tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46534307256564054092024-03-20T05:00:28.761-07:00Cure for WanderlustSharing so the people I know get to know I'm not dead or kidnapped or lost.
Latest venture: solo bike touring on the Continent and taking up residence in the ivory tower.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-84060731407846810392016-03-31T19:41:00.000-07:002016-04-07T05:21:25.065-07:00The Great Migration: Leaving Berkeley<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am heartbroken-ecstatic-terrified-thrilled-overwhelmed-totally fine-sad-curious-joyous. Moving is a thing.<br />
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<a href="https://goo.gl/photos/maRbxk4BPxxPxs7g9">More pictures from my uprooting</a>. I am overflowing with gratitude and love for those who helped and are helping me do that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGlMCrosXGY6YCZyoDMlgD3iq9vFdOzcbrsq1qEfT2_lzfZqD-08f1zyLe8Tk4hMyrZeNvWe5r6F6u1MuWWWTzGu1tm5BJDvxGu5AH_L1uwZDBiIcfezNVyv3x8VFkgSYy-L1W1jD7IFK/s1600/2016-03-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGlMCrosXGY6YCZyoDMlgD3iq9vFdOzcbrsq1qEfT2_lzfZqD-08f1zyLe8Tk4hMyrZeNvWe5r6F6u1MuWWWTzGu1tm5BJDvxGu5AH_L1uwZDBiIcfezNVyv3x8VFkgSYy-L1W1jD7IFK/s400/2016-03-22.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-2368600850633559062016-03-31T19:21:00.001-07:002016-03-31T19:43:09.372-07:00The Midwestern Experiment: Ann Arbor, Michigan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
March 27-March 30<br />
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Final decision: University of Michigan. I'm moving to Ann Arbor in August.<br />
<a href="https://goo.gl/photos/mMMR9ch4sGtBY4yV7">See more pictures here.</a><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/oPiXeqG-icIZ6yr46fPs58KcFd8ENAS9t0cnPjvSO5ZyOMZrqvr_B9nEOfJaYweq_y2VNlKzvWKLGVkZjRM9sZ-3H7RGgaGf09F_1Rw6IkbRuoxsZpZNATS-0rSfU0vSVRPMLPlF4RqJ25fjMMYDDye98HIE-Nc4JPtPcheyR9q6AHo2WHSv-QSFalY0Jg91THbY5I0A_tNX5hY_Fek-hooUeoVg_1JbMEWcoEI1aYKHQsgdcXaLiBHfo3Ij4_0X-tUwQLtcU1M_fw5IJkoUmwZORX3ckesVLw2-0MjJht7Glm6M_iwKvV2dGya9TMW0nl9Ef9GTkACa6vWTniIRsQ_j3Iishoaff-NrRd8pqcdUSXrpkDWB5GFbluGH7nZ_bODcxb7_qB61Lv6O4AIdmJ2HfqP2jqwezYUTocg9V9bana1Pn8w_AVcEJD57pKGbzZyuTCFlmiLHJui839HNIwBbO3jQdHqRxyRYMJWOj1mPaV7FBLXn9KJ_L6u8Qw2K5OJ4nJ9pKGCD7I6ab_MFr8O_t3q6QcfNf9RXqd8_o-MbcOq1QrUgtU13tRVWVO-ht5l9=w1186-h667-no" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/oPiXeqG-icIZ6yr46fPs58KcFd8ENAS9t0cnPjvSO5ZyOMZrqvr_B9nEOfJaYweq_y2VNlKzvWKLGVkZjRM9sZ-3H7RGgaGf09F_1Rw6IkbRuoxsZpZNATS-0rSfU0vSVRPMLPlF4RqJ25fjMMYDDye98HIE-Nc4JPtPcheyR9q6AHo2WHSv-QSFalY0Jg91THbY5I0A_tNX5hY_Fek-hooUeoVg_1JbMEWcoEI1aYKHQsgdcXaLiBHfo3Ij4_0X-tUwQLtcU1M_fw5IJkoUmwZORX3ckesVLw2-0MjJht7Glm6M_iwKvV2dGya9TMW0nl9Ef9GTkACa6vWTniIRsQ_j3Iishoaff-NrRd8pqcdUSXrpkDWB5GFbluGH7nZ_bODcxb7_qB61Lv6O4AIdmJ2HfqP2jqwezYUTocg9V9bana1Pn8w_AVcEJD57pKGbzZyuTCFlmiLHJui839HNIwBbO3jQdHqRxyRYMJWOj1mPaV7FBLXn9KJ_L6u8Qw2K5OJ4nJ9pKGCD7I6ab_MFr8O_t3q6QcfNf9RXqd8_o-MbcOq1QrUgtU13tRVWVO-ht5l9=w1186-h667-no" width="640" /></a></div>
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My sister Morgan was randomly in Ann Arbor at the same time for work, and I got to see her in action, organizing students in an effort to make sure Nike factories are monitored by an independent, third-party entity like the Workers' Rights Consortium. Nike wants to self-regulate. Her event was covered in the student newspaper, <a href="https://www.michigandaily.com/section/news/former-factory-worker-urges-students-take-action">the Michigan Daily</a>.</div>
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Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-87974872563012382672011-09-20T23:04:00.000-07:002011-09-20T23:06:33.834-07:00Whoooooooosh<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height:normal">My mind is not still. It could be the coffee. I think it is the coffee. But it’s also the fact that I’m fully immersed in a social justice education, that I live with 11 intelligent, justice-minded individuals, and speak with four incredible role models for a justice-motivated future in the form of staff members every day. It’s hard not to drink the Kool-Aid, if you will. Organic, local and union-run Kool-Aid, of course.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">But I’m also a somewhat lost and confused post-college, over-educated, under-employed 20-something (how many articles have you read on THAT topic in the past year?) who is avoiding like the plague but knows she must soon look at “the next step.” So I have conversations about privilege and being off the grid versus on the grid and zones of justice and changing the system. And then I go get ice cream, and I feel better.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">But my un-still mind continues to remind me that I am young and impressionable. Every time a new idea, a new project, a new aspect of some sort of inequality is brought up, I think, “There we go! I could do that! That’s a great entry point for me.” Then I think, “No, no, I should work on <i>this</i> aspect of the issue. That is much more suited for me.” And I jump to 100 different career paths and life paths and skill sets and issues and then I think I’m not qualified for that work and I can’t work for free any more but the economy is a mess so how will I ever find a job anyway and then I think that getting a job is perpetuating something I don’t believe in but I’m a spoiled white kid that I can even think that but everything I do is leading to the apocalypse and if I’m not vegan I should just turn in my chacos for business casual and let the apocalypse come because then at least I get to enjoy my ice cream in peace.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">And sometimes it all feels so exciting that I just can’t wait to get started. And then I realize that I’ve already started and it’s already exciting. And then I realize that not every moment has to be exciting to be good, and not every moment has to be good, and sometimes I just need to stop. Slow down. Be calm. Do some yoga. Feel the chi and whatnot.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">And then I vow once again to never ever drink coffee, and oh yeah, I should probably give up ice cream, too.</p>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-67063989760294158932011-06-30T23:11:00.000-07:002011-06-30T23:12:31.202-07:00I am in Love<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height:normal">I am in love. Her name is Nelly and she owns the frutería, or fruit and veg shop as my Irish roommate says, a couple of blocks from my house. Seeing Nelly is the best part of my day. Her frutería is bursting with the most beautiful, and often to me, exotic fresh foods. Mangoes, spinach, cherries, yucca, beans, fresh herbs like chamomile and laurel, avocado, ginger, and a variety of potatoes and greens. It is gorgeous and mouth watering and I am absolutely in love.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">Every time I go to visit Nelly, after her four-year-old grandson counts to eight in English for me, I pick out something new to try. An odd hard green squash-type situation, or little purple lumps that seem to be halfway between potatoes and beans, or fuzzy misshapen things that are supposedly related to peppers. I pick something up and bring it to the cash register. “What’s this and what do I do with it?” Nelly smiles, shakes her head at the silly gringa, and launches into a detailed explanation that usually includes copious amounts of meat. I haven’t had the heart to tell her I’m vegetarian, so I just nod and smile and mentally remove the offending ingredients.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">What is most beautiful about Nelly and her colorful frutería is that almost everything comes from Colombia. Nelly’s frutería is not a bougie farmer’s market or a specialty store. “Local” is just a given at your local neighborhood shop. Why buy tomatoes from Mexico when Colombia produces a beautiful crop? A logic that has been lost in many places—not least of all, California.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">Not that Colombia is any shining example of food security.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Organic, small-scale, agroecological, sustainably grown—these words are lost on Nelly and most produce producers and venders. The food sovereignty movement is disturbingly weak here. But it still brings a twinkle to my eye and puts a song in my heart every time I buy ten pounds of delicious Colombian produce for about $7.00. Especially when Nelly throws in some free peaches or grapes, just to show she cares.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">Options for the food conscious are few and far between in Bogota. Colombia has one of the worst examples of corporate land concentrations in South America and a once net food exporter is now a net food importer. This means that instead of growing its own food, Colombia must sell cash crops like coffee and cacao, or natural resources like oil, in order to make enough money to buy food to feed their residents. This is exactly a country that is NOT food secure—that cannot feed itself.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">Hope, however, burns eternal. I chatted with a man named Alejandro last week who is looking to start an organic and sustainably grown food store. He was interested to know how such things work in my country. It was a fascinating conversation, but I don’t know how helpful I was. Truthfully, the situations in our countries are so different, it is hard to compare—even the very words we used were up for discussion. I was using the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">campesino</i> to mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">small farmer</i>, such as those I met WWOOFing. But probably a more accurate translation, as my roommate pointed out, is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">peasant</i>. The connotation of the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">peasant</i> in the United States, however, is completely different than the connotation of the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">campesino</i>. Or is it? I tried to explain to Alejandro about Lorraine in Arizona from my WWOOFing trip. She is poor, and self-identifies as such. And if you look at her finances, they will corroborate the story—her phone and electricity is constant in threat of being shut off, she needs outside work to support the farm, but availability is scarce, things of that nature. But if a campesino from Colombia looked at Lorraine’s life, with running water, electricity, two bathrooms, 40 some-odd acres, her own cars, and a well-developed infrastructure for distributing her goods, he or she would most certainly beg to differ. That doesn’t mean that food security is more or less important or dire in either country, or that Lorraine “isn’t really poor.” It just means that these populations face different obstacles in the same struggle.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">Alejandro isn’t the only one with his mind in the garden and a penchant for food justice. An urban agriculture program is starting to gain momentum. A friend of a friend, Juan Carlos, works in government food security projects. Juan Carlos’ friend, Juan Carlos (I know, right?) works in green roofs. My roommate Thomas is working for a food sovereignty campaign with an environmental NGO. We are going to a Via Campesina Youth Conference this weekend. (<a href="http://viacampesina.org/en/">http://viacampesina.org/en/</a>) There is awareness. There is action. There just needs to be more.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">Even those with the best intentions and the greenest hearts are complicit. As Thomas and I spoke to Alejandro, we sat in one of the many Oma’s sprinkled around Bogota—if not the Starbucks of Colombia (that would be Juan Valdez, still nationally owned but which Starbucks has its eye on), at least the local rendition of Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. We each got our coffees from god knows where and our pastries made from god knows what, and talked about what a gosh darn problem this food system is. I was reading a book on international food sovereignty, or lack thereof, called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Food Rebellions!</i> by Raj Patel and Eric Holt-Gimenez, as I would munch on crackers made from the exact same corn and flour that I was reading was causing such rampant inequality and hunger in the world. Bogota’s street corners are populated by the displaced poor—former small-scale farmers chased from the country and their farms by World Bank development policies that promised large-scale, corporate, industrial, petroleum-based agriculture, with a side of genetic modification, was the only way to feed the poor. Now these once self-sufficient if simple-living farmers are begging for change to buy bread and soda made from wheat, soy, and corn from those exact same large-scale farms. Food is full of irony.