Down the Mighty Zambezi

Our ten days of swanky hotels, top-notch restaurants and guided tours has come to a close. For the next two days we'll be traveling to Mansa District in northern Zambia's Luapula Province, and will be arriving in Mwanachama, Stefan's village, on December 21st. As wonderful of a time we've had reconnecting and living in a bit of luxury, which we both are reluctant to admit we missed, the real adventure is about to begin. 

Canoeing down the Zambezi:

In choosing between a sunset cruise and canoeing, we figured the latter was more our style. 

Note the baby crocodile!

Sandwiched between two groups of hippos, warning us with their deep-throated yelps to get out of their territory!

On the way home, we spotted a giraffe chillin' by the side of the road. 

Now it's to cooking over charcoal, pooping in pit latrines, picking organic vegetables and playing with the iwes (children). More to come!

If you would like to check out Stefan's account of his time in Zambia, click here.

All I know I learned through Chess Pt. 1

**This is an actual account of events, woven with theories of the imagination, that took place during my nearly three months in Minca, particularly my time spent with Oscar, who showed me the importance of owning my imagination. It must be broken down into parts, and may take me awhile to complete.


Everything is raw. After a month's battle with a head full of lice and pesky mosquitoes night after night - my main remedy being a bucket shower - my skin burns from my scalp to my ankles. That's what living in the tropics does to you; makes you raw. My thoughts and emotions are beginning to resemble my skin. Raw from incessant scratching: trying to cleanse, trying to make better.

Fast as solitude came, it left. Now I find myself in a town where two months ago I had to learn which road to take and what food to avoid, where I now know everyone's name and vice versa. I hear my name being shouted by local drunks at the Billiard's room by my house, and spoken more softly by the nature guides and store owners, school kids and travelers, all the way up the mountain on the derelict red-dirt road, past the schools and farms and waterfalls to a hostal cloaked in clouds, where a military base once was. I don't know if this says more about my social skills or the size of the town and its outskirts, but the former, without a doubt, have developed.

Many nights have been outlined the same since the beginning. Once the dawn had been nearly dampened to dark, I'd push my feet into my black, steel-toed rubber boots, fasten my headlamp tightly around my itchy scalp, and make the 20-minute trek down to Oscar's place, ready to play chess.

We'd drag the game table to the balcony beneath the stars, the milky way shining down on us a differing perspective, while Santa Marta's city lights remained in the distance. We'd light the candles, and begin.

Minca in Photos

This is where I work:

My most beloved English student...

His eyes are freakin' loco...

On days off we like to adventure, but we tend to get stuck in the daily torrential downpour... 

So we stop for chorizo...

And find a way back...

On days of I also like to chill in the backyard...

Or hang out with neighbors...

Or visit the waterfalls...

And above all, I try and remember to remain like this... 

Woah! 

Mincan Ailments

   "I'm really worried about Tara. We may need to bring her to the ER and stick an IV in her if she loses any more fluids."

    I overheard Oscar say this to the fellow volunteers on his Finca (farm) during dinner. It sparked a discussion over what it is that they should do with me.

    "Damnit," I thought as I lied limp on the couch the next open-air room over. "I don't even want to get up. I don't want to fight it anymore." I was taking Oscar's advice, picturing my army of white blood cells strapped with AK-47s, fumigating and blasting out the nasty parasite that somehow, most likely through Minca's highly contaminated water, found its way inside me. I wondered if Oscar had ever heard George Carlin's stand-up, "You're All Diseased." I at least pretended, and that gave me a bit more comfort.

    "Yea," Oscar continued, "I hope we don't need to take her. We still gotta get that damn lice out of her hair!"

     Shit! The lice! I had almost forgotten to deal with that through the sickly haze.

    Minca is the most wonderful place I have been on my travels. But as I lie there on the couch, I wondered when the bouts of sickness would ever end. Had I pushed my body too hard for the past four months, and it was finally catching up to me? My immune system seems shot. Or is it just the mountain town with poor hygiene that's doing all this? The viruses spread, and I seem to catch each one. It's not too normal. Migraines, colds, fevers, puking. Life is definitely sending me a physical challenge that I need to tackle right now. Luckily the foreign place I'm in is filled with genuine people who care to help me redeem my health.

    That night, (un)fortunately, some women came from the Amazon and Santa Marta to perform a drum circle on Oscar's property, in an attempt to ring in the closing circle of the Mayan calendar. It was my night, and I was escaping every five minutes to the bathroom, until I just let myself collapse on the couch, licking salt.

    But the women came to me after the ceremony.

    "Hi beautiful," they surrounded me. "Are you ok?" I felt one of them lightly place their hand on my head, I'm guessing in an attempt to spread energy. I sure felt whatever it was.

     "Hi. Thank you," I replied weakly.

      One of the women gave me a root, from Bolivia, which is supposed to scare off those little parasitic creatures hiding in my belly. They made me tea mixed with countless spices while Oscar jotted down the recipes I needed for the next few days.

