, and Stuart Jared Garcia wants to know where his name comes from, I’m going to be getting a phone call. So, somehow moving from family member’s names to simply names I liked seemed like a better idea, but still the situation was not resolved. I had to be more specific. I then listed off a few names I’d considered for myself if I ever have a male child. I should also let it be known that this information wasn’t voluntary. Peer pressure can be a very hard thing to avoid. Nevertheless, they couldn’t come to a consensus and alas, I am sorry to report to all my male family members that you will not have an Ecuadorian child named after you this time around. And just a bit of follow up here before I end this post…I did ask when the baby would get his name, and of the answer I was given all I understood was…30days. So after 30 days, and potentially the baby’s baptism or some other monumental event that I am unaware of, the baby will have his name! Oh, and don’t you all worry. I will surely report back with their final decision! ;)

!Bienvenidos!

!Hola! !Y saludos de Tumbaco, Ecuador! Hello! And greetings from Tumbaco, Ecuador! Well, at least that’s what my attempt at Spanish hopes to say ;) Currently I am residing in Tumbaco, a city about 50 minutes from Quito (Ecuador’s capital). I am living with a wonderful host family and I now have tres hermanos mas! My oldest host-sister is 17 and in her senior year of high school, my host bother is 14 and my younger host sister is 10. J I thoroughly enjoy spending time with my host family! They are extremely patient with my lack of Spanish and I think we have all gotten quite good at charades. So much so that we would totally dominate in a family-style competition. ;) I will be living here for the next three months during Pre Service Training. Our training center is at an old high school about a 20 minute bus ride and roughly an hour walk from where I live. The training center is very small in terms of what one might imagine based on schools in the U.S. but it is quaint and beautiful. (I will be sure to upload pictures later). So far the majority of our training has consisted in introductions and overviews of what the next 11 weeks will look like. That being said, the following are a few short stories detailing some of my favorite moments of these past six days. J

Uno

So. I am sitting in the living room, hanging with my host brother and younger sister. We are playing Uno and while I have no idea what they are saying to me a majority of the time, I think we are all having fun. Now, here’s my Uno situation: I have two cards left, a wild card and a red 4 and it’s my turn. Who cares if I can’t say “it’s your turn” or “no, you must draw 4 cards now, not put down 4 cards”, I am about to win! I put down my wild card and excitedly say, “verde y uno!” Not more than a second later my host brother puts down a green card. What did I just do! Ah! My host sister goes and I have no green cards. I drew 7 more before finding a green (there were no matching numbers either). Dang. I will never forget the difference between verde y roja ever again!

Toilet Paper Fishing

The water is murky. It is definitely not a good day for fishing. Yet here I am at the watering hole. I sit and wait. I am patient. The weather is nice—a light breeze passes by, though the air brings with it threats of rain. Still, I wait. I think of the morning and my arrival to this place and shudder at the thought of being on the bus again. It’s much nicer here. Here the physical demands are much less. I don’t have to worry about supporting myself, two hands on the overhead bars, knees bent, surfing on the bus. The bus also requires much more concentration, balance and strategy than I need while fishing. For example, on the bus you must always be alert for a second bus that passes too close. In that case everyone must lean in the opposite direction in order to keep the bus’ wheels on the ground. However the leaning must be a group effort and does require a lot of trust and good timing. Now, the balance is self-explanatory due to the bumpy roads and mission impossible style driving. Strategy comes into play when getting on the bus. For whatever reason the entrances are always crowded. At first boarding seems impossible. But you have to remember the center. Maneuver your way to the center of the bus and all will be well. So, you see, all this is tribute to the fact that it truly is nicer here. Toilet paper fishing is simple. There are two simple truths involved. Truth #1: the pipes cannot handle the paper. Truth #2: you must retrieve any paper in the toilet bowl before flushing. And that is all. Now, as I said, today the water is murky and isn’t quite the best day for toilet paper fishing. However, the physical demands are not great and the method is artless. So, I resign myself to the tranquility of the bathroom, take a breath, and extend my right index finger. I then gently sweep it through the bowl, catching all the paper in one calculated motion. And that is all. Confident of my work here, I place my catch in the bucket that sits to the right of the bowl. Today was a true toilet paper fishing success.