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">The irony continues with my next project—a three month urban agriculture and food justice program in Berkeley called Urban Adamah (<a href="http://urbanadamah.org/">http://urbanadamah.org/</a>). Berkeley—the heart of the food movement in the States, where urban farms abound and organic is as trendy Rayband. (That may be an outdated reference by now…I’m so hip.) Why is THIS the place that I go to work on issues of food justice? I will be working on an urban farm to grow food for local residents in need—while my fellows and I will be buying our food from farmer’s markets and grocery stores. I will no doubt splurge on a cup of Colombian coffee or two, as well. And it will most likely be better than ¾ of the coffee I drink here. As with many coffee growing countries, the best is left for export and locals only get the leftovers. Ironic indeed.</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height:normal">So that’s where I am—in love with my food vender, far more passionate about plants than about children, and coming back to Berkeley at the beginning of September. At least for now.</p>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-25499153772325036522011-06-08T19:44:00.000-07:002011-06-08T21:50:45.237-07:00Cultural Dictionary“Culture” is such a pretty word. “Inter –cultural” has such a nice ring. “Cultural exchange” conjures images of bright-colored clothing and trading hamburgers for curry. But culture is complicated and intricate and unyielding: every day in Colombia I am reminded that language and culture are so much more subtle than dictionary definitions and gastronomic choices.<br /><br />In my work at Kidsave, I am essentially the liaison between the Los Angeles and Bogotá offices. At its most basic, this means that I am a translator—I translate family studies, child profiles, email communication, phone calls, psychological evaluations, whatever needs to be done. But I am finding that I must translate far more than words, which, make no mistake, is hard enough.<br /><br />The word “adecuada” for example is a constant source of internal conflict. One might want to say “adequate”, which is one dictionary translation. But to me, in English the word “adequate” means “enough” or “sufficient.” I often find that the Spanish word in contexts where the meaning is more along the lines of “proper” or “good enough.” For example, a child that is neither malnourished nor obese has an “adecuada” weight. If I translate it as “adequate,” will I get across the right meaning? How much am I allowed to alter the words in my translation so that the meaning is properly understood? I’m sure a professional translator would have something to say on the subject, but I have made my skill level and lack of professional or any other type of experience no secret to my employers since day one.<br /><br />Whether a child’s weight is adequate or proper may not be a deal breaker, but other things are. The story of the day is the approval of a potential host family in the States; let’s call them the Jolie family to protect their privacy. La Senora Angelina Jolie is a business executive, has been married for three years, and volunteers at a shelter for sex workers as well as the Make a Wish Foundation. She mentored a boy from the States as part of Kidsave’s Weekend Miracles program for three years and has been approved to adopt in Los Angeles County. So far so good. However, she’s had a few bumps in the road. Twenty-five years ago, when she was in her late teens, she tried cutting herself. She was subsequently hospitalized for a month. Furthermore, seven years ago, Angelina’s sister and two nieces were attacked by the sister’s boyfriend, and one of her niece’s was killed. The social worker who conducted the study reported that Angelina is very stable and completely ready to host, but should receive bereavement therapy should she move forward to adopt. Both her private agency social worker and Los Angeles County social worker have approved her as ready to participate.<br /><br />But ICBF, child protective services here in Colombia, is worried. They won’t approve the Jolie family to participate unless Angelina can get a note from a psychologist or psychiatrist confirming her stable mental state and ability to participate. As we need to know the final list of participating families a week ago and such a letter will take at least a week, in addition to costing a good deal of money, we have a problem. Let the barrage of emails and phone calls begin.<br /><br />It soon becomes clear that there was a communication problem, and not just because of my stuttery Spanish. Cutting, it turns out, is not well understood in Colombia. Apparently this subject of many a Hallmark channel afterschool special and the affliction of every Degrassi character possible is practically non-existent among Colombian adolescents, even those living in institutions (read: orphanages). Even something as intrinsic as the expression of pain is culturally constructed, it seems. Despite my very best explanations, “cutting of wrists” was understood as attempted suicide. Serious business indeed.<br /><br />So they came to blows. My authority, practically non-existent, quickly proved insufficient for my boss in the States, Lauren, who demanded to speak to the Executive Director of the Colombia program, Martha. For Martha, my main function is to absorb all of the shrapnel from Lauren’s demands that are intended for her, and keep Lauren from contacting her directly at all costs. I usually serve my purpose well. This time, however, I didn’t prove strong enough to stem the flood of Lauren’s persistence. Lauren called her own boss over, Aleyda and Maria Fernanda, the only other people in the Colombia office, joined in, and we all had a fun little international conference call via Skype.<br /><br />Lauren always tells me, “Hayley, make sure they understand. I don’t think they understand. Make them understand.” I have been told separately by Martha, Aleyda, and Maria Fernanda on multiple occasions that “Lauren doesn’t understand anything.” Understanding is a delicate concept. As far as I understand, this kind of work is not about mistranslations—using the wrong word, the difference between adequate and sufficient. It is about misinterpretations. Martha got her master’s at Harvard—her English is just fine. But her years in the States do not make her American, and will not allow her to understand like a local how we operate, hard as she tries, just as a few months in Colombia does not make me an expert in navigating Colombian culture.<br /><br />Which brings me to our next cultural snafu. The decision that the Jolie family would need this psyche letter in order to participate came from Maria Carolina, a young social worker at ICBF, who went through a carefully organized and scripted process, including a meeting with other psychologists, to come to this conclusion. In Colombia, protocol is very important. Authority is respected and organizations are very hierarchical. People are annoyingly polite—directness is neither practiced nor appreciated. Every phone call, no matter how urgent, must begin with a slew of pleasantries. Every email must begin with most humble of apologies for bothering the receiver to do their job. Translated emails from Aleyda are long, drawn-out affairs, full of formal jargon that I must fastidiously look up. Emails between Lauren and I are clipped and to the point, and often include snide remarks or snarky jokes—some of which I end up attempting to translate for Aleyda’s benefit. Lauren will have none of this formality. She will send direct email after direct email, she will try to jump to the top of the food chain to get what she wants, and she is constantly trying to cut corners and avoid protocol to get things done. Lauren may or may not be the norm in the States, but her go-getter attitude and refusal to accept no as an answer is something to be commended, when it’s not making you crazy. Here, she is constantly on the verge of offending Kidsave’s allies to the point of severing ties and stopping their work all together.<br /><br />So in our conference call, she and her boss Randi implored us to get ICBF to change its mind about the Jolie family. But as Martha explained to me, it is not about throwing your weight around to get what you want. You must follow the proper channels and negotiate. The idea that we could obtain the approval by the force of our persistence and Martha’s authority is completely culturally inappropriate—an odd concept in a country so fraught with corruption that it is a national joke. Martha explained to me privately how offensive Lauren’s claims can be; Lauren, without a college degree, Martha was careful to point out, does NOT know better than the Colombian government. This is not a banana republic, she assured me. ICBF’s decisions must be respected. Lauren, on the other hand, was aghast that a young social worker who has never met this family thinks she knows better than the team of social workers working directly with the family in California who think the family is suitable to adopt. Lauren is worried about the family’s financial contributions being at stake, Martha says under her breath. Martha doesn’t work hard enough in Kidsave’s interests, Lauren implies. The best translator in the world is still only translating words—how do you translate egos, power plays, and cultural norms? It is hard enough to read the silent language of human communication when we are all speaking the same verbal language. When we are thousands of miles apart speaking two languages via unreliable Skype connection, it’s a miracle the project survives.<br /><br />Translation is an incredibly important job that I take very seriously. Every individual involved trusts you to express correctly what is being communicated. A tiny mistake can mean the difference between a child traveling to the states, getting adopted, and having a whole new world opened up to him or her, and the child aging out of the system at 18 and returning to the poverty and danger of the streets they were picked up from. That may sound dramatic, but we are playing with lives. I have no doubt that every person I work with has the best interest of the kids at heart—but we are all humans plagued with human folly, whether it be of ego, stubbornness, or good old fashioned misunderstanding.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-28857262654830114472011-04-20T18:38:00.000-07:002011-04-20T18:40:08.251-07:00Note from the UniversePlans. Ha. Have you heard of them? Seriously, who DOES that? Because when one attempts to defy the chaos of the Universe and actually makes what is commonly referred to as a “plan,” the Universe subsequently laughs in one’s face.<br /><br />Case in point: the first day of MEAE, a farming trip I may remind you, was the very last day of harvest, and the last day of our trip was the first day of spring. Erin and I were on a farming trip. In winter. The ANTI-growing season. Plans. Please.<br /><br />So chaos has once again reared her beautiful but oh so mysterious head and brought me to Bogot¬á. An offhand comment lead to information about an internship lead to me sending my resume lead to me making flight plans less than a month before takeoff. When I was first offered the position, I started with the pro and cons lists and the lamenting and the what-about-this-ing, and then I just kind of stopped. Done thinking. I’m going to Colombia.<br /><br />So here I am, creating a little life for myself in an apartment in Teusaquillo (a barrio in Bogotá which I still can’t pronounce without choking on my tongue). It’s only been a week—hardly enough time to make an assessment—but so far so good. I’ve been keeping busy: I’ve already checked out the nightlife, been to a dinner party, and visited a friend that I know from Ecuador (we did yoga in the mountains…super chevere!). I’ve walked the dogs with my actress roommate Ella and mastered public transportation (well, mastered might be a bit strong… “not died on” may be more accurate). Work is fascinating—mostly because I am doing lots of translating, for which I am supremely underequipped. I make an ass out of myself daily, actually, but I don’t mind. The gringa is here for everyone’s entertainment, especially the incredibly sweet people in my office.<br /><br />Oh, and a word about what actually brought me here. I have a three month internship with Kidsave, which helps older kids get adopted through a host program. They both bring kids from Colombia (and other countries) to the states for a five-week summer program, and create weekend host family connections in the home country. The weekend host family model has been adopted in Los Angeles, as well. I am the liaison between the Los Angeles office and the Bogota office, which basically means I translate (horribly) emails and documents so that everybody is on the same page. With great power, comes great responsibility. Clearly Uncle Ben was speaking about translation.