     So now I'm drinking a bitter root from Bolivia that is supposed to heal me better than an antibiotic. And yes, I'm taking my chances. I also got that crazy blue shampoo that's supposed to kill off the lice.

     I love Minca. But in a few days, it's time to escape and relax for awhile! Luckily I'm on the Caribbean. I could perhaps be the luckiest girl in the world. 

Dear Father

I hear you have been calling the fam. If you ever wonder whether or not I am safe in Colombia, you can e-mail me: moc.liamg@atnelect. (Backwards). I don't have a secure internet connection, so don't be surprised if my reply takes a few days.

PS: It's so safe here!

Update

Life will never look the same.

Muahahaha!

Education and Disputes

    This morning a host of mothers and fathers gathered around the dining room table of our house to discuss opening an alternative "Escuela de los Padres" in order to compensate for the lack of sufficient education in the rural public schools.

    And these gatherers have a point. The school system here is completely fragmented, without methodology or any strategy for dealing with the social implications that arise between the indigenous and the non-indigenous.

    When I walk into Tigrera Elementary each morning of the week, I have only the slightest idea of what will happen in the classroom. Many times the teachers don't show, the cook comes and declares breakfast at unforeseeable times, a new student will show up to school for the first time in his life and be placed in a third grade class--yet  he doesn't know how to write the ABC's or his own name. The indigenous are almost debilitatingly shy and sit at the back of the classroom, refusing to participate in activities.

   Yet the kids are never happier than when they see the volunteers. Each day I walk into the school yard that sits on the riverbank and am greeted with dozens of hugs and kisses. The kids, for the most part, stay attentive and say "Te quiero enseño!" after class. Forget having to earn their trust.

   But critical thinking is a foreign concept here. As I write an activity on the board, the students write down every single letter up there. If I write down an activity and give an example, when I walk around the room and peer down at their notebooks I see, "I am from the United States. I am 23 years old." When I say, "Good morning," they reply, "Good morning." When I say, "How are you?" they reply, "How are you?" These kids have had English class for years. But they're not learning much. The disappointing part is that in no way is it these kids' fault.

    To come in and try to invent a curriculum without having any experience myself except for lessons of my own education from which to draw on, is a challenge to say the least. But it is working. By presenting material to the kids in doses that are digestible, they are beginning to not only memorize the vocabulary words, but to absorb and understand them. It takes a mixture of fun, discipline and an understanding of the importance of learning for their own sake.

   But on a Sunday, I sit and listen to the ideas the adults share about opening an alternative school. As they are all interrupting one another with unfounded arguments, I laugh. There's a hippy goddess stressing the need for training in ecology by taking field trips and cleaning up trash. An American man talking about Conn University. A business man arguing with everyone for no reason whatsoever. But then I stop laughing, and I sit and wonder about their motives, their plan of action, and their willingness to become effective teachers. If these people can't effectively teach their students to say, "I am fine, and you?" after four months of teaching, how will they found a school sufficient enough to serve the needs of these students? It can be a bit discouraging at times.


    The heart is there. But what about the drive? The method?  A curriculum?





    

Mother Tongue

Language- El Lenguaje

Tongue- La Lengua

Minca, a Bohemian Refuge

Tucked into rolling hill in the tropical jungle that forms part of the Sierra Nevada mountains, just behind the Caribbean coast of Colombia, sits a cabana that cradles me to sleep each night.

On my days off I rise to salute the sun on a circular slab of marbled concrete, disassembling the hammocks to make more space to move. When finished, breakfast is served. Farmers from nearby FINCAs make house-calls with organic peanut butter, jam, coffee and chocolate, and always have time to stick around for a conversation and a cup of joe.

The small town of Minca is only a few minute walk away. While not in Lonely Planet yet, through word-of-mouth many travelers hear of this hippie-haven, and have made their way from Santa Marta to check out what jewels lie hidden in this place. And there are many; I'm only beginning to discover.

While the indigenous live on the outskirts, the town itself is half inhabited by locals and half by transplants searching for a better way of life. The Irish man down the street left his job as a supervisor for Intel or some other well-known company, and is now building an Irish castle that will become a small hostel next year. Lavel, a Californian, has a five acre farm where the many Wwoofers go, and is one of many who makes the house calls. There's a Russian psychedelic couple and a music producer from New York. Oscar, our neighbor, has smoked three joints a day for 42 years and is an utter genius, who generates much of the energy in the area from his property and plays seven minute chess games religiously.

Whenever I can, I hike after a day of teaching. There are numerous treks, countless waterfalls and swimming holes, and a cute little café in which to sit and rest--with the area's famous organic coffee-- before heading home at sundown. When I lay my head to rest at night, I thank myself for getting to this refuge.

Safe and Sound (again)

Hello all, made it safely across the border into Colombia! Will write soon. 

La Salsa

My feet don't keep pace and my hips don't click like a Latino woman's. But I don't care. I made it, I'm here. I'm looking up and I'm laughing. And I'm in Latin America.

