The Struggz on the Bus Go Round and Round

Coming home on the bus, I got up to move toward the door as we neared my stop.

In typical rainy-night-in-Quito style, the bus was packed and I couldn't find anything to grab onto.

In typical clutzy-Eleanor-style, the bus jolted to a ridiculously fast stop and I fell into the guy next to me, who, like dominoes, knocked over the old woman next to him, who then sat into the lap of a pregnant woman.

Eleanor, official wrecker of havoc.

Classy in Cuenca and Other Tales of Fall Break

Last week was vacation week (much needed) and a group of us did the long haul down the coast to Puerto Lopez and Montanita and then south to Cuenca. 

Puerto Lopez, a twelve-hour bus ride away from Quito, was well worth the effort. It was a cute little fishing town, and we stayed in a magical hostel. We met three other Americans, who ended up staying with us in Cuenca, an Australian who our friend ran into later in Otavalo, and two Dutch guys who we ran into again in Cuenca. Small, small world.  The town itself was really sweet and it was relaxing to spend a few days in the water, not worrying about independent studies or air pollution.

Sol Inn, where the magic happens

On the beach!

Happy waterbabies

Montanita, our next stopping point, was less my style – very touristy with a few too many dirty dreads…

Like this guy...

BUT, I loved Cuenca. I love Cuenca so much more than Quito. It is beautiful, with a river and bridges and lots of cute cafes and restaurants. It is clean and the air isn’t as polluted as Quito. And, the best part, it is safe to walk around in at night. Over the trip I realized how much I’ve really missed being able to leave the house at night and feel safe. In Puerto Lopez we went to the beach at midnight and danced in the water. In Cuenca we could go to the plazas to listen to music and not have to worry about getting a taxi home. Also, it was the city’s Festival weekend, so it didn’t hurt to have concerts, parades, and shows and markets everywhere.

The streets lined with flags for the fiesta

Sunny days by the riverside

Street performances everywhere

Swinging over the city

Classy in Cuenca

The only bad part of the trip is that I got sick (like usual) in Puerto Lopez . I have to tell my sick story because with the other students our main topics of conversation include how much we hate catcalling, where we want to travel, and our stomachs. I think my stomach is becoming my new best frenemy because she betrays me so much.

So, my stomach story:

We went out to Isla de La Plata (Poor Man’s Galapagos) for a day trip. Isla de La Plata is a good way to get a quick glimpse of what the Galapagos might be like – and it’s full of blue-footed boobies! On the way there somebody commented that the white rocks were really pretty and our guide laughed and said, “Everything white is bird poop.” The island is COVERED in bird poop.

Anyway, partway through our tour I got really sick. We were halfway around the path when my stomach got angry with me and I knew the end was near. Desperate, I went up to our guide (who looked very much like Crush from Finding Nemo) and asked where I could go to the bathroom. He told me to go off the trail somewhere and to watch out for blue-footed boobies because if I stepped on their nest they’d be really pissed…

He does, doesn't he? 

The boobies and their nests

So I went off into the underbrush, crushing it down and getting an allergic reaction on my knees, and had to do my business. This for someone who’s never really been “camping” before (if camping means you’re too far away from a bathroom to use it…) but I laughed thinking about my own addition to the bird poop covered island.

On the island of disaster

Anyway, glad to be back in Quito, refreshed from break week and ready to make the most of the next 5 weeks of the program!

Full disclosure: Almost none of these photos are mine. I'm not that talented! 

Muisne, in fotos

The expert...

 My very unsuccessful imitation...

Hammock-love forever. I must find a way to string one up in my dorm when I get back to Swat.

High fives for making it through the mud-pits of death to do some reforestation.

 What do Eleanor and Maura do when they decide they are tired of the 5k walk to the mangrove? Hop in the next camioneta! 

Bellavista was really, really pretty. Also, really wet. 

What Happens When Eleanor Tries to Get Her Hair Cut

After about two months of split ends, of using up almost entire bottles of conditioner just to comb through my hair and saying to myself every other day, “I really need to get a trim…” I finally decided to risk it and seek out a hairdresser.

First, I went to a woman on my street, hesitantly stopping by the door and yanking on it, only to find it locked. Embarrassed, I checked to see if the shop was actually open. It was, and she came to the door to let me in (oh Quiteños and their excessive security). I asked her how much a haircut costs, what her hours were and then, the big question, “Can you cut hair like mine?” She looked at me for a moment, her face twisting into the expression you make when you’re about to tell a lie and said, “Oh yeah, sure, they teach us how to cut all sorts of hair... shouldn't be a problem, I think.” I narrowed my eyes, thanked her, accepted her card and crossed her off my list.

Next, I waited a few days, keeping my eyes peeled for peluquerías (they are everywhere) and trying to guess who might be able to help me. There are two across the street from the bus stop where I wait for my internship everyday, so I walked over to them this morning. I went to one, but it was closed, so stopped in at the other. It was like an empty discoteca, with music pounding on speakers out the door and two women sitting and doing their nails. I asked if they had any free time and then, again, probed to see if they could cut my hair. The two women, with their straightened, damaged hair insisted, shouting over the music, that they’d have to straighten it first. I crossed that one off my list.