<br /><br />So that’s that friends and countrypeople. One of my housedogs (whose name I don’t know because I already asked Ella like six million times and I can’t remember so I’m just going to wait for her to call him something other than “Bebe” y “Bonito”) is sleeping next to me on the bed and my shoes still haven’t dried after getting soaked two days ago in the constant rain that they have here. I am stoked.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-58919665300311438372009-06-05T13:11:00.000-07:002009-06-05T14:27:17.341-07:00The End of a YearI'm usually itching to write. You usually can't shut me up. Yet here I am, at the end of a year, and I find myself floundering. What am I supposed to do, to feel? Should I commemorate? Reflect? Should I feel happy? Sad? Confused? Enlightened? But there is no ¨supposed to¨. There is no should. A year is a bounded unit as real as a country's border, the horizon, the equator. The time that has passed is real, but the marker of start and finish, of before and after, are only as important as I make them. I am not before or after right now. I'm within. And its hard to see outside right now. All I can see is Guatemala, the newness and simplicity of the beginning. I see arriving in Ecuador, meeting my host family, the formalities, the beauty, of study abroad in Guayaquil. I see changing my plans, dumping the easy and expected, and heading to Peru. I see Costa Rica with parents, I see returning to Ecuador without a plan. I see solo life in the big city, and leaving Quito for the sustainable community Rhiannon. I see the time that has passed, the hundreds of people I've met, the ones I remember, the names that slipped out my ear the second I heard them. I see the paths I've walked over every terrain imaginable--sand dunes and swampy jungles and dry forests and rocky beaches and lake shores and frozen glaciers and high sierra tundra. I see the hostals, the language barries, the kissed lips, the absolutely immense amount of food I have consumed. I see epic mountain treks and tredmills at the ritzy city gym. I see bus after bus and stray dogs and drunken debauchery and spiritual enlightenment and feeling sick and just laughing and laughing and laughing.<br /><div></div><br /><div>But in that lies the problem. I see within the year. I see months of the utterly fantastic, of the day to day fucking greatness that has been my life. But I can't see beyond my flight on Wednesday. I can´t take it all in as a complete package. I have no idea how to get closure on what has surely been the most significant year of my life thus far. Yeah, I'm only 21 (as of a week ago), but Hay-sus Cristo, if I have too many years as emotionally and spiritually intense as this year, I might not make it.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>What do I do with it? The end of a year? One thing I did, in my silly youth, perhaps, is get a tattoo. How cliche, you may think. How stupid, my mother may think. But I was thinking of a way to encapuslate a year in a simple, unobstrusive image, and this was it. A spiral. A symbol of progress, but not linear progress. Of growth, but not linear growth. I know I am not the person I was a year ago. Correction, I am still me, Hayley Sophie Currier, but I am me amplified. I am me stretched and squished and mushed and poked and pulled through the wringer. I am me plus a year of experiences. Yet I still have some of the same thoughts, problems, insecurities as I did a year ago. I come back to think on these things, with a little more clarity, a little more direction, perhaps, but I keep coming back. I'm growing and learning and improving, but I'm never done. This also reflects my thoughts on Development, as a study, as a practice. It is just constant questions without answers, problems without solutions. There is work to be done, and I can make a difference. My bit, if I am working the best I can, is enough. But, again, it isn't linear. Development, of countries, of people, of knowledge, is a process that wraps around on itself. Further, I have definitely explored my own spirituality this year. A word I didn't like using, a word I couldn't even define, I suddenly understand. I still don't know a hell of a lot, and I like it that way, but what I do understand is that there is an energy in the universe. Call it gravity, call it god, call it weather patterns, but I can feel it. I've connected with people across borders, cultures, and languages--over futbol, over shared experience, over getting lost, over drinks--I've seen seeds grow into dinner, I've felt joy and adrenaline and tension and sadness. This is energy. This is the energy of Pachamama, the Quechua word for Mother Earth. Call me a fruitloop hippie, but this spiral, a symbol of all this, is still engraved in my ankle until I die. The foot (not a freaking snail, thank you) is for travel. It is for the physical traveling I've done this year, and for the emotional travel I've done as well. It's for the knowledge that every step I take leaves an imprint, so it better as hell be a good one. A sidenote cool thing--I drew the image myself and the tattoo guy copied it and traced my lines exactly. So its my hand that is there to remind me of the lessons of this year.</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Sorry for my really gross dirty foot.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDAtQAJIaCSSGUhAPBATiF7diE6jHfXJNAt9Kjxh5MuhGmZqfAeaTuxMeTiU5h_TPd4krI7RqzxPqW_7kw9Ee0mOilA-HHofZ7AwjGg6CZ66A03qFSP5ZzvrDUTi_rYpYUC7DDNajUfYA/s1600-h/Sofia+001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343945547542202722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDAtQAJIaCSSGUhAPBATiF7diE6jHfXJNAt9Kjxh5MuhGmZqfAeaTuxMeTiU5h_TPd4krI7RqzxPqW_7kw9Ee0mOilA-HHofZ7AwjGg6CZ66A03qFSP5ZzvrDUTi_rYpYUC7DDNajUfYA/s320/Sofia+001.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><div></div><br /><div>That's all I've got. I got ink done, I've about 100 places to stay all over the world from my new friends, and at least 100 promised tours to give for friends visiting me. I've got thousands of pictures and the most disgusting ripped up clothing you've ever seen. I have five days left in Ecuador, and a month in Nepal and India with Erin Reeves. And then I have to do something with it. I have to take the year and make it part of my life. I have to remember to make my life what I want it to be. And I need to graduate at some point. Huh.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><div></div><br /><div>More pictures from my final weeks at Comuna de Rhiannon, my 21st birthday at the farm, and a couple of weekend trips.</div><div><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2482876&id=1238613&l=1c8b3b643e">http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2482876&id=1238613&l=1c8b3b643e</a></div><div> </div></div></div></div>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-43215418437246752022009-05-08T14:57:00.000-07:002009-05-08T16:13:55.440-07:00Finding Communal PeaceI spend most of my day barefoot, stepping over dogs and cats and books in five languages and scattered bodies from four continents. I wake to a stunning white glow as the early morning sun seeps through the cloth walls of the yurt I call home. I make bread in a wood burning oven and eat lentls at least three times a week. I collect donkey poo and dig holes and pull weeds. I read books by candlelight and play the guitar for hours. I lie in cornfields to play hide and seek. I am learning to juggle.<br /><br />I am living at Comuna Rhiannon, a small community in northern Ecuador, in the rural bits of the sierra, an hour and a half north of Quito. It´s a big house and the surrounding in-development land owned by a couple from England, Helen and Nicole, with the goal of being a sustainable community. (At barely a year old, they've got a great start, but still have a ways to go.) Volunteers come in and out, sharing the work from designing the gray water system to cooking meals to cleaning the bathroom. I came her for an education in organic farming, but am finding an experiment in communal living--the possibilities and problems of peaceful, sustainable coexistence for a random group of strangers. That's consenting adults, not a dorm building or frat house.<br /><br />One of the best parts is that we aren´t strangers for long--we come from all over, everyone with a different story and different skills, but with like mind and like goals. An architect from Argentina, a finance man from England who lost his job in the economic downturn, a couple who wants to build their own sustainable farm in Puerto Rico, a physics grad student/actor from Germany. Everyone with their own beautiful way of seeing the world, of living and feeling and doing and being. Everyone has something to bring to the community and something to teach me. Everyday I have a new amazing conversation, a new insight into someone, a new way of making fun of the fact that I don't speak proper English (as if anyone can understand British people).<br /><br />Nicky and Helen do a very good job at keeping the community democratic and open, and it is very free and group oriented. However, it is always clear that they are in charge. I often joke about the value of communism, and I'm never joking when I talk about the problems and general unsustainability of capitalism, but pure communism on a large scale cannot work. Even with only 20 people, there are clear leaders and rules and group organization. That is in no way a criticism. It is a beautiful way to live--eating together, sleeping together, working together, joking together. And it works. There are meetings once a week to work out the inevitable problems and discover who has the skills to fix what. Work is delegated, responsibilities shared, and the community keeps ticking.<br /><br />Between composting toilets and using human pee to nurish trees, between mixing languages and customs and habits and jokes, between the tough and so equisitly fulfilling work of growing your own food, living at this community has been incredible and eye opening. This is as close as I have ever come to living an ideal life--one of learning, of fun, of actively improving the world around me, and leaving the least negative impact possible. But I have also learned that this life isn't enough for me--at least not now. I can try to live the best life I can--producing my own food, buying only socially conscious products, treating the world, myself, and others as positively as possible. But I can do more. I can try to lessen the inequality around us. I can try to bring the opportunities I have been so fortunate to have in my life to others. I need to work outside myself, as well on myself. I don´t know quite what that will look like, but I am confident I will figure is out. That is part of my ideal.<br /><br />My time here has been a spiritual education as well--I've experimented with sweat lodges and shamanic ceremonies, yoga, meditation, and reiki. I've talked to pagans and witches and aethiests and everything in between. (Well, everything 6 miles left of center, that is.) This fits perfectly into my education of alternative living. It doesn't have to be high school, college, grad school, 9 to 5, white picket fence in a good neighborhood, 2.5 children and 3.5 bathrooms. It can, but it doesn't have to be. There are so many options, so many possibilities for my life. I just need to be constantly self-reflecting to know what it is I want. And right now, I want to build a garden, live with a fantastic group of people, and take advantage of every moment. Only four weeks until I get home to take off on the last leg of my adventure. What do I have waiting for me? The answer can only be spectacular. I can only describe life as curiosity, learning, joy, and adventure. It may not always be like this, but as long as I'm happy, I'll take what comes and go looking for it, too.