I lose myself in the music. Swinging and twirling with partner after partner--I forget that I arrived to this nightclub alone. I forget that, everyday, I'm constantly arriving everywhere alone. The floor like a beating drum strikes a rhythm in my bleeding heart, and I watch the room fly by in lights and colors. I forget for a moment who I am, and just be.

A Brief Stay with the Torres Family, Intag

Their wood-planked house sits on the side of a steep hill in San Alberto. Almost too steep to support agriculture, but the Spanish had taken over the flatter lands to build haciendas during the conquest, and this is where the farmers migrated with their families. Maybe for them the migration had proved to be worth it, because this land is beautiful. Silent, too. Hours away from the meat hawkers, car honks, cat calls and blasting music. There's only one noise that permeates throughout Ecuador no matter where you are: Barking dogs. Even the ones with homes, they've all gone feral.

The Torres family. Father, mother and kids age 16-28, all of whom show home at every opportunity to help out on the farm. The ones still in high school take the hour walk at dusk in time to prepare dinner, shut out the lights and wake early enough the next day to do chores before they make their descent. The ones with jobs stay in Cuellaje at the family's second home until the weekends. While American adolescents view their party-drenched weekends as proper justification for their grueling work weeks, the Torres family children trek home and spray fungicide, milk cows and prepare meals.

So that's what I did with them. Aside from providing some highly improvised entertainment, I tried my best to become accustomed and integrate into their way of life. If someone were to ever ask me where I learned my Spanish, my ultimate response would have to be: In Intag.  But Spanish was just a gateway into all else I learned there. In Intag is where I learned the culture of real Ecuadorian people; where I composed my first song on guitar; where I learned the true process of preparing a meat dish; where I learned what it means to be truly alone, and isolated; where I learned how to reach out to those around me; and where I learned what a great blessing that skill can be.

I'd spend most of my days with Cecilia, the oldest daughter, and the only one who remains home all year. It was with her I grew the closest, eventually sharing dreams and frustrations and little life meaning. But I became most intrigued by the youngest daughter, Sylvia, and gravitated toward her whenever she showed home from school. When I'd pop out of my room she'd shoot me a sinister smile and say, "Heyyyy Tarraaaaa," and we'd giggle incessantly. When I'd stumble on treks she'd look behind and laugh and tell me to keep going, rather than the usual "Are you OKAY?? Do you need me to carry your bag??" It was probably unintentional, but she kept me challenged, and allowed me the space to learn on my own. Carlos was the oldest son, who was home on vacation. He had been studying for six years to become a priest. Although he frowned when I said I wasn't religious, he was the one who always took the extra time out to slow down his speech and make sure I was caught up with dinner conversation. He'd play music and sing for me his romantic songs and teach me how to play as well. The other two kids, of middle age, worked at the Internet center and hospital in Cuellaje. I didn't have the opportunity to spend as much time with them.

The mother, Claudia, bared on her shoulders the majority of the domestic weight, a weight unimaginable to a first-world citizen. I don't think this is often the case, but at the time I was there the men, including my host father Francisco, were working in the MINCA carving out roads in the mountainside. Claudia and Francisco would often times be falling asleep at the dinner table, but waited there until the dishes had been cleared from the table and all the kids had used the bathroom. Always the first awake and the last in bed.

And then there was Lucho. An old, grumpy man with a lion's face. I could barely make out the Spanish words he slipped between his front gums. Often times I'd catch him at the laundry basin, stripped nearly naked and pouring buckets of water over his head. He had some fear of the shower. At dinner, the whole family would talk about him to me and, sitting at the end of the table popping kernels of corn of their cobs, would never look up. No relation to the family, they only took him in some years ago out of pure compassion and the fact that his own family wouldn't take him back. He was a "malcreado" as they say.

This family worked to keep their land thriving while participating in a community with little to no financial security, a faulty infrastructure and corrupt behind-the-scene practices. This place is a hotbed on which to start laying the groundwork for development, yet practically none has entered. In other words, their latest installment was electricity. This family showed me more strength, courage, hope and happiness than I ever thought possible. They also showed me pain and suffering, anger and distress. They were raw, and they were human. And the experience cannot be matched by anything else.

A Day in the Life, Intag

Here are some photos that provide a more accurate account of what my life was like in Intag, the Cloud Forest of Northern Ecuador, one of the most beautiful places I've ever had the opportunity to stay.

Milking cows: The morning regimen

This dead cow skin would soon become a winter sweater for this calf.

After milking cows: Feed the chickens

Lay out the corn to roast a bit before feeding and cooking the next day

Lunch time

Visiting the fam while they're makin' roads

They appreciate any entertainment to break up the day

To the left: "The Prof" To the Right: Host Father

Prof wanting picture on precarious structure

Walking to the water mill

Chillin' in the creek

Waiting for water mill introduction

Finding Alicia after school, taking the truck back to San Antonio

My favorite sisters 

Heading home 

A visit to prison

*Names have been changed to protect the already incarcerated.
*Not suitable for children

"You don't 'hype up' in the wake of tragedy. You underwrite, letting the events speak for themselves." -Gay Talese

"You have to know someone to enter," an Ecuadorian lady with bright red lipstick and a crocheted blue sweater told me in line after I had asked what the easiest way was for a foreigner to enter the women's prison in the North of Quito.