So I walked over a street to another peluquería and went through the same questions. This time, the man insisted that he could cut it. Relief flooded over me as I sank into the swivel chair – finally goodbye to my split ends! But then he pulled out a razor. A RAZOR. Folks, nobody can cut my hair with a razor. I hightailed it out of there, grabbing my bag, thanking him and taking off.

Feeling dejected and now paranoid of razors, but still determined, I stopped at a peluquería a few doors down. We didn’t even get as far as razors because I walked in, smiled and asked if they could please cut my hair and their eyes widened and they started ushering me out the door saying, “No, no, no, we can’t cut crazy hair here…”

Dejected and tired, I went back to the first place that’d been closed, the only place with an afroecuadorian hairdresser. He and I chatted a bit – yes, I only wanted a little off, no, you have to cut my hair wet, and yes, you must use scissors and he told me that I’d need to go somewhere else. He handed me the card of a place called “Cepillo Loco” (Crazy brush, fittingly) and gave me directions.

I walked off in search of the Crazy Brush, knowing it was my last hope and wondering what the hell is wrong with all the hairdressers in Quito. Eventually I grabbed a taxi and, on telling the driver the directions, starting having a wonderful rant-sess about the difficulties of having afro hair (he’s afro too). He dropped me off in front of Crazy Brush, wished me the best, and I walked to face my final hope.

The women at Crazy Brush listened to what I wanted and had a good laugh at my stories of the terror my hair had caused at numerous peluquerías this morning. They washed my hair, cut it and I was in and out in less than 10 minutes, easy peasy. No more split ends, no uneven cut lines, no straightened hair, no chemicals, and no razors. EXITO!

All in all, the whole endeavor only took me about 4 hours…well done, Quito. 

Impressions

Impressions of the Day

Habas under my fingertips after peeling them for an hour with Jenny in her kitchen, watching her get teary-eyed, talking about being away from her kids for two weeks, wondering how my parents will actually feel when I'm not home for Christmas. 

The young man next to me on the bus jumping up from his seat to help an old man, wobbling with his huge sacks of god-knows-what, board the bus and sit down. 

Quicentro shopping mall and all the arcade games in English, clearly made for the US, thinking that we have some things that just don't deserve to be imported.

A beautiful german shepard following me home for 6 blocks. Feeling terrified (rabies...) and crossing the street multiple times, trying to walk with other people to get away from it. The dog waiting outside the house until Manuelita convinced me we should go look at it. The dog following us as we walked around the neighborhood hoping someone would recognize it or know who it belonged to. (It was so afraid of buses that it cowered at our feet whenever one came by so there is no way that it's a street dog.) Wondering what to do with it until another woman came by and the dog followed her down another street and out of sight.

A night of drumming, a bonfire, dancing and amazing Ecuadorians who speak so eloquently about Pachamama and the power of women and how the "modern" world with all our achievements and advanced technologies still doesn't give us that fundamental missing piece of community, of feeling connected, of love. A night of blessing ourselves with a sacred fire, passing incense sticks around a circle of 40 people, of singing and looking up at the sky. 

Casa Matilde

Today was my eighth day at my new internship. 

I work at Foundation Casa Matilde, a safe house for women who suffer from domestic violence and their kids. 

It's an incredibly stressful place. There is an office in the front with a lawyer, child psychologist and a social worker. Their schedules are unpredictable and I'm still not sure what it is that they do all day when they aren't chatting and getting coffee. Office dynamics are very different from what I'm used to - there's a lot of division between the women who live in the house and the women who work there. Physically, the space in constructed so that the office is in the front and the living space is in the back, behind closed, locked doors. In the back there's a big room where everyone eats, a kitchen, a small room with a tv, a huge shared bathroom and three rooms that house more than 28 people. 

It is convivencia (living together) in its truest form. Sometimes it feels like a madhouse, with all the screaming children running around and crying and women cleaning and cooking and arguing. Sometimes it feels really communal, with everyone taking care of each other, eating together and sharing so much space. 

Normally I spend a whole lot of time with the children. Families come and go, but right now there are fourteen kids, all but two under the age of seven. 

My first day I thought I would have a heart attack. They gave me the keys to the "rincon infantil" (the kids' playroom) and I opened it and the kids went crazy - running, screaming, getting paint all over themselves and me, hitting each other, falling on the floor. For someone with about zero experience with kids it was definitely one of the Top 5 Most Overwhelming experiences in my life. I've always wanted to have a lot of kids - I had thought maybe 4 or 5, but in my first five minutes at Casa Matilde I decided there is no way I'll ever have more than 2 or 3. 

