I returned from Ecuador head full, pockets empty. Frugality has now become a common companion on my shoulder, getting in the way of every decision I make. The most recent ones were in my 4-day road trip from Milwaukee to Los Angeles. A trip that with gas and lodging fees could easily be a few hundred dollars. I did it on less than hundred.
CouchSurfing allows travelers to crash on a host’s couches for free while traveling and proves to be beneficial for both the host, who gets to see their city in a new light and the guest who gets the best tour guide possible, a local one. I was lucky enough to crash on a city planner’s couch, who knew literally everything there was to know about Oklahoma City. True I spent on beer and food what I probably would have spent on a hostal, but frugality was easy subdued.
The second night I didn’t manage to hook up with host so I pulled another cheap trick from my back pocket, or rather from my back seat. The back seat of my car folds down creating a makeshift bed that extends into the trunk. I parked in a hotel lot and got some shut eye, which is not the most polite thing to do. If you aren’t willing to step on any toes, Walmart lets you park your cars in their lots all night. This is what most RVers do when traveling the country. In the morning I went in the hotel for a free continental breakfast and went to a neighboring Starbucks to use their bathrooms, which are always cleaner than gas stations and rest areas.
I continued the last leg of my journey, frugality still on my shoulder, the free continental breakfast to go on my passenger seat, money still in my wallet.
For 6 years I had my own New Years traditions. The requirements were: a different city each year, my friend Andy, and several bottles of alcholol. That was the extent of it. While some were great (rooftop in Chicago) and others were less than great (watching an HBO comedy special with Robin Williams) they were all memorable. This year I broke with my traditions and took on a few of someone elses.
I’ve been in Ecuador since September trying as much as possible to take part in the local culture. It’s been a strange and interesting experience, sometimes disheartening sometimes beautiful. New Years was one of the beautiful ones.
In Ecuador people spend new years with their family and don’t get together with friends until 12:30. Needless to say the streets were mostly empty save for a few intersections which had enormous Año Viejos and live salsa music.
Año Viejo is a life-size doll that represents the old year. And since the year is over and done what better to do than BURN IT! If this wasn’t enough you also have to jump over the flaming doll for good luck. I synged the entire front of my hair doing this, so the luck better be good indeed. People running around with suitcases might seem strange at first until you realize they too are calling upon the spirits of luck. A suitcase signifies luck with travel, red underwear is luck in love, green is luck withpower and money, and no underwear doesn’t mean anything at all, but it’s still fun.
Flour and fireworks were flying everywhere as we walked by the massive bon fires taking place on almost every intersection. The flour, which was thrown in your hair, was one more sign of time passing, and the fireworks were just for the hell of it. The standards of Ecuadorian fireworks are not the best and left a friend’s hand black and blue and full of burns.
The remainder of the night was spent at one of Cuenca´s best discos which seems to have a loop track of music. We heard the entire playlist at three times. But regardless good friends, fun dances and strong drinks made up for it. I wandered home around 5 am smelling of burnt ano viejos, synged hair and cheap beer. Much better than watching Robin Williams on HBO.
I’ve done a bit of traveling in my life, and each trip has built confidence and independence…but I always built this sense of confidence under the protection of traveling partners, friends, girlfriends, family. I’m 26 and for the first time I’m traveling on my own.
I spent 2 months traveling through Europe where I didn’t speak the language, so I came to Guayaquil with no fear of the language barrier. But the dangers of the city started to challenge my sense of traveling bravado. The headline in the paper the day I landed was “Crime and Murders at a high in Guayaquil.” Almost all of my foreign friends had been kidnapped at one time or another. The first phrase I learned in Spanish was: Nañito, no me maltes, which means friend please don’t kill me. As time went on I began to fear the completion of the course. An end that would set me free into Ecuador to travel and look for a job ALONE.
The first few days after graduation I traveled to Baños and Cuenca with friends. My mind was becoming as frayed as the pages of my travel guide. I wanted to branch off and have my own adventures, but feared I would have to practice my new learned spanish phrase, no me maltes.