I didn't know anyone. The only reason I found myself staying in line outside of the prison is because a couple of days before I left Portland my favorite yoga instructor told me that if I were to do anything out of the ordinary in Quito, this would have to be it.

"What if I don't know a name?" I asked.

"You have to find one or you won't enter."

"What if I just show the guards some gifts I want to bring?"

Her eyes lit up. AH! She realized, "Just say you are a volunteer from the United States, and want to bring presents to the woman from the United States. Then they will let you in. But stay in line with me." She grabbed my arm, and once the metal doors synched open, dragged me past the guards toward the check-in.

"Who are you here to see?" The guard asked as she flipped through my passport.

I recited what the woman had dished out a few minutes earlier.

She locked eyes with the guard standing by. "Veronica," she wrote on the form, but never once gave me a name. "Pasale," she said. Pass through.

I proceeded to the security stand, where I was searched head-to-toe along with my bag, in which I could have hid countless commodities never to be detected.

Walking onto the basketball court, the scene came straight out of a movie. Clicks of women with bulging arms and sweatpants lounged around, smoking cigarettes and selling whatever they could get their hands on. A slight nervousness ran through my body. How in the hell am I supposed to find "Veronica" from the United States?

"Psssst," a guard grabbed my arm and led me to a chained up door. Three women peered out from the foot-wide crack. "Who you here to see?" they half-interrogated.

"I'm here to see Veronica." I said with a straight face.

One woman led me through the dining hall, past the vegetable stand and through to a small cafe, where I immediately recognized Veronica, sitting at a colorless plastic table that looked like it came straight out of k-mart with two Nigerian women, dressed like princesses, and who I would learn was her boyfriend, also a Nigerian.

Veronica creaked her head around toward me as if it was about to snap. "How you know me?" Veronica sneered at me in her hot-pink T and leggings, with dyed red hair to match.

I returned the dour glare, but quickly softened my eyes again. "I don't. I just have some extra things to get rid of before I leave the country, and I thought someone in this place might want them. So they sent me to you."

"Sit the *f* down! Whatchu bring me?"

I slid onto the plastic stump. "From New York?" I asked.

"Hell *f*in' yea girl. You bring drugs?"

"Nah. But I brought some nice toiletries and a couple of books," I snickered.

"I tell you what. You're the first American to visit me here. That's awfully nice of you to bring me some shit, especially some shit I could use." She began flipping through the "self-help" book and reading passages out loud. "Man, I tell you, these Americans, they always talkin' about they emotions and shit. How they feeeel and what's botherin' them on the inside, like it got any practicality in the real world. You and me though?" She nudged me like I was already an old-time friend. "You and me, we ain't gotta worry about none a' that weak shit."

I nodded at her with vulnerable eyes; ones she couldn't detect. Vulnerability is beyond her reality, I thought. It was this humility I had been needing.

After some questions about accommodations, a little girl with tight curls and toys in her hands ran up and laid her head in Veronica's lap.

"This is my baby girl," she said.

Suddenly, I began to sense strongly all the children's presence. I looked around. There were kids playing everywhere I decided to look. Kids crying, being yelled at, being held, drinking soda.

"How long is she aloud to stay in here with you?" I asked.

'Till I'm gettin' out, baby! So soon! Nobody's takin' my baby girl from me."

"Ah. So what do you plan on doing when you get out?" I felt anxious for an answer, I didn't know if these questions were too soon.

"Whatchu think? They same shit that got me in here. I'm trafficking drugs. I need some money to pay back this debt and get my ass home," she said emphatically.

Everything in this prison costs money. The rooms, the food, the toiletries. Jobs on site are sparse and pay a dollar a day, the cost of the room. So if there is no outside help for these women, they're forced into debt and have to find some outlet while there to make ends meet, or else they feel their best option is back onto the streets to sell drugs until they can get "back on their feet again."

Of course, there are always the guards who are willing to pay a little bit for some time alone with the prisoners.

"Why do you think there are so many babies runnin' around in here?" Veronica's boyfriend later said to me in confidence.

Veronica was a tough cookie. I learned quickly why all the guards gave me a puzzled look when I'd mention her name. She had been transferred from Guayaquil to Quito due to starting too many fights. Not that there are better rehabilitation programs in Quito. I'm told there's not much different. Just guards getting fed up.

She didn't intend to stop fighting.

"I'll do what I gotta do to get my baby some diapers and juice," she yelled while we sat on her bed. "Nobody here's gonna think they can mess with me."

"No one messes with Veronica," the Nigerian woman laughed. Her presence was so calm in comparison. I later learned she had found God.