My conversations with the women in Casa Matilde are the most fulfilling part of my internship. To hear their stories of how they came to the house (an eighteen year old running away in the middle of the night from the Amazon with her one year old baby), (a mother of four who took the bus from Guayaquil not knowing anyone in Quito), (a Paraguyan woman who was kidnapped with her daughter by her husband's mother), are heartbreaking.

I think the hardest part is seeing the pain in their lives. Yesterday one of the three year olds was holding on to my belt loop and I told him "belt" and he told me "cinturón" and then went on to tell me how his dad had a really big belt and used to tighten it around his neck. In moments like that I feel totally unqualified to be in the house and I really wish I knew more about child psychology and how to respond. Sometimes I feel entirely out of my element. 

One day last week I accompanied one of the women to the hospital because she'd had an unsafe abortion and part of the fetus was still inside her, causing a huge infection. (Abortion is illegal here.) I escort at an abortion clinic in Philly and I focus a lot on women's reproductive rights while at Swarthmore, but this was the first time I have ever seen the nasty consequences of illegal abortions firsthand. 

Even though this is not the sort of internship experience I was expecting, I do recognize that I am learning a lot about lives that are so starkly different from my own, about the struggles the foundation faces and in some ways about myself. I'm learning how it feels to do care work all day and how to [try] to be infinitely patient. 

And things have gotten a little easier with the kids since the first day. More often I'm there with another worker and it's much easier with two of us. And, sometimes when I really miss home and Quito feels really unfriendly and unsafe it makes all the difference to be around these kids. They'll scream and run to hug me when I walk in the door, beg me not to leave when the day's done and all try to curl up in my lap while we watch movies. Sometimes I'm really amazed how kids who've experienced so much violence express so much love. 

Yasuní

This past weekend we went on our first “salida del campo” to Yasuní National Park (in the Ecuadorian Amazon). Most of the time we stayed at the Research Center and went on many, many walks through the jungle, seeing a few too many spiders and bugs and (eeek) a boa constrictor outside of my room… It was quite an experience to feel so small in the jungle, to feel so much life pressing in all the time and to realize I know so very little about the natural world we live in. Although, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t happy to come back to the concrete jungle of Quito where I have to be more afraid of getting hit by a car than bitten by a mosquito with malaria or getting one of these up my urethra.

For me, the most memorable and heartbreaking part of the trip was the very first day. We visited Lago Agrio with the director of Acción Ecologica and a local activist to see the contamination caused by Texaco and PetroEcuador. To get the oil from the ground there are two other unwanted products – gas and formation water. To get rid of the gas the petroleras burn it 24/7 in these huge towers. At night the light attracts insects and birds and during the day you can see dead insects all around the foot of the tower. Just standing anywhere near it you can feel the oppressive heat.

 

[Photo courtesy of Kate Sinnot and her magnificent photography skillz]

Formation water is incredibly old salty water with heavy metals and radioactive qualities from deep within the ground. It seeps into the water and contaminates all the water of the region. The radioactive products accumulate in the fish, and when a bigger fish eats a little one it accumulates more and more until eventually a person eats that fish and accumulates all that radioactivity as well.

All the water of the region is contaminated, leading to “invisible” problems of cancer, skin issues, abortions and babies born with deformations. For a long while, people didn’t know that their water was contaminated. Now, even if they know, there isn’t much they can do beside continue to grow their crops on contaminated land.  

It was really eery, driving for hours through the jungle and seeing these gas pipes following us along the side of the road for the entire time. 

And, as the man who let us (illegally) onto his own property to see the effects of the petrolera explained, people are completely economically dependent on the petrolera. As you can’t grow anything, you have to get a job with the petrolera and you can’t move because once you have contaminated land you can’t sell it.

It really reminded me of fracking and the issues it has caused at home, like contaminated water. The company will do the same thing – offer to pay some amount to make a road on your property and drill. They don’t compensate for accidents or for the contamination they cause. And if your neighbors buy into it then you get contaminated water too.

The big difference? Here you can’t even say no. If a property owner says no to the petrolera, they come in and start to drill anyway. Sometimes they release contaminated water at nighttime. The power that these petroleras hold is unbelievable. They are even allowed to drill in the Yasuní National Park and use their own police force because there isn’t a governmental one in the area. To get to and from the Research Center we had to go through petrolera controlled security checkpoints. The company is, in some ways, like its own state.  

An awkward moment arouse when the man who let us see his property asked the director where the company was from, found out it was from the US and that we, the students, were also from the US. He asked, “Why don’t they pay to fix it, then?”

And, to be honest, it’s a good question. But, just like Ecuadorian citizens do not pay directly for the damage their country does, we do not either. However, we all pay indirectly with pollution and contamination and governments that privilege companies over citizens' rights. Some, though, like the man who owns that land, pay much more than others.

And some of us, especially us Americans, benefit directly. It’s a confusing spot to be in – to be a citizen of a country that has horrifying practices and interventions in other countries and to oppose those, but feel powerless to do anything besides think about it, write about it and talk about it.