<br /><br />Photos of frolicking barefoot through corn fields:<br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2468330&id=1238613&l=3cf03c0289">http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2468330&id=1238613&l=3cf03c0289</a>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-66090863928153796602009-04-12T14:17:00.000-07:002009-04-13T16:48:51.762-07:00Understanding Inner Altitude, or, Just Another Stupid Mountain Climbing Story<div>My body is incredible. Really, it's a knockout. I'm not talking size 4 and washboard stomach. Please. Whoever defined THAT as incredible? I'm talking about what it can <em>do</em>. I'm talking about my oversized, slightly deformed feet (thanks for that, Dad) wearing down the soles of my discounted REI hiking boots through sand dunes and flooded jungle paths. I'm talking about my powerful calves that refuse to show definition no matter how many times I climb the ridiculously steep hill to my hostal in Quito where I've been living the past six weeks. I'm talking about my gorgeous, lumpy thighs and my buns-of-steel-in-training that allow me to climb statues in city parks and walk dogs and chase after buses. My overwide hips and squishy love-handles that protect me from the daily abuses of a crowded city. (If someone says childbearing hips, they are going to have a slap waiting for them when I get home...Sheena. Mama Hayley does not want to hear it.) My scarred fingers from cooking knives and dog bites and all number of burns that keep writing and typing and expressing. My core that holds me together day after day, though a bit softer than is doctor recommended due to a certain Ecuadorian tendency to dump gallons of oil on everything in place of flavoring and my own deathly addiction to ice cream. I'm talking about this amazingly complex, over used, under cared for body of Hayley Currier. What an incredible thing, the human body. MY human body. Thank you muscles, bones, skin, digestion, lungs, heart. Thank you for working for me every day.</div><br /><div>And its latest feat? Cotopaxi, the tallest active volcano in the world. 5,897 meters. Twice. Well, I've got to be honest--I didn't actually make it. And I'm a little steamed. The first time, I didn't want to pay for my own guide, so I had to go down with some other guy that got sick, even though I was feeling fine. Driving away from the mountain last weekend, I felt like she was mocking me. Like, ¨What's wrong with you Hayley? I'm right here, just waiting for you. Get that badass body up here.¨ I'm not good at turning down challenges, even from giant silent piles of rock and snow, so I splurged on a second trip. I started two hours earlier than everyone else, because I'm a slow walker. I was so mentally preped last week, I was just so <em>sure, </em>I was practically at the summit before I started. Unfortunately, mountain climbing doesn't just come down to will power and physical prowess. So fuck you, ridiculously high mountain--I pooped out at 5,600 meters, or 16,800 feet. After six and a half hours of being harnessed to my guide, trudging up a glacier, sometimes falling through knee-high snow, and once stepping through some thin ice and sliding down a particularly steep incline head-first, tangled in my ice axe, I was feeling it. I tried ignoring the now familiar signs of a body succumbing to altitude, but I finally was having serious difficulty standing up and was expecting blood to squirt out my ears at any second. For the second week in a row I had to listen to all the guides saying, ¨Sofia? Que paso?¨ (I go by Sofia here...I got tired of being Helen, or Heidi, or nameless gringa. For those who don't know, Sophie is my middle name, so it wasn't that much of a stretch.) </div><br /><div>So why am I bothering to send you yet another mountain climbing blog post, and a failed mountain climb at that? First, I like keeping you updated on my mental and physical well-being--I won't be able to update you on an entire year of my life when I get back. Why do I have this stupid thing anyway, right? Second, it was not a fail. I'm not just saying that to make myself feel better. I read <em>The Fountainhead</em> by Ayn Rand a few weeks ago, and I haven't had a book hit me like that in a long time. Among some bull capitalist propaganda, her main point stuck its finger in my nose and said "Pay attention! I am relevant to your life!" Ayn Rand says live for yourself. In 700 pages, she basically just says stop caring what other people think and do your own thing. Know what you want, know who you are, and GO. So OK, Ayn Rand. I wanted to climb a freaking mountain. And I did. So the summit alluded me. So I was literally the slowest climber, two weekends in a row. Me and my fantastic body had an awesome time anyway. I didn't strap on crampons and pick up an ice axe to impress you, dear reader, with summit pictures. I did it because it was something I wanted to do, a personal challenge I wanted to take on. Perhaps I was a little ambitious, but I, and all of my wonderful muscles, can still say, mission accomplished.</div><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfPMAjNJPtYRIrnHTV7XFu0F6Q2be4zDbL2MDvbbAGiOiLpHTE0wTRadfo3gvTlPam0JRxixuPzu4oyPz28fYEOM4K6BiTS0ZG7utkGe-mQd7S3w0iwiVGyZZ3DIyYD0hH2fzZSWQcFQd/s1600-h/IMG_4846.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324317552916500210" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfPMAjNJPtYRIrnHTV7XFu0F6Q2be4zDbL2MDvbbAGiOiLpHTE0wTRadfo3gvTlPam0JRxixuPzu4oyPz28fYEOM4K6BiTS0ZG7utkGe-mQd7S3w0iwiVGyZZ3DIyYD0hH2fzZSWQcFQd/s320/IMG_4846.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Parque Nacional Cotopaxi en la madrugada (early morning).<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcaynYUQgor7Dmai_eOG9n7vcMkguTZoyHuN3xEFNE2mJfZ0CNSUe_rasu5ScT0kFEnJyaJdf79hjdtwSfAY6T-L2lLwOdvRFJO__VNY9OajdGqqZSw-YzHVF2zxf9xug4emz5hBkX6uFF/s1600-h/IMG_4746.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324317543753602130" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcaynYUQgor7Dmai_eOG9n7vcMkguTZoyHuN3xEFNE2mJfZ0CNSUe_rasu5ScT0kFEnJyaJdf79hjdtwSfAY6T-L2lLwOdvRFJO__VNY9OajdGqqZSw-YzHVF2zxf9xug4emz5hBkX6uFF/s320/IMG_4746.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div>My amazing body in all its badass glory.<br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKNBtXlGOHscsPquiXT8gN7QgdwhSmX4zqSIhzlE5I8mpA6_OIcWoI5nACI9vTkN2ehr8yF-I_cQ_-O4MGlFL6UofXMOXnmbYJZAoEnYtcxDG94T94u7Uy-VkfRY5_OMjXXG_PwiBTjIg/s1600-h/IMG_4766.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324317532316939138" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKNBtXlGOHscsPquiXT8gN7QgdwhSmX4zqSIhzlE5I8mpA6_OIcWoI5nACI9vTkN2ehr8yF-I_cQ_-O4MGlFL6UofXMOXnmbYJZAoEnYtcxDG94T94u7Uy-VkfRY5_OMjXXG_PwiBTjIg/s320/IMG_4766.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>The beast herself.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix7sSk0u_q_0_YMf1ghVcZi2d_zUoFYbRyTM2TdVybUKzBpHjMUg2XoHs9IHjzX4yQH3VbxoaKUFkC_oi8jfV3Qbx-iaPpNvxqETqttQ7AZM7k_7LKoj-Pvq42fuPzdCTSJS6kTyDmAQJg/s1600-h/IMG_4745.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324317538732445442" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix7sSk0u_q_0_YMf1ghVcZi2d_zUoFYbRyTM2TdVybUKzBpHjMUg2XoHs9IHjzX4yQH3VbxoaKUFkC_oi8jfV3Qbx-iaPpNvxqETqttQ7AZM7k_7LKoj-Pvq42fuPzdCTSJS6kTyDmAQJg/s320/IMG_4745.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>Attacking some awesome glacial stuff on the flipside (aka, the descent).</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DhghyphenhyphenseI0d4OiNy9CMpA-x7aqpO_KKKlzeD5kJxNaMPhi8BWtSjjX-sSjyjbdsFN4mxob-XCT8CaXkndsvqjn8q3g6TPM7D7gtFCpQ-GAWOFQwgix9CeBW5umaAVTNS9q4dUVpZqNFnI/s1600-h/IMG_4844.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324317546010979890" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DhghyphenhyphenseI0d4OiNy9CMpA-x7aqpO_KKKlzeD5kJxNaMPhi8BWtSjjX-sSjyjbdsFN4mxob-XCT8CaXkndsvqjn8q3g6TPM7D7gtFCpQ-GAWOFQwgix9CeBW5umaAVTNS9q4dUVpZqNFnI/s320/IMG_4844.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Where I finally had to stop due to feelings of death by altitude.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipU8O-8KcsJLBgRPeJjvp1VMFA1SHZm8oZ7ekiQRcCxMdJFJZZZ6gORXfRS-nvvV8k0yXljGQy8Zsu6u0zWP2jSJJT9Ov4oCYST2fAqlNIb_903XR1rqYQrbGC3ajpfRMgtW79W2Q-RyXE/s1600-h/IMG_4853.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324325402907141106" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipU8O-8KcsJLBgRPeJjvp1VMFA1SHZm8oZ7ekiQRcCxMdJFJZZZ6gORXfRS-nvvV8k0yXljGQy8Zsu6u0zWP2jSJJT9Ov4oCYST2fAqlNIb_903XR1rqYQrbGC3ajpfRMgtW79W2Q-RyXE/s320/IMG_4853.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Having to tow our original car through the national park with climbing rope due to car trouble.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6H8fe9q4IXFNeNSpzIDPoz1lvvuli4fgzULPtBUkJ5byl_MFokDe83W_Ffm1K3QSx1ZxJbQ4xdFqRAM5NjZNh4MC_SdyH8dVZhoanlLPXCGlKF4E_iLnbKiWAZlGGoDaDa0UuB6AtUkG/s1600-h/IMG_4862.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324325392403578898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6H8fe9q4IXFNeNSpzIDPoz1lvvuli4fgzULPtBUkJ5byl_MFokDe83W_Ffm1K3QSx1ZxJbQ4xdFqRAM5NjZNh4MC_SdyH8dVZhoanlLPXCGlKF4E_iLnbKiWAZlGGoDaDa0UuB6AtUkG/s320/IMG_4862.jpg" border="0" /></a></div></div></div><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxe7O-uf2x-FwWF17yzQGZU4CDpQ81l3fpYaOpjNIs6xquCxKWe9K5AGPx7K1ljIkPXSVBRS4-ke1nZ9RJQlXDRDC4efI6qY03nj2AaTq_7fbdBqNpuh1aED4Ih47azdeq72QzJFBR2b4/s1600-h/IMG_4857.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324325399114940562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxe7O-uf2x-FwWF17yzQGZU4CDpQ81l3fpYaOpjNIs6xquCxKWe9K5AGPx7K1ljIkPXSVBRS4-ke1nZ9RJQlXDRDC4efI6qY03nj2AaTq_7fbdBqNpuh1aED4Ih47azdeq72QzJFBR2b4/s320/IMG_4857.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p>View across the valley at another amazing Ecuador mountain, Cayambe.</p>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-34373081525102602412009-03-14T15:06:00.000-07:002009-03-14T15:24:14.530-07:00Visual RepresentationOnce in a while, I feel very far away from home. Like earlier this week, when I found out my family had to put my puppy, Murray, to sleep. It was heartbreaking to know my family went through all of that without me, and that I will never see my Murray again--the dog I've had since I was about 6 or 7. Just one more marker that the world in California hasn't stopped for me, just so I can live my life here.<br /><br />But really, only two days out of around 240 that I wished I was home isn't too bad. Maybe Obama will be elected again, right?<br /><br />But here is some evidence why, despite the hole that is Murray in my heart, the remaining three months I have is just too short. I spent far too long today going through my 1675 pictures from my time in Peru (and a bit of Bolivia) and picking the 60 best representatives of 2.5 amazing months filling my head with more life experience and silly ideals than should be allowed at my age. Not going to lie, some of it is pure vanity. But I'm reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand right now, so I'm allowing myself a little vanity.<br /><br />Paz y amor, and a toast to Murray.<br /><br />To see my pictures:<br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2442936&id=1238613&l=51811">http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2442936&id=1238613&l=51811</a>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-22759746599805992612009-03-07T13:53:00.000-08:002009-03-07T14:11:13.486-08:00Operation: Hayley Abroad, Stage 5Once again, I have changed location. Guatemala, Guayaquil, Peru, Costa Rica, and now Quito, Ecuador. I have set up camp in a little hostal-boarding house, and I'm yet again putting together a life, getting to know a new city, and figuring out what I'm doing with myself. Spanish school, volunteering, yoga...we'll see what comes my way. While I'm waiting for something exciting enough to report (besides the fact that I'm alive and well...I always find that exciting), I thought I would share some pictures with you. Photo-adventure #1--my Misti accent. And in case you forgot the gloriousness that was THAT story, feel free to go like four blog entries back and do your research.<br /><br />Who's a badass?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2440274&id=1238613&l=22cab">http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2440274&id=1238613&l=22cab</a>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-79732957054299688942009-02-18T07:15:00.000-08:002009-02-18T12:29:04.114-08:00Lost and Found in TranslationMiscommunication seems to be the cornerstone of my life in South America. A few examples:<br /><br />I was traveling with my French friend Brice for a while, and he still has little vestiges of European chivalry, which I found to be quite amusing. He once offered to carry something for me, and I meant to say, ¨Thank you, gentleman.--Gracias, caballero.¨ Instead, I said, ¨Gracias, CABALLO.¨ or ¨Thank you, horse.¨Despite the mistranslation, it made a strange sort of sense. What's the difference between a European gentleman and a pack mule?<br /><br />We took a tour of an ancient Peruvian cemetery in the desert near Nasca. My German friend Gesa and I understand Spanish, but the three other folks we were with didn't. I offered to translate, for practice, even though Gesa's Spanish is better than mine. I was trying to ask if there was a full body under the mummy's clothes. I asked if the ¨juevos¨ were complete. Eggs. How many mummies do you know with complete juevos? Is that something like nuggets on a chicken? The word is ¨huesos¨--bones.<br /><p>Gesa and I stopped in a place with a menu on the wall, with tables and chairs, at dinner hour. ¨Can we eat here?