Veronica's boyfriend asked her to calm down. A wind of pain washed through his eyes whenever her temper rose up. "I'm just worried about you baby," he'd say. "Something serious can happen to you in here."

Veronica laid back on her bed next to me and spread her legs to resonate in us more soundly her following point. "What the fuck you think Imma do all day? Sit like every other American motha and tickle my pussy all day while watchin' soap operas, not showerin' until the afternoon? Imma hustla, and Imma do what I need to do to raise my daughter and get up outta this place. You feel me?" She nudged me again.

Luckily, she didn't give me time to respond. This woman was wound up. She tore pages out of one of the books I gave her, wrote down numbers for her man to call. I could guess through the whispers exchanged what those numbers were for, but I'd rather not jump to conclusions, especially on a blog.

Then she hopped up and left the room in search for her daughter, who'd been downstairs playing on her own for awhile. The women make it a point to keep the children safe, though.

Veronica showed back with some food to offer me. I took a bite and said I was full. It was an excruciating process, forcing it through my throat. I don't know if it was the taste itself, or the fact I was in a prison, and assumed the food could not be good, especially after Veronica had told me how many times she'd gotten nearly fatally ill from it (not sure if that's dramatized or not).

"I assure you this plate is good," she pushed the plate back in my hands.

"Honestly, I just don't want to eat it right now, thanks though," I had to refuse, I felt I had a right to. She inhaled it anyway, and I'm glad she got some food in her stomach. I didn't need any from her.

The bell rang, and a bustle started on the floor below. Visiting hours were coming to a close.

"Keep this girl safe when you get outside, alright? I don't want nothin' happenin' to her." Her boyfriend nodded and pulled out a bit of money to give to her.

"Yes. Thanks baby. Imma turn this into double reallll quick."

He shook his head and walked away.

"Hey girl!" Veronica shouted from down the hall. "Come back and see me Wednesday! There ain't shit else to do in Quito anyhow!"

"I'll be back," I smiled, and turned the corner back onto the basketball court.

I thought of offering a reflection, but it's simply too early. I think this story speaks for itself, and you can form your own opinions. I do know that during my three months travelling all throughout Ecuador, this experience is right up there for one of the most powerful.

Intag, an Introduction

The hidden, lesser known Ecuadorian cloud forest region of Intag is a natural spectacle. Just about 70 km north of Otavalo, its short distance is highly deceiving. The route to Intag is not an easy one, and travelling 70 km by bus takes you on winding detours through the mountains; the landscape and vegetation thickening with each advance. During the dry season dust will dart through the windows and infiltrate your eyes and nose.

The town of Cuellaje lies deep in the Intag region. An isolated, tranquil town that is often regarded as "boring;" there are absolutely no restaurants and the closest thing to a bar is a house attached to a corner tienda. In other words, it's not a town for the faint of heart. The morning milk truck is the only efficient way to travel to the seven parishes nearby, and other than that you'll have to know someone with a motor bike. Staying for an extended amount of time and getting to know the people is the only way to find comfort in this style of living. The benefit is understanding a part of Ecuador many travelers fail to even hear about.

View of Cuellaje from the Parish

Somehow this remote region has been washed out by Western culture. There was nearly no trace of traditional clothing. The Sunday vendors merely had pirated DvDs, watches and second or third-line designer wear. I fear this lack of aesthetic culture might cause a hindrance to the development of eco-tourism there, when the Andes is a road away and the Amazon within hours. Luckily, they've got the land. If the mining companies don't end up earning rights to tear through it, that is.

This area has been plagued by controversy stemming from the big-buck mining industries in Ecuador. I tried to grab hold of this controversy while I was there, but I had limited contact with English speakers and absolutely no method of transport to talk to higher up officials who were more directly connected to the subject. But I did find an important man in the community: My host father.


While these subsistance farmers seems to have technical skills inscribed in their brains through an almost collective consciousness, they face many problems securing the future of their crops and livestock. The largely sought after bulls are often too expensive, and inbreeding churns out weakened and disabled offspring, threatening profits from milk. "You can see it in the people too; disabilities from inbreeding," the volunteer coordinator told me.

Slash-and-burn is a serious threat to food security, weakening fields until they are unable to produce sufficient yields of maize. Each year families will increase their usage of fungicide to balance out the Ph of the soil until it's deemed unusable. While purchasing this fungicide is a time-saver, it's hurting their profits. Sometimes at night while I'd be trekking back to my house I'd cock my head up and sigh at the fires, knowing fully well these weren't natural. But until a better alternative comes along, or eco-tourists provide the necessary time and labor to instill greater methods into their minds, these people will use slash-and-burn like it's their second religion.


One of the most lucrative crops from this region is the Agave plant, which produces thick fibers used for making baskets and rope. Often times the fibers are donated to women's collectives, who weave the baskets. This type of plant is also one of the most grueling plants to cultivate and harvest, along with sugar cane.

But all these issues can seem like an easy fix until you actually live with and understand the minds of the people in this region, as well as the obstacles they face if they are to openly invite development to occur.