I chose Jima as my first stop. A small town, a mere paragraph in Lonely Planet’s 432 page guide to Ecuador. Jima contained both the romantic isolation and safety of a small town. I started the day full of zest and confidence, and then I got to the Bus Terminal.
There are two bus terminals in Cuenca. The main one, which has clean facilities, clear signs designating outbound buses and then there’s Terminal Sur. It might have at one time contained a building but there is only the skeleton of a concrete framework. The buses pull into one of two lanes where if you’re lucky they slow down and you can jump on. I asked everyone around the area where the bus to Jima stopped but no one knew. 20 minutes after its scheduled arrival, right when I was about to throw in the towel, I saw it, in the far left lane. I dodged traffic and the bus kindly slowed down enough for me to grab the metal frame and pull myself aboard.
As I sat there looking out at the undulating expanse of land, the fear that had gripped my body started to give way to a lighter feeling. The sense of not knowing what lay beyond the next corner, which had until that moment conjured images of dark hooded figures holding knifes, now turned into the apple trees of Jima, the views from their mountains, and many more unknown yet positive possibilities. I reclined my seat and a sense of freedom wash over me. I felt light, excited and finally, once more, courageous.
JIMA
I was the first gringo to visit Jima in 15 days. The owner called the local tourism official, an Italian looking artist who didn’t speak a lick of English. With my limited vocabulary I was able to understand his speech about the history of the town, whose claim to fame are a half year harvest of apples, wonderful cheeses, and a 2-time stopping point for Simon Bolívar. So its history doesn’t contain that much charm, but the people did. Several more townspeople went out of there way to talk with me to practice their english, offer a free cup of coffee, ask the price of an Ecuadorian banana in the states or give me a postcard of their city.
I ventured up to a blue doored church atop one of the surrounding hills. I almost lost my way, but a white dog joined my journey and lead me back to the path when I went astray. The surrounding lanscape was dotted with houses here and there, but mostly unbridled open space. The wind carried the sounds of a school’s band practice. I leaned against the church, the dog at my side and bit into one of the apples that landed Jima a spot, however miniscule, in my travel guide. It was an idealic beginning to solo traveling.
I worked as an after school counselor for the boy scouts my junior year of college. It’s an aspect of my personality to get involved in things I’m terrible at hoping that mere exposure will change me. Here I thought I might become manly, learn how to tie knots, carve wood, navigate by using the stars. All things I was never taught as a child, but if anyone had tried I’m sure I wouldn’t have wanted to learn it anyway.
My training consisted of a handshake and a 100-page activity manual. I flipped through the book looking for tasks that I could learn that might impress women and friends. Page 10-20 origami. Page 34 paper boats. Page 87 Red Light Green Light. Page 90-100 knots. I couldn’t justify this job by its pay so I was determined to get something out of it. It now looked like I wouldn’t get the manly skills I wished to have, but I could still make a difference in children’s lives. This vague idealism for children education is the only reason I went to my first day of work.
With absolutely no direction on classroom management I was suddenly in charge of 15 kids. It would have been a larger group but I had to tell the girls that they weren’t allowed to join our masculine activities. We started with Red Light Green Light pg. 87. I wondered why it was so late in the book. It seemed like an easy enough activity. I was the first one to yell out Red Light Green Light. The first game went smoothly so I let the winner call out the next game. It was my first mistake in a series of management mistakes that day. Giving a 10 year old power over his peers turns him into a maniacal monster. He started disqualifying kids left and right. A handshake, a leg fidget, do this after he yelled Red Light and you would be sent to the starting line. Kids started getting upset so I told the Kid to go easier on his peers. The game ended in a tie, but the Kid decided to name his closer friend the winner. There was no prize, but the looser of the tie went completely ape-shit. He cursed the heavens raising his fists in the air. Tears streamed down his face as he damned the world for being out of balance. Life wasn’t fair. Slavery, the Holocaust, and loosing this tie were all examples of it. I stood dumbfounded at the hysterics. My only experience with tantrums were with siblings where the normal course of action was to point, laugh and mimic. I had no other planned reaction to it. I was supposed to be teaching boys to be men not managing tantrums. The kid started running around the playground. Blowing off a little steam seemed like a good course of action for me. But then he ran for the exit of the playground and continued down the street screaming and crying until he disappeared behind a line of trees still running as fast as he could. I should have started with Origami.
The rest of that session was spent in non-competitive free time on the jungle gym. The screaming child eventually stammered back to school minutes before his parents showed up to pick him up. As he got into his parents car our eyes met.. He was afraid I’d tell his parents about his tantrum. I was afraid he would tell his parents about how I let him run away. In the end his parents were none the wiser.
I quit 2 weeks later still with no knowledge of how to tie knots.
I’ve always been keen on the flight aspect of the fight or flight system. It’s not that I’m a chicken it’s just that my skills are more adapted for flight rather than fight. I’m a fast, I’m a terrible fighter (I assume), oh yeah, and I’m a chicken. But last night I was put into a situation where flight was not an option so I grabbed a trailer hitch and was ready to slam it over some guy’s head. Not a gentleman’s weapon I know, but it was the only thing within arm’s reach and I didn’t know what sort of weapon the other guy was carrying.
Let me set the scene. Curb-side parking has become its own industry in Guayaquil. You’re motioned into your spot by a guy who has claimed that section of the curb, and then you pay him $1. The buck is for him to “watch” your car, which probably means you pay him not to break into it. The formalities don’t end there. You’re also expected to leave your car in neutral so that the curb-side parking attendant can push it back and forth to block other cars, who haven’t paid yet. The vast majority of Guayaquil residents accept this as just another part of living in this city. Foreigners however, aren’t very committed to this system. My friend Lyria has been living here since February. Despite her blond hair and blue eyes she fits in. She’s fluent in Spanish and streetwise. Everywhere she goes she makes a few connections so that she knows someone will probably have her back in any area of the city. While Lyria is definitely the most localized of the CELTA students she absolutely refuses to partake in their curb-side parking system. She will pay the “attendant” if it’s late at night, but she won’t put it in neutral. She used to do this, until one day when she came out and saw two other cars touching both of her bumpers. So for the safety of her car and her own sanity, she leaves it in park.
We just finished our first week of CELTA. I was still exhausted from my Thursday teaching session of the simple past tense. I asked the students to come up with stories of when they had lost something like car keys or a cell phone. I was asked how to say “robber” “pull a knife out of his pants” and “ripped shirt” during the exercise. I was exhausted not only from the teaching but from the constant state of attentiveness, caused by these student’s stories. I was ready to retire to a safer part of town for some cervezas and pizza.
As we pulled out of the parking spot the car lurched sideways across the road. It turns out the guy who asked Lyria to put her car in neutral had let all of the air out of her front left tire. We stopped in front of a dump/recycling center. Shirtless men were wandering around the street, and everyone was looking at us. A few of the guys from the dump came over to car. Lyria said something to them in Spanish, which I assumed was that we were okay and we didn’t need their help, but they kept hovering. I thought, this is it. They’re going to pull out a knife and rob us or do something worse. So I pulled a trailer hitch out of the back of the car and held it at chest height. I felt like a gorilla beating his chest, hoping the other gorilla won’t call his bluff. I had no idea what I would do if he were to pull out a knife or a gun, but I thought the trailer hitch might stop that situation. The guy stood there looking at me. I caught a few brief glances at the trailer hitch. He was doing it quickly so that I wouldn’t catch him looking. He must have been weighing his options, I thought.
Now mind you if it was just me, and Lyria wasn’t there, I would have run away crying. In fact, I was about to tell Lyria that we should drive with the flat to some safer area when she came around to the back of the car, where we were having our stand-off.
Lyria started talking to him again and was using his first name. It turns out, this was one of Lyria’s well-placed friends around town. As nonchalantly as I could I slid the trailer hitch back into the car. He was incredibly helpful and actually did most of the manual labor in changing the tire. I tried but the skin on my hands slid off like that thin outer layer of an onion.
We finally met up with the rest of students for a beer. A local came around trying to sell gum and cigarettes. We all turned him down, but Lyria struck up a conversation with him and made another friend. Who knows maybe he’ll be there to help us change the next tire.
Yesterday was the biggest soccer game of the year for Ecuador. It was the championship game versus Columbia. If they lost then soccer season would end. As so many Ecuadorians had told me, “they really needed to win.”
I was on a walk around my neighborhood and noticed that the streets were exceptionally empty. The few remaining people were wearing yellow Ecuadorian jerseys. Street vendors were selling the shirts at an amazing pace to passing cars. I almost bought one to share in some of the national pride, but was too afraid to use my broken Spanish to negotiate a price.
When I got home the game was partway through the first half. Most of my host family was wearing the same yellow jerseys I saw on the street, so naturally I was cheering for the yellow jerseys on the field.
Here’s a quick history lesson: Ecuador, Columbia and Venezuela were all united as one country for 8 years under Simon Bolivar. Today they all share the same flag with yellow, blue and red stripes. The colors of the flag have translated into soccer jerseys, which I failed to pick up on. So both Columbia and Ecuador’s home jersey is yellow. But Ecuador’s away jersey is blue. I only found this out after cheering for what I thought would be the winning goal for Ecuador.
Unfortunately it was the winning goal for Columbia. I stifled a hoorah when I saw the rest of the room was wailing in disappointment. I think their anguish overshadowed my moronic celebration. I’m not sure because they haven’t mentioned anything about it. This adds one more motive to my arsenal of reasons for not watching sports.
I choose to go through my TEFL training in a Spanish speaking country because I heard the best way to learn another language is to be immersed in that culture. I thought this was true only by virtue of hearing the language daily. It’s more to do with survival. If you don’t learn to speak the language quick, you’re not going to be able to eat, call a taxi or negotiate rent prices. 2 months backpacking through Europe and I thought I had the hang of living in a foreign culture. With this confidence I set up residence in Guayaquil, a non-tourist destination. The difference with Europe I’ve quickly learned, is that I was engaging in tourist areas and traveling with 2 friends. Throw a stone in an international tourist destination and you’re guaranteed to fine an English speaker. The few times we couldn’t, there were three of us to find our way out of the city. But now I’m not staying at international hostels, I’m staying with a local family in a city that sees very few English speaking tourists. It couldn’t be more different than Europe. The only places you’re likely to find English speakers are at the bank or the mall, but that’s only if you’re lucky. Every night when I turn the key to the door under the barbed wire gate I’m astonished that I’ve gotten through the day. I replay the moments when my Spanish worked and then think about the vast majority of the time it didn’t. The few times I was able to order correctly off a menu had more to do with my superior pantomime skills and less to do with my grasp of Spanish. I enter the house and cower to my room to bury my nose in my Spanish dictionary followed by a few hours of Rosetta Stone lessons. The fact is having to navigate your way through everyday life and make it home at the end of the day doesn’t even compare to asking directions to Sacre Coure, ordering a coffee with milk or telling a cab driver to go to the Colosseum. Being around a foreign language isn’t enough to learn it. True immersion comes when you have to buy and set up a local phone, spend 5 hours wandering in and out of buildings registering your visa or negotiate the price for rent. It’s the fear of any of these things not working out that drives me to spend hours everyday learning Spanish. Not to say that my experience hasn’t been enjoyable. It has. I’ve already met wonderful people in my CELTA program that share my love of travel. I’ve been to an amazing party and will be going to the beach today. What has happened is my expectations of living with ease have been totally destroyed. It’s going to be a constant struggle here until my Spanish gets better. But I guess what better motivator is there than fear.