¨ was only responded with a laugh. ¨This is a bar.¨ Of course! Silly me. OK. We go to the tables sitting in the middle of the street. ¨Can we eat here?¨ ¨Obviously.¨ Right. ¨Can I get a beer?¨ ¨This isn't a bar, young lady.¨ One of these days I'll figure out where I'm allowed to eat in this country.<br /><br />While American education surely leaves much to be desired, I am quite concerned about the availability and completeness (is that a word? See, American education does suck) of Peruvian education. As gringas, Gesa and I are often asked where we are from. She is always quick to correct anyone that thinks we are both from the states--god forbid she be mistaken for an American. But unfortunately, what most people know about Germany is World War II. More than once after, ¨Soy de Alemania¨ (I'm from Germany) she gets a hardy laugh and, ¨Oh! Hitler! Are you a Nazi?¨ We laugh about it, but I know it sticks in her gut. I have a friend in South Africa right now (hi Sarah Yun!) and she wrote in her blog about race relations between blacks and whites at her university, and how raw the wounds of apartheid still are. She spoke of the civil rights movement in the states, and how much time its taken for those wounds to heal, and how they are obviously still healing. What does it mean for the wounds of racism, of past wrongs, to heal over time? A Jew and a German are having a blast together traveling for over a month through South America with not a trace of animosity, more than 60 years after the Holocaust. But when she still gets called Hitler, and she admits the reality of ¨German guilt,¨ it appears the scars have not completely faded.</p><p>Spanish is a constant battle for me. I've been studying it for years, and been living in South America for six months, and I still don't quite have it. I have good days and bad, and it can be so much fun, but damn is it frustrating. It seems, though, that language barriers are about so much more than different words. Cultural differences, while fascinating and mind-opening, are really the biggest hurdle.</p>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-68771739780488774272009-02-17T08:17:00.000-08:002009-02-17T16:36:24.397-08:00Channeling Steve Irwin and Anderson CooperIt's absolutely pitch black. What few lights there are, are too far away to make a dent in the deep, heavy, hot darkness of a jungle night in Peru. I am sitting in a footwide hand-carved canoe, barely three inches above the dark water, while my friend bails the leaks behind me. There are a million unknown enemies in the dark trees--malarial moquitos, snakes, maybe terrorists (freedom fighters?), things I am not even aware of. Crocodiles abound in these waters. I know this because that's why we're here--we are on a crocodile hunt. I made a lame joke about crocodiles liking to eat people, and it wasn't overly comforting when our guide didn't refute it. When you are deep in the Peruvian jungle, ten hours by boat from the nearest town because there are no roads, a gnawed off arm is serious business.<br /><br />I think this is a good story. It was a crazy night. We found a bunch of crocodiles, their eyes shining in the light of our flashlights. Our guide attempted to kill some with his handmade spear, though he missed. We did catch a baby one, though. Super cool, right? Except there is a more important story to be told from my three day rainforest jaunt. I love telling the stories of my personal triumphs and adventures. But there is more to my trip here than Hayley Currier: Selfish South American Adventurer, and I want to make sure to tell that story, too. I recently applied to a competition being given by Nicholas Kristof, New York Times journalist, to take an American college student on a reporting trip in Africa. Though I would be thrilled to go, whether I win or not is not all that important. What I wrote about in my competition essay was the power of writing, and it made me realize that I can harness that power whether I'm talking to warlords in Kenya or sitting in an internet cafe in Peru or laying in my comfy Berkeley bed with my laptop.<br /><br />This was actually my second dive into the depths of the Amazon. This time, we left from Pucallpa, literally the end of the road. We spent our first night with a family--mom, dad, and two young kids--who live completely isolated on a little tributary of the bigger Ucayali River, which eventually feeds into the Amazon River (about three days upstream from Pucallpa at Iquitos). They only speak Spanish--not any of the native languages of the area. They collect this particular leaf that people of the area use for their roofing, dry and weave it, and then sell it. They grow much of their own food--yuka, various fruits, corn--but still have to buy things from the city (I'm using that term quite loosely to refer to Pucallpa), where they go about once a month. The husband has a gun that he uses to hunt in the thick forest behind their little clearing. They prefer to live like this, but will move to the city next year so the older daughter, Marta, can begin school.<br /><br />We spent the second night in a Shipibo village. This is a village of about 200 people, many of them children. They live in wood houses with roofs of the leaves the first family harvested, raised on stilts so that they don't flood during the rainy season when the river swells. However, now actually is the rainy season, and the river was calmly keeping to its banks. ¨Calimiento global¨ (global warming) has been mentioned more than a few times as an explanation by the Peruvians I've spoken to. Most of the houses (including the one we stayed in) didn't have walls, but little rooms of mosquito nets appeared at night, to house odd couples like grandma and grandchild, or uncle and nephew. And on that particular night, gringa and gringa.<br /><br />This village was a fascinating mix of contradictions and idosyncracies. Before we left, our guide Mario (a good foot and half shorter than me but wise in the ways of the jungle) warned us to bring sweets for the hordes of children that would ask us for handouts, and medicine (tylenol and such) for the hordes of adults that would ask us for handouts. This weighed heavily on my mind before we left. This is exactly what you are NOT supposed to do, as a traveler. Every good development studies major knows that giving candies just encourages begging and does absolutely nothing for the recipient. To have an entire community dependent on the scant tourists that come by for their medical care is ridiculously unstatainable. When I was in Nicaragua doing an alternative break trip with American Jewish World Service (good people, by the way), there was a no gift-giving policy, because among various reasons, to give a gift between volunteer or visitor and a poor community like that changes the dynamic of the relationship, and creates unstastainable expectations. However, with the way it was presented, I felt so boxed into a corner. Mario told us that we need insect repellent, a water bottle, and sweets for the kids. It was on the packing list, so to speak. It was so the norm, I didn´t know how to say no.<br /><br />Strangely enough, when we arrived, other issues bombarded us, while these basically faded away. The kids didn´t ask for anything, and only one old woman asked for something for a headache. I gave her one pill, justifying it to myself by saying that if she had been someone in Pucallpa who needed a tylenol, I would have lent it to her without a thought, as a favor. I refused to give her a stash, and she didn´t push. However, what we did encounter was a great desire to connect foreigners to their lives. Almost the second we arrived, the family invited us to a ¨baptism¨ of two of the young children in the family. What a coincidence! The day two gringas arrive (and in the low season, this is a rarity), they are having a baptism. And what more, they want my friend and I to be godmothers! We agreed to participate. What else could we do? They led us to their house to spend two seconds splashing water on the two kids´ heads (baptism number 15, I´m sure...one of the kids looked about 3) and taking pictures. It was a little act to make us feel connected, maybe obligated to their family. Truthfully, it made me feel quite uncomfortable, but I understand the sentiment. Here come some rich gringas with resources to burn (so they think) and they want to take advantage. They want to make connections to people in other countries so they can get help. This really isn´t any different then getting a movie star to act as spokesperson for an organization, or buddying up to a politican to get something passed. What this community needs is awareness of people beyond their river, and they are trying the best way they know how.<br /><br />The Shipibos here feel abandoned by the government. They actually received solar panels a year and a half ago from a government organization, but really they receive no other help. Their main complaints (according to the small group I spoke to) are pretty much the norm: their schools are lacking and they don´t have medical care. Some women also told me they don´t have enough food, which was interesting to me. It is the rainforest, afterall--how could there not be enough food? Flooding, too, is a problem. The rivers flood and wash away their farms. What struck me most was the seeming lack of thoughts of sustainability. It doesn´t feel right, coming in with my development theory jargon and ¨first world¨ ideas, but people have lived in the rainforest for thousands of years. The land has not changed much in all of that time. What did people do all those years ago about flooding, about food, about medicine, that the people now can´t do? Mario explained that there is a lack of trust in traditional medicine--¨white medicine¨ if you will just SEEMS better. But is that a good enough answer? The knowledge is still there--I spoke with a shaman back in Pucallpa who not only still practices traditional medicine with a decent following, but he told me that there is a thriving community of shamans all over the country. Students come from all over the world to study traditional medicine in the rainforest. Why are there old women asking me for tylenol?<br /><br />Later in the night I had an extremely interesting conversation with a man named Manuel. Manuel told me he wanted to start a project, either for reforestation or to help the many abandoned children in their village (to me, it´s absolutely insane that there are abandoned children in a village of 200), and he asked me how to begin such an endeavor. Not going to lie, at first I was flattered. This is what I want to do, after all. I started running through everything I had learned, and after assuring him I was no expert, I told him what I thought. Be clear what you want to accomplish. Make connections with other organizations doing the same work. Collect the community to see who else is interested in participating, and who has ideas. That sort of thing. Turns out, though, that he didn´t really have that clear of an idea of what he wanted to do. He wasn´t interested in working with other people. All of a sudden he started talking about sending kids to college, then about sending his own daughter, who´s husband had abandoned her, to university in Pucallpa. Did I know how to get scholarships, did I have any way to get money for this? It started to sound much more like a plee for money from me than an actual desire to start a project. Sending his daughter to college is a worthy endeavor, but it´s not exactly the problem solving project I originally thought, and asking tourists for money isn't the way to accomplish it.<br /><br />The next morning, I spoke with some more women from the village. They told me about a problem that was actually effecting them in that exact moment. Every once in a while, some toxin gets released into the water. The fish get contaminated and die, and the water causes severe medical problems. It usually lasts about three days, and for that time they either have horrible diarreah or drink nothing but coconut milk, because they have no other water. We witnessed the death of the fish ourselves as we traveled to the village--the river was full of them. I myself had some of that fish, and did feel quite ill the next day. (I can't prove it was the fish, but I'm putting two and two together here.) Many people in the area depend on fishing for their living, but a message was sent to the police in Pucallpa to stop all fisherman from selling their contaminated fish in the market for the next few days, a harsh financial blow for these folks. The people don't know what causes it, and have no where to turn to force an investigation. I felt their anger, and their pleading. They kept pressing me with the story, as if I had the answer. But what can I do? I'm a tourist hearing a story--all I can do is post a blog entry.