Agave basket

"CCC" Part II

Day Two

I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn, because I had heard a rumor that the milk truck makes a stop in San Antonio during its morning route. However, once I reached the street I discovered I was too late. 

"Oh mi hija, the truck left over an hour ago," a local told me while giggling a bit. My notion of -ass-crack of dawn translated to sleeping-in for most of the parish. 

I sat in the village square with my book until the telephone port opened up. I figured Ned would be reachable now. But, as farmer's a rarely attached to their phones, I soon realized I'd have to hitch another ride to nowhere land. 

I searched for some caloric energy, but all I could find was a corner tienda with Ritz crackers and water bottles, so I settled. Luckily, the fresh-faced store clerk was extremely helpful.

"There'll be a truck leaving with the school kids in the afternoon," he said, "Around one o' clock. He could tell I was a bit hesitant, I had about 70 found worth of luggage with me, but I didn't want to take it off my back.

"This isn't the city," he laughed. "There are no robbers here, you are safe." I was still a bit wary, but the clerk watched my things, and even convinced his brother to help me load them onto the truck. 

At the hour, I hopped onto the truck, the students screaming "Gringa! Gringa! What's your name?" With each stop through the mountainside the children all filed out, some hanging off the rear of the truck until we reached their parish. "San Antonio is the last stop!" They'd yell. "Be patient!" Once I was the only one left in the back of the truck, we reached my stop. 

"You'll have to walk about 30-60 minutes up this path," my driver said. A girl in the front seat had told me minutes ago that she was going to San Antonio as well. 

"Will she come with me?" I slyly pointed in her direction. 

The girl hopped out from the passenger side, and motioned me to walk with her. 

"Great," I thought. "I'm pretty much putting my life in the hands of an 11-year-old girl." Turns out, though, that this girl has probably put in more hours of work in her life than I have. So she assisted me the whole way, repeatedly asking me if I needed to rest, but I never admitted to that need, even when I wanted to. In the meantime, she told me her name was Carla. 

Before we reached her house, Carla told me I could wait with her while we called Ned/Eduardo together. "Eduardo es my vecino," she said. I'd learn soon enough that in this place, everyone is a neighbor. 

But Ned didn't answer. I sat outside wondering what the hell I was doing, how I could put this girl in such a situation, when she came outside and told me to come sit in the kitchen. She wanted to make me food. I hesitatingly sat down, asking if she needed help, but she wouldn't let me stand up. "You need rest," she said. Within minutes, she served me a heaping bowl of white-rice and french fries, as well as one for herself. 

"Do you get lunch at school?" I asked her. 

"No, we don't have lunch. I eat in the morning and when I get home," she said. 

My appetite began to wilt, and I struggled to swallow each bite. Once I had finally finished, she smiled at me, grabbed my hand and led me into her parents' room where her little sister was watching television through a fuzzy signal. 

"Where are your parents? I asked. 

"Oh. They are working in the fields," she replied. "They'll be home in a couple of hours."

"And they won't mind that I'm here, in their bed?" I had heard about the good nature of the people in this area, but this situation had gotten me a little concerned.

"Not at all!" She said through a smile. So I tried to relax, but instead stared blankly at the T.V. until the parents showed home.

Her father's head popped in, and his face began to glow as soon as he caught sight of me. 

"Tara is going to be a volunteer here!" Carla jumped with excitement. 

"Hello! Hello! Welcome!" He said. The mother's face mimicked the father's. 

While the parents were cooking dinner, I asked Carla if I could take a nap, and she led me to her bedroom. I needed a second to collect myself, though instead, once I was able to distance myself from the others, I tucked my head into my knees and began to cry. I quickly forced myself to regain composure. "Just make it through the night, Tara, everything will be sorted out in the morning," I wrapped my arms around myself in hopes of comfort. Just then, the phone rang. Eduardo called in the nick-of-time. 

Carla came into her room. "Tara, Eduardo wants to know if you want him to come get you, or if you want to wait for morning." Her sister came in, and collectively they kneeled on the bedside floor, as if they were about to pray, and pleaded to me with their eyes; ones I couldn't say no to. 

Relieved that he at least called, I gave them what felt like a puzzled look and said, "I'll stay." The girls began jumping up and down, and ran and told their parents, who were delighted at the news. I shook my head in utter confusion. Me, an anonymous foreigner who randomly landed at their house one day, was seen as a blessing. I walked into the main house, and gave them my full attention. 

While sitting on the bed, one-by-one, the mother and the two girls laid down notebooks, and asked me to open them. English lessons. "Will you help us with pronunciation?" 

"Of course," I said. I felt it was the least I could do to repay this family. So we sat for an hour or so, sifting through pages of vocabulary, playing flash card games and editing homework. 

"When you come work in the fields," Samuel (the father) mentioned, you can teach me the English words for all the tools. 

I had no idea where I'd be stationed, but didn't want to address those logistics, so instead I just nodded and smiled. 

"Let's. Eat. Dinner!" the mother said in her slightly improved English. 

Over our dinner of soup and steaming cherry juice, each family member was disrupting the other in telling me stories about their lives. "It's better we have electricity now. Life was hard five years ago. Now we have T.V." My heart sunk a bit. "AND we have all the running water in the world. We can leave every faucet on for the entire night and nothing would happen! Our other volunteer had a computer, and we could play computer games, he even left it for us when he went out of town!" I just sat motionless and soaked it all in like a sponge. 

"Please let me do the dishes," I firmly stated. The girls sat by the sink and watched the cold water hit my hands while I cleaned. During this time, their mother began to tidy up the room I'd be sleeping in. After I laid the last dish to dry, the girls grabbed my arms and led my into my temporary room. 

I began preparing for bed, but the girls lingered. 

"...Do you have a computer? With movies?" Carla questioned. 

I didn't feel comfortable flaunting my electronics, but reluctantly I told them yes, I had one movie with me. Unfortunately, there were no Spanish subtitles. 

The girls, showing no sign of caring, immediately climbed into bed, one on each side, and cuddled up to me until their bed time. 

How I felt that night, going to sleep in the foreign bed of a strange family in an unknown place, could be an entire post on its own. But I'll leave that to the imagination. 

Coming in Contact with the Coordinator: Part I

"I guess you may not pick up this message in time, but just in case, you may like to chat to Christina Chaya in Cuellaje,  Christina runs a volunteer project in this parish too, and there's no reason why you shouldn't work with her too.

Otherwise, I'll wait for your call, and come down with a pony to meet you. -Ned"

Ned was right. I didn't receive his e-mail message in time. I arrived in Cuellaje, a small town that serves as a meeting ground for the seven parishes nearby, amidst the crowd of church-goers and vendors. The sun was already sinking behind the mountains.

"I guess I'll lay my bags down here for the night," I thought. I paid for my $6 hotel room, and walked to the village square to see if I could find a landline to call Ned and ask if he could meet me in the morning so we could travel together back to his house in San Antonio, wherever that was. But he had also said in earlier e-mails to feel confident with arriving in San Antonio on my own, so at this point I wasn't the least bit worried.

Momentarily I was distracted by a shirt vs. skin volleyball game in which the players were using a flattened basketball, and I became a spectator while I munched down my street-side papas fritas (french fries). 

But Ned didn't answer. Instead I thought I'd engage in this networking game, so I tried to find Christina. After asking locals, I found her house, and yelled her name from the street (an Ecuadorian custom), but she never appeared. "Ah well, I guess I'll walk around and become more familiar with this place."

As I was walking, I ran into a Danish man who had come here to work as a forest ranger with the National Park Service. This man was all mouth and no ears, but he had some interesting things to tell me. From our conversation I gathered that slash-and-burn is unacceptable, eco-tourism will be established here within a few years, stricter property rights and land allocation need to be written into law, the government needs to take an invested interest in compensating farmers economically for not cutting down their forest, cities are for satanists, and the town of Cuellaje is ghostly and boring. (I will expand on these issues in later posts.)

"You know, I don't usually talk to foreigners. So consider yourself lucky. If you ever want to come say hi, I live in that house over there," he said as he pointed his wavy finger at some general direction. 

"Alright, thanks," I replied, knowing fully well that I'd probably not see him again. 

I retreated back to my hotel room and tried to read before I fell asleep, but my mind was speaking too loudly. The transition into isolation from the outside world had begun. 

Quito: Land of the Free (and Cheap)

No other city I’ve lived in or flew to looks or feels much like Quito. A city where smoking restrictions are still nonexistent- you can light up before you leave the place where you purchased your pack and no one will squint an eye. It’s a city where Payless costs more and you won’t be able to walk down a street or load onto a bus without spotting at least a dozen fashionable city-dwellers sporting a fake pair of ray-bands they probably picked up at a corner tienda.

At the center of “gringolandia” lies Plaza Foch, a colorful ensemble of expensive bars, cafes and restaurants where well-to-do Quiteños and their foreign counterparts enjoy a leisurely afternoon happy hour before nightfall, when the center offers some real fun.

Wednesday night is lady’s night. There’s a subsection of bars in “gringolandia” where girls can get in free until 11, bouncing from one bar to another with their friends getting as plastered as possible free of charge. After 11 the boys are howling (literally) to be let in and roam freely to scope out the fresh meat. The disappointing part is, a lot of the girls enjoy this- they season themselves through the attentive stares of men.

Walk through this neighborhood and it’s hostel after hostel. No wonder Ecuador has become to loaded with tourists—this place has become geared for the weathered traveler. And with good reason. Not only is it beautiful, it’s quite cheap: Make a stop at the Santa Clara market and you can pick up two full bags of fresh produce and some sort of carbohydrate base for ten dollars.  Promotions at the nightclubs that fall on each night of the week make it hard to resist stopping in for a couple of Pilseners and maybe some Salsa.

The Ecovia and the Trollebus take you through a time warp from the South to the North, jutting out thick, black fumes that stain the streets and make you gasp at the fact that each time you cross from one side to the other you’re actually breathing this all into your lungs.  Really, this smoke is so heavy you can actually feel it entering your insides. Walk down the same street for long enough, your head will scream for the even the tiniest dose of oxygen.

The South, named a UNESCO world heritage site, is, not so ironically, the poorer portion of the city. Head to the North and you’ll find supermalls with Cinnabon and near sky-scraper status buildings with businessmen out front checking out every well-dressed girl in clear sight. Ask me and I’d chose to live in the South any day. But I’m pressed directly between the old and the new, and I can’t say my current placement is half bad.

As culturally rich and beautiful as this city is, I’m leaving it on Saturday—at least for the time being. Saturday I will be hopping a couple of buses and a milk truck to a highly remote FINCA (organic farm) outside of the village of Cuellaje, where nearest town is about two hours out, and it’ll take two days to even make that trip. As much as I enjoy Quito and all the people watching, nothing sounds more appealing right now than being isolated in a forest, where nothing but the sounds of roosters, birds and Spanish speakers will feed my stimulation.

There I’ll be teaching English for a couple hours a day as well as any other subject I may find interest in teaching to the kids. I’ll also be spending the mornings working on the farm: Milking cows, churning cheese, sowing seeds, tending to the beds and harvesting. I am told to not be surprised if one of the local farmers I will be working with hands me a machete and tells me to hack a trail to the rio.  But then again,  granted I stay for long enough, another responsibility of mine will be to stress better conservation of the land on which these people dwell.

How will I learn these things? No idea. I’ll take it day by day and see if being this far out of my comfort zone will be conducive to my mental (and physical) health. At this point I don’t foresee any unmanageable circumstances. This part of Ecuador is unanimously known for the relaxed aura of its people and the regenerative capabilities of its pristine nature.  While I’m scared a bit shitless, I must say the excitement has a better hold on me.

Stay tuned. 

On Quitting my Job

I had my last day of work last Friday.

My boss handed me a folded wad of dough and wished me well, sighing a bit under his breath.

If I tried to explain my reasoning for this, it would take forever. This one-way conversation would end up as an all-night rant about human existence, I'm afraid. Yes, that's how far my mind goes when I'm sitting in front of a computer all day thinking, speaking and writing in English while in a Spanish speaking country.

I guess the question that was constantly harassing me was, "Why am I really doing this?"

It's because of the notion I've had since I was 15 of becoming a Journalist, upon which I told myself, "Don't let anything get in the way of that goal: Anything."

(Un)fortunately, as I've grown a little older, life isn't as black-and-white as I once thought it was. And at this point, I am securely stuck in gray.

If anyone got an insider's view of what the "travel writing" business is really about, they'd probably be a bit surprised too. You mean, most of the writers don't actually visit these places they seem to know so much about? As much as I love writing, a simple "How to get Your Visa Extended" just isn't my style. And yes, in life there are hoops to jump and sacrifices to make, but at this point in life I'd rather sacrifice a hot shower rather than my livelihood by wasting away at a 9-5 desk job, constantly craving that illusion of security I'll reap once I can put this six months on my CV.

I'm no longer in college. I no longer have professors and peers jamming down my throat, "Buy this domain, put that on your resume." I no longer have someone constantly telling me how competitive this profession is, and speaking as if there's some methodological approach to becoming a successful writer. If slaving away at a computer desk, trying to regurgitate thoughts onto paper out of thin air with seemingly no source of inspiration, is the way to become successful; if reading other people's tweets and facebook posts to figure out the market and their views of life rather than cultivating my own, is the only way to reach an audience-well, then, my romantic notion of what the profession could be has dwindled and I may need to pick a new route.

But I'm not to that point yet. I still have hope that somewhere in this line of work there's a dire need for some real voices: A need for authors who are willing to put their lives on the line in order to tell a good story; a need for authors who, instead of typing in a URL for a website where people post their mundane thoughts of the day in 150 characters or less, are sitting in deep contemplation in order to arrive at something a tad bit more original; and a need for authors who still understand that the goal of literature is to alter the minds of its readers--to articulate humanity's many grievances and offer a fresh perspective. And I am going to act on this hope until it runs me dry.
                         

Maybe one day I'll crave that security. Maybe one day I'll accept a 9-5, and my idealist notions of what this life can be will lay to rest. Maybe then will my twitter account see some action. But not today. Today, I have the means to travel exactly how I've always envisioned. So that's what I'm going to do.

A Few Pictures

My pocket video camera miraculously began to work again, so I took some pictures today. Enjoy.

                                                 ^^This is the view from my apartment^^

                                                        ^^ My living/dining room^^

                                                        ^^From a different angle^^

                                               ^^My "writing" chair (too lazy to rotate)^^

                                                ^^Park directly in front of my house^^

                                        ^^Quito is known as the city without a blank wall^^

                                         ^^My favorite building I pass on the way to work^^