<br /><br />Though I've talked to hundreds of people in my more than two months in Peru, and there are a million more stories I could tell just from my three days in the rainforest, I will give you just one more. On my last rainforest trip, we stopped in a town on the way with a fountain representing a big festival they hold there every year, and all the different people that come to dance in it. One type of person was the rich rainforest man--he seems poor, but he has actually made his fortune in wood exports. Rainforest wood is very valuable, and probably right up there with fishing as top job. My friend and I saw them loading wood at the dock in Pucallpa at night, and felt bad for the long hours these men have to work. We then learned that they were working at night because harvesting rainforest wood (of which there are many types) is not all together legal. I had trouble getting a straight answer out of Mario, but it seems it is somewhere between completely prohibited and greatly restricted. However, as is quite common, the police are easily bought (and quite cheaply, I found, as a driving violation was paid off for 5 soles, or about $1.65) and greased palms mean smooth sailing for wood production. We visited a second Shipibo community on our last day and spoke to a man that was running a wood-production development project, where they grew and harvested the trees in a controlled, good-for-nature, environment, providing jobs and income for the community. It sounded like a very well run organization (though who knows) but the problem is if their paperwork is not perfect down to the letter, they get charged the same prices as if they had bribed the cops. Further, they are a small organization, and can't afford transport to big ports like Lima, but the port in Pucallpa pays very poorly, and buyers don't give a damn if the wood is legal. Paperwork is a dime a dozen en route to Lima. Certification in Home Depot doesn't mean a damn thing. Either way, though, wood is an important source of jobs in a place that struggles horribly.<br /><br />These are some examples of the things I'm learning on the long and bumpy road of my travels in Peru. I'm climbing mountains, I'm sandboarding on sand dunes, I'm trying Pisco Sour (national drink of Peru), but I'm also talking to people. I'm trying to listen to what's going on, and trying to understand it. Hopefully, as I told Nicholas Kristof, I can pass that story on. That's all I can do--because, really, what the HELL do you do with a development studies major?<br /><br />Given that, what do you think? Where is the place of the tourist, the traveler, the foreigner in another country? Who is responsible? Who should make sure there is an investigation into the dying fish? How valuable are the ideas from abroad? Should I have given that woman the tylenol? I'd love to hear what you think.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-43789917079296113382009-02-05T09:10:00.000-08:002009-02-05T23:40:07.592-08:00Learning to BreathSkiier pants were clearly invesnted by an evil, chauvanist devil. You know the type--zip up the front overalls with straps that always get ridiculously stretched out, that look good on maybe one in every 57 people. The kind that are made to go over your thin inner layer, but under all 23 other layers. The work of the devil. At least that's what I was thinking at 1:00 in the morning, at 4600 meters (13,800 feet, or close enough--but don't try to build a spaceship on that estimate, ahem NASA), halfway up one of Peru's tallest volcanoes. My travel buddy, Brice the Frenchman, and I were getting ready for day two of our climb, the summit push of Misti, 5,800-someodd meters above the place my lungs call home--sea-level.<br /><br />So its 1:00 am and absolutely freezing. I've got a good four layers on, plus two pairs of gloves, an alpaca (like a llama) knit cap, and a headlamp. And I have to pee. After a liter of water and big mug of coca tea (yeah coca, like where cocaine comes from--very big here, and an Inca remedy for altitude), what could I expect? So, below freezing temps, the rocks as my toilet, and I'm stripping down to my satan-approved skiier pants, exposing all manner of things to the frigid Andian air.<br /><br />But I assure you in two days of a total of 16 hours of straight up and straight down hiking, and an altitude gain of 2000 meters (6000 feet), my skiier pants were hardly front and center. I love trekking, and I've done tons since I left Guayaquil six weeks ago. Podocarpus National Park, Lago Titicaca, Sorata Bolivia, Machu Picchu, Sacred Valley, the jungle, and just a day before Misti, three days in Colca Canyon, the second deepest canyon in the world (you have my permission to be impressed). But Misti was a doosey. Brice, me, and our badass backpacker backpacks stuffed with camping gear and cold-weather battle clothes were all dropped off at a healthy 3500 meters (10,500 feet), a vast, dry, stunning terrain at the foot of the towering Misti volcano of Arequipena Beer fame, outside Arequipa, Peru. Ski-pole walking sticks in hand, coca candies in pocket, and quiet yet confidence-inspiring guide leading the way, we marched a good five hours straight up to our campsite. Even Brice, dandy, crepe-cooking Frenchman on the oustide but hiking beast on the inside, got a good slap in the face from Misti. We collapsed in our sleeping bags around 4:00 in the afternoon, laughing at the thought that we actually PAID for this, only roused from the half sleep of shivery high altitude for dinner. Until 1:00 am, which is where the devil pants came in.<br /><br />Hiking is such a varied pleasure for me. There's hiking for the pleasure of sharing it with friends. There's hiking for the joy of being in nature. There's hiking for solatary meditation. And then there is something like Misti--pure physical challenge. The thrill of attempting something I've never done before, something I'm not all together sure I can do. Where every step breaks a boundry and every breath burns a new, previously unrecognized inner body part. I split my time between drinking in the utter ecstacy of my endeavor, and counting the minutes between breaks, willing my legs to hold me.<br /><br />And then arrived day two. We climbed towards the gloriously, impossibly clear sky, the bright lights of Arequipa shining 2500 meters below, where normal people were either engorging themselves on too much alcohol or sleeping. Our guide Juan reminded me that I'm no longer in the Northern Hemisphere when he pointed out the Southern Cross in the place of the Northern Star, and a vicuna (also like a llama, but with fur so soft that a scarf goes for $3000).<br /><br />I was trudging along at my usual slow and steady pace when we crossed the invisible line that marks the climbers from the amateurs--5000 meters. That's 15,000 feet. Do you know what its like to breath at 15,000 feet, let alone climb a mountain? Good for you if you were born in the Rockies or the Alps, but I have San Fernando Valley lungs, altitude 300 feet. I've never even been to 5,000 meters. Suddenly my determined resolve wavered as my vision acted in kind. My heart was pounding in my temples and nausea was building with every step. As I fell further and further behind Brice (born and raised in the French Alps, I might add), I started to come to terms with something I had avoided thinking about up to that point. I wasn't going to finish.<br /><br />Finally I had to say something...at about 5100 meters, something like ¨I feel like shit,¨ came out of my mouth, in a garbled mix of English, Spanish, and altitude. I thought I could just turn around, or wait while Brice and Juan raced on ahead. Not so, I learned. My failing body meant that Brice couldn't finish either. Pride for having gotten as far as I did quickly turned into guilt. My weakness was keeping my friend from the finishline, too. My personal failure was becoming the group's failure. I decided to push on. The sun was rising over the eerie moonscape around us, and little patches of snow were beginning to show themselves. 5200 meters. Stop. Breath. 5250. Stop. Breath. 5300. Stop. Breath. Try not to puke. 5310. Stop. Breath. Realization that my pace of was just too slow to allow us to finish. That's it, I said. Death is impending--I'm not going to make it to the top.<br /><br />The annoying thing about altitude is that, as long as your brain doesn't start bleeding from your ears, as soon as you decend to an altitude meant for human habitation, you feel fine. Which means after about 30 minutes of sliding down a sandy mountain side, narrowly avoiding a small avalanche chasing us, I felt like I could have run a marathon. Ish. Suddenly impending death just felt foolish and weak. The impressive blog entry full of dazzling descriptions of the world at 5,800 meters faded from my mind's eye. I was not to impress you all with my incredible Peruvian feat.<br /><br />Alas, as with all great travel stories, a lesson was learned here. We ran the rest of the way down, and it was only then, on the decent with air readily available, that were we able to appreciate the desolate beauty of the Peruvian highlands. As we stumbled after each other in a kind of skiing-without-the-skies-or-snow-type-situation, I was able to regain the pride in my accomplishment. 5,350 meters. Just about 16,000 feet. I climbed that. I pushed myself further than I've ever gone. So goddamnit, good for me. I owned every single meter of that climb. I owned where I was, and I'm owning where I am. What could be more important than loving and accepting every step?Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-21832886088669811732009-01-11T11:50:00.000-08:002009-01-11T12:56:33.616-08:00Adventures in Stupidity and Good Old Fashioned Dumb LuckI'm a risk taker. That much is clear. But sometimes I am just plain stupid.<br /><br />Exhibit A:<br />Last week I went to Bolivia. I hadn't really looked into it any further than the Bolivia section of my ¨South America on a Shoestring¨ Lonely Planet. (Which I both hate and love...every time I come close to passing it on to another traveler, I find a gold nugget on the eroded gringo trail of its pages.) When I was waiting at the bus station in the middle of the night, wrapped in my sleeping bag against the frigid Andian air, the ticket man warned me it was $140 to cross the border. Just for Americans. What? Lonely Planet didn't tell me that. Thinking it was a lie or at least an overstatement (quite common here), I pulled the required amount out of the bank, and waited for my bus. When border time came, ho ho, this lonely American (yep, the only one on a bus of gringos) was going to be charged the full amount. Then inspiration struck. I still had my Ecuadorian ID card, so I attempted to use that instead of my passport. The immigration guy looked at me, gave me a face, and told me to follow him. He took me to another desk and said, ¨$40.¨ Ok, great, I just saved $100. Then he said to the guy behind the desk, ¨We'll share it, right?¨ That's right ladies and gentleman, I found myself in the middle of a South American bribe. Never one to shy away from adventure, or a good deal (hey, it's the Jewish blood), I agreed. I exchanged names with a guy who worked there who could get me back across the border, shook hands, and crossed that highly politicized, very expensive, yet invisible line that divides Bolivia and Peru. Without a visa stamp in my passport. As we drove along the coastline of Lake Titicaca, I realized I was entering the poorest South American country as an illigal alien. An undocumented immigrant, if you will. I spent a week feeling my heart race every time I passed someone in uniform (any uniform, including the bathroom cleaning people). Bolivia was absolutely grand, and I would have stayed longer had it not been for the tiny detail that I could be thrown into a Bolivian jail at any moment. Yes, folks, this was a DUMB move. On the agreed upon day with the name on my slip of paper, I returned to the border, ready to plead innocence, grease palms, give sexual favors, whatever it took to get me back into Peru. Turns out, all it took was the ability to walk. I literally walked right back across the border and jumped in a van bound for Puno. No one said a word. I exchanged my Bolivianos for Soles and was on my way...the only evidence of my little stint in Bolivia was the Bolivian flag bracelet on my arm. This isn't exactly the Mexico-US border, is it?<br /><br />Exhibit B:<br />Yesterday afternoon I took a bus from Puno, near Lago Titicaca, to Cusco, the jumping off point for Machu Picchu. I arrived quite early to buy my ticket, and left my big backpack in the bus office, as is normal. I was chatting with the woman behind the desk for a while, then left to explore Puno (mostly the public market...I LOVE public markets). When I came back I asked two different people about my backpack--should I go get it, or are the bus people going to load it for me? I always ask this, and the answer is always the same--the bus people do it. Great. Jumped on the bus in the very first row, above the driver, with a spectacular view of the terrifying driving that defines Peruvian bus drivers. I was feeling quite content with the world and my five for a Sol (about 35 cents) bananas. When we arrived in Cusco last night at about 11:00, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep, I found my backpack to be missing amid the piles of backpacker gear under the bus. Oh yes, the bus folks did not, in fact, bring my backpack for me. It was still sitting in an office, a seven+ hour bus drive away. Awesome. Now, realize, South American buses aren't like airlines...if your luggage doesn't make it on by mistake, there is no orderly form to fill out, no office to complain to, no home delivery 24 hours later. I discussed, after yelling in my very best Spanish, my options with the bus people. They made some calls, I got some names and phone numbers, and was told to return to the office the next day. All I could do was find the cheapest hostal possible and hope that somehow my backpack got remembered. I tossed and turned all night, thinking how DUMB I was. I should have checked. I should have gotten it myself. I should have made sure I understood. I had so much time! I should have paid more for a better service that takes better care of my stuff. After sleeping in my clothes and borrowing toothpaste from my hostal neighbors, I got to the office early. When it finally opened, half an hour late, the woman had no idea what I was talking about. I gave her a Sol to call the office in Puno, and luckily found out my backpack was indeed in Cusco. At the bus driver's house.<br /><br />On this side of things, safely and legally in Peru with my backpack all locked up in my hostal, I can say its all part of it. That this kind of thing is what travel is all about. It's about making mistakes and pushing boundaries. It's also about recognizing pure DUMB luck, and thinking twice before doing it again.<br /><br />P.S. If you want to see where I did my little soul searching mission in Ecuador, check out these photos. Click, and be jealous.<br /><br />http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2409324&l=1f2b6&id=1238613Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-21440673520978600452008-12-19T07:01:00.000-08:002008-12-19T09:10:25.274-08:00Buenos dias de Colombia!Just kidding. I'm actually in Peru. You can extract your heart from your throat now, Mom.<br /><br />Question: What happens when you drive your sketchy developing world public bus off your chosen path through lawless traffic and off a cliff into the deep, cavernous trash filled crevass below, hoping to land on used bathroom tissue that you can't flush down instead of old motorcycle bits?<br /><br />Ok, now I'm just being dramatic. But long story short, I'm taking a headlong plunge into the unknown--I'm not going back to school next semester. The original plan was two semesters studying in Ecuador through a nice, organized, formal study abroad program, IPSL. Semester one follows a well traveled path--I apply, get the ungodly sums paid, arrive in Ecuador with a robust group of international students, go to a safe, private university with a bunch of rich Ecuadorians, and stay with a well-worn host family. I follow the rules, I stick to the plan, and I have an absolutely fabulous time. I've learned more than I thought possble, seen more than should be legal at my age, and met incredible people. Rock on, study abroad.<br /><br />But I'm done with that. No more unsatisfying classes at a university so cut off from the majority of the country you need a swipe card and finger print to get in. No more speaking English everyday with my superb gringo friends. No more spending hours at an internship that is unrewarding and has next to nothing to do with where I see my future. No more eating pounds of rice and meat and having my time controlled by someone else. It's been real, but that's not what I want.<br /><br />So I told my program, Why, thank you very much, but peace out. I'm going to do this myself. Which brings me here--I've finished my exams and papers, I've left the country. And I don't have a single solid plan for the next six months. Between December 19th, 2008 and June 10th, 2009, my life is up for grabs. Nothing has been so daunting, so unsure, and so absolutely freeing.<br /><br />As much as I absolutely love to travel, six months of pure on-the-road decadence is not going to work. I'm in the middle of school, I have a limited budget, and I have the kind of mind and spirit that need to be productive. Blame society, blame my parents, blame my own personality...but I want to work and learn and see and do. I want to better myself and my world, and not just spend money on hostals and entrance fees. But, I've figured out, that doesn't have to be in a mediocre Ecuadorian classroom. I'm studying Development Studies. I'm in a Developing Country. Let's be creative here, shall we?<br /><br />So here's the plan. I'm currently in an internet cafe in Piuri, Peru, just south of the Ecuadorian border, waiting for my 14 hour bus to Lima. From there, things get a little foggy, but after New Year's I'll be meeting up with my badass German friend Gesa to travel, cholo style (cheap and ghetto...a little derogatory, but we've decided to be part of the movement to reclaim that word for good), through Peru and back up to Ecuador. Starting in the beginning of February, I will take up residence in Quito, to get my Spanish where it should be (ahora, mi espanol es horible y no lo me gusta) and work in a conscious consumerism development project called Kallari. But because this is South America, hardly anything can be arranged in advance, so it's still all ideas until I get there.<br /><br />So fine, great. Development work for a development studies major in a developing country. A little detour that will allow me to get what I want out of my time here. Good for the soul, good for the resume, good for the pocketbook. I'm still going back to Berkeley in August as planned. Everybody wins. So why was I feeling discontented? That weight in my stomach wasn't just street food--it was uncertainty. It was that jolt of HOLY CRAP--I'm not protected by my university status, by my program, by the well worn plan of my peers. I'm bailing. And not just bailing for a week on a farm, to return in full capacity with hardly a moment lost. I'm doing something not quite mother approved, in a foreign country, without a real plan or goal or anything. What the hell am I doing?<br /><br />Hold up. I needed a moment to think. So I took it. Why not? I've got nothing if not time. Monday night I took an overnight bus to Vilcabamba, in southern Ecuador, and from there headed to Podocarpus National Park for my first solo hiking and backpackingish experience. Taking all necessary precautions, telling the proper people, and finding all necessary information (that was for you, Mom), I hiked the 8.5 kilometers to the refugio (basic cabin) and spent the day reading (Savages, by Joe Kane, about what oil is doing to the Ecuadorian Amazon and its people), writing, and meandering through the park's terrain, which is on that lovely line between highland sierra and lowland rainforest, with all the varying flora and fauna in between. I took this moment to just be by myself and think about the next six months. I ate cold canned corn and yogurt and granola with a spoon I whittled (well, at least scraped into something usable) from a piece of wood with my grandpa's pocktknife. I went to bed in my little cabin at 7:30, because what do you do at night by yourself in the middle of the forest with only a solarpowered flashlight, and tried to debunk all of the horror stories that were a product of the media, my mother, and my own overactive imagination--bears, rock slides, jaguars, serial killers, robbers, disease, bloodsucking bats, friendly campers turned rapists, fire ants, flash floods, escaped insane asylum ax-muderers (as if they had a public service like that in Ecuador)...<br /><br />Day Two, Podocarpus National Park. I woke up at 5:00 to leave my cozy little cabin at 6:00, just as the sun was beginning to bathe this magnificent valley in impossible color and light. I tredged up a practically vertical rainforest-like path, an eroded muddy mess in most parts, but surrounded by dripping green in every hue and bird calls from human song to R2D2, and finally emerged on the mountain ridge, to follow a steeply rolling path through tundra-chapparal and glorious vistas. Completely alone. I didn't encounter one other person until I returned to camp, 14 impossibly hard kilometers, and 8.5 hours later. Unscathed. Take that, Caution. In your face, Dependence. Booyah, Fear.<br /><br />A quick break for sustenance and regrouping, and I was off again, to conquer the last 8.5 kilometers out of the park, before the rain got me. Though, as usual, Mother Nature won. Halfway through my two hour jaunt, I was pelted with the storm that makes that valley so utterly bursting with life. Exhausted and sore, I reveled in the refreshing feel of clean, pure water on my face, and felt only more alive for it. 22.5 exhausting kilometers, or 14 miles later, I caught yet another overnight bus to cross the border, leaving the country for the first time in four months.<br /><br />So, did it work? Why yes. Strangely, stereotypically, somewhat cheesily, two days on my own gave me the chance to ask myself the questions everyone else had been asking me. My little solo frolic through the woods gave me the space to self-reflect, analyze, and dare I say self-actualize? (C) What do I want? What do I hope to accomplish before I leave South America? What makes me happy? What is a good use of my time? What does it mean to grow up?<br /><br />So what's the conclusion? I have no responsibilities, no one accountable for me, no one I'm accountable to. No one to say what I should do. This is exactly what I've hoped for, and a time like this may never come around again. I am happy with my decision to leave my program, and I know I am in no capacity ready to come home. I need to grow up, but I don't need to grow up all the way right now, and growing up doesn't mean 9-5. It doesn't mean stop traveling and learning. It doesn't mean stop being silly, or stop being dramatic, or start thinking soul-searching is a game. It just means being responsible for myself, and to stop being so dependent. To stop being quite so selfish, and to be open to expanding that definition. I am here to enjoy myself, learn about myself. I'm here to figure out how to be the best citizen of the world I can be, how to live a life that's real and practical, but also according to my ideals. I'm here to learn about development, to learn Spanish. Yes I'm messing around a little, yes I'm spending money I could be saving, yes I'm having an absolute blast, yes I'm a silly, flighty, idealistic, privileged college student. So the fuck what? I'm going to own that, and make it work in a way that works for me.<br /><br />Enough of this rant. I'm on a boundless adventure! What am I doing in front of a computer?Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-48422791065326693832008-12-13T19:05:00.000-08:002008-12-13T08:57:08.475-08:00Notes from UnderequatorMy first day with my host family, I was served burnt rice. I was surprised, because I had heard that they eat rice all the time here. How could they not know how to make something that they eat everyday? Three months later, I no longer call this burnt rice--I call it cocolon, the best part of the pot, and a gift of the cook.<br /><br /><br />I tend to spend quite a lot of time each day thinking about stuff like this. These little observations about my little world. Here, I've gathered some bits and pieces of Guayaquil, of Ecuador, of culture and language, of myself--the things that are so easy to loose amid the thousands of pictures and crazy stories and hilarious anecdotes that I will bring home with me in about nine months.<br /><br /><br />I was playing a matching game with a girl named Linda at my internship the other day. It was time to go, so we cleaned up the game into two little boxes. Suddenly, she put the boxes on her head and started chanting in an all-too-familiar voice, "Un dollar, un dollar." The voice of street sellers. When I look at the children at Fundacion Crecer, I usually just see adorable faces amid overwhelming chaos and a project that's far too big for me. But once in a while I look at them and I see drug dealers, single mothers of 12, beggers. I see the 38.8% of Ecuadorians who live below the poverty line. I'm absolutely incapable of stopping it.<br /><br /><br /><p>I love when I am on a long bus ride, and the bus stops in a town, and entire grocery store of street food options walks on the already over-crowded bus. With arms full of coconut juice, mango, corviche (a fried fish, banana, and peanut butter mixture), yuca bread, empanadas, unidentifiable fruit, fried potato things, or various other candies, chips, breads, ice cream, and fried amazingness, Ecuadorians step over each other through the crowded aisles attempting to sell their wares to hungry travelers.<br /></p><br /><p>I've learned to ignore every bit of travel advice I've ever been given. I brush my teeth with tap water. I eat fruits with the skin on straight from the market. I live on street food when I'm on the road--hamburgers with eggs, cheese empanadas with sugar on top, choclo (corn on the cob Ecuadorian style--huge kernals and lots of fattening toppings like cheese, mayo, and picante), chicken on a stick. If you ever run into stomach problems all you need is a bottle of pepto bismo, a good attitude, and some more street food. Screw perscriptions--I haven't needed anything else since I've been here.<br /></p><br /><p>What are you supposed to do when the police are corrupt? A friend of mine was robbed by the police a few weeks ago, right on my street. They took his money (a lot, since he was on his way to wire some home), his phone, his bank cards, and made him do pushups on the street at gunpoint. His host family got his things back for him, through some weird connection that even my friend doesn't understand, but they continued to hassle him and rob him every day as he came home from school. He left for his home in Alabama last Saturday. The Vice President of our university refuses to even acknowledge racial profiling of my black friend, besides the fact that my cute white face hasn't even noticed a police presence in our neighborhood. Racial profiling? That's flatout racism. His identical twin, who experienced the same thing in the same area, is now living in Sanborondon--the Beverly Hills of Guayaquil. The VP wants all future international students to live in Sanborondon. My question for our oh-so-on-top-of-things VP is, am I studying in Ecuador so I can see what home feels like in a more humid climate, or am I studying here to experience something different? Getting robbed by the police sucks, but converting study abroad into Club Med is NOT the answer.<br /></p><br /><p>There are no such thing as lines here, just slightly pushy groups that gather in front of entrances and cash registers and such. Ecuadorians laugh in the face of order.</p><br /><br /><p>As anywhere, laws and reality don´t always coincide here. They recently passed a no jay-walking law. This is a joke in a city that does construction on its sidewalks in such a way that I have to walk between giant operating bulldozers and in the middle of the street to get to my destination. Crosswalks? Please. Buses have posted notices that say they are only able to stop at specified bus stops. Yet bus drivers are more likely to stop for the first person to flag them down and then drive forward 20 feet for the next customer than even KNOW where the stops are.</p><br /><br /><p>Shoe shiners clog the streets, and make me laugh when they offer to buff up my cloth teva sandals.</p><br /><br /><p>Some magic power of Ecuadorian capitalism allows for success amid against the wall competition. On just my street, maybe a quarter mile, half mile long, there are seven haircutters. This area has a lot of people, but it´s not like the equator makes your hair grow faster. How are they all able to survive when they all offer the same service of cheap, crappy haircuts? (Exhibit A: I am now sporting a boy cut that reminds me suspiciously of my dad, when he still had hair (sorry dad). I wanted an inch OFF, not an inch LEFT.)</p><br /><p>You can buy anything in the bahia, or black market. Blender tops, quail eggs, Nike runners, your backpack that some guys stole from you last week. Bargain hard, because the slightest hint of imperfect Spanish or white skin means gringo price.</p><br /><p>Just some notes from the spectacular land that is Ecuador.</p>Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-80447847499212008742008-12-13T09:09:00.000-08:002008-12-13T08:56:43.959-08:00Dangers, Real and ImaginedSome of the varied advice I've received since I've arrived in Ecuador:<br /><br />Don't wear anything remotely shiny as you walk down the street...someone will undoubtedly steal it off of you.<br /><br />Don't carry more money than absolutely necessary because you WILL get robbed.<br /><br />Don't carry anything valuable because you WILL get robbed.<br /><br />Don't carry anything at all because you WILL get robbed.<br /><br />Don't use a backpack on the public bus.<br /><br />Don't use the public bus at all--have you seen the kind of people that take those things?<br /><br />Don't use the unmarked taxis because they are a conspiring band of thieves.<br /><br />Don't use the yellow taxis because they are a conspiring band of thieves.<br /><br />Don't use a public taxi by yourself.<br /><br />Don't use a taxi.<br /><br />Drive home really fast at night, even if you are drunk, because it will make it harder for thieves to stop your car and rob you.<br /><br />Don't accept free drinks from bars because you never know what they put in those things and you'll probably end up in the hospital with food poisoning.<br /><br />Don't go to bars for middle-class people, only VIP clubs.<br /><br /><br />Don't walk anywhere by yourself at night.<br /><br />Don't walk anywhere by yourself.<br /><br /><br />Don't walk anywhere.<br /><br /><br />Don't go out past 10 at night.<br /><br /><br />Don't go out past 6 at night.<br /><br /><br />Don't go out.<br /><br />Don't smile at people on the street, especially men, because they will take it as invitation.<br /><br />Don't trust foreigners.<br /><br />Don't trust Ecuadorians.<br /><br />Don't trust men.<br /><br />Don't trust well-dressed people.<br /><br /><br />Don't trust anyone, except me, of course.<br /><br />Don't buy street food, it will make you sick.<br /><br />Don't buy restaurant food, it will make you sick.<br /><br />Don't carry a bag, because someone will cut a whole in it and take your things.<br /><br />Don't carry things in your pocket, you'll get pickpocketed.<br /><br />Don't go to the mall by yourself.<br /><br />Don't talk to anyone.<br /><br />Don't get involved in politics.<br /><br />Just don't be stupid.<br /><br />Hmm. Clearly, Guayaquil is not suburban Los Angeles. And clearly, folks here are very worried about the obvious Gringo and her irresponsible and naive ways. Living in Guayaquil is a game of sorting through the good advice and the overprotectiveness of my well intentioned friends. But people live here, and do all of these things. They live their lives. Yes, people get robbed, taken advantage of, beatup, held at gunpoint. And yes, I have to be careful, and not, Mom, take unneccesary chances. But I also have to live MY life here, just like the Ecuadorians. I've got to leave my house sometime. And would you look at that? Somehow I've survived.<br /><br />But I've got seven months to go--wish me luck.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-1034555137297779102008-12-08T21:43:00.001-08:002008-12-13T08:55:21.130-08:00Bull Fights and Plastic BottlesLife is full of contradictions and hard choices. Nothing has a simple answer. Ah, the wise lessons of my 20.5 years.<br /><br />This past weekend, I went to the capital city Quito to bask in the glory of their big annual fiesta. I saw a ballet, parades, bands on top of buses, dancing in the street...and a bull fight. All deep rooted traditions of the Quito Festival.<br /><br />Truthfully, I was quite under informed about the true nature of a bull fight. Now that I've seen it, I can say with absolute certainty that this is animal cruelty and should be banned. Contrary to my naive sense of reality, bull fights are not just a man in a funny outfit waving a cape in front of a bull. There is blood, there is suffering, and there is death. It is absolutely horrible, from a moral standpoint. My good, righteous, animal-loving soul does not approve.<br /><br />But who am I to say that? Dare I break out the word barbaric? Can I make that judgement? Can I jump off my high American horse and start throwing out moral lessons? What is cultural and what can be considered a universal wrong? At what point can "rightness" supersede culture?<br /><br />Here's another one: water. Don't drink the water in Central and South America. There is a very good possibility you will die from intestinal disease. Well, that's the company line, anyway. I don't drink the water, but I do wash my food in it, my hands--both of which I put to my mouth before letting them dry. I brush my teeth and shower in this demon water. My intestines seem to be in working order, at least for now. Either way, though, because of this little water issue, ridiculous amounts of bottled water is consumed. Ridiculous amounts of plastic is thrown away everyday from one time use water bottles. Can we judge the horrendous waste of this cultural norm? It occurs by neccesity, yet there is still no effort to use reusable bottles, or use less, or recycle. Who has the right to make a stink?<br /><br />My dad just sent me this article as well:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/rundowns/rundown.php?prgId=3">Morning Edition</a>, December 8, 2008 · Guatemalans on Sunday celebrated a beloved tradition: "Burning of the Devil." Across the country, people lit bonfires and burned figures of Satan as a way to symbolically cleanse their houses. But the minister of the environment, for the first time, had asked Guatemalans not to burn the devils because it pollutes the air.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=97933341&sc=emaf">http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=97933341&sc=emaf</a><br /><br />If it's a Guatemalan that's trying to change Guatemalan cultural norms, is that OK? Does that change the conversation? Should environmental degradation supersede cultural maintenence? What's more important? Do traditions even matter when the state of the planet is at stake?<br /><br />Simply some random questions of my rambling mind.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-53181016090208173222008-12-02T20:21:00.000-08:002008-12-02T20:52:17.762-08:00Only for a NightSome moments are just worth recording. A moment of happiness, contentedness, originality.<br /><br />I spent last weekend in Guayaquil, first because I had to do something for my ecology class, and second because I only have two weeks left in the place that has in many ways become my home, and there were things that needed to be done to do the city justice. Sunday morning I finally got myself to the Buddhist Temple, the second biggest in South America. (Who knew?) I spent a little over an hour chanting with the monks and a couple of Ecuadorians with the transliterated prayer book thing, processioning around the sanctuary, and meditating. I then enjoyed free vegetarian food and wonderful conversation with an Ecuadorian woman who then took me home. Such an absolutely cool and idiosyncratic morning.<br /><br />The evening, however, is what felt like a moment worth recording. Before my host mom closed up the house for the evening (six million locks, metal gate, alarm, and all), I decided to take a walk through my neighborhood, Alborada. I was on a mission for street food--truly one of the best things about this country and famed in Alborada. I strolled down my street, waving to the folks that have become familiar, watching families push strollers and keep children from running into the street. I turned onto the main street and passed the usual vendors--choclo (corn mixed with all sorts of goodies like mayo and cheese), hamburgers with egg and cheese, pork sandwhiches, various varieties of meat on a stick. I wandered through a gathering in the parking lot of a church, complete with food and a used book sale. I continued on to a little market of Christmas decorations that had sprung up in a lot on the main street. Wacky lights in every color and pattern, 300-piece nativity scene sets, bags of moss (which is harvested from the Sierra, I learned today in my ecology class, and is actually becoming an environmental concern because of it's Christmas popularity)..everything for your typical tacky Christmas. Dogs were getting caught in tinsel. A couple of guys were selling live crabs through car windows at red lights. To make the scene just a little more perfect, a Fabio-like exercize instructor was leading aerobics for about fifty people in the middle of the Christmas market, to the beat of insanely loud Ecuadorian pop. I attempted to get an egg and cheese sandwich from the hamburger man, but typical Ecuador, he refused to take special orders--they have all the ingredients, but egg and cheese without the meat is just NOT on the menu. I finally settled on the best cheese empanada with sugar of my life for a whopping 45 cents.<br /><br />Oh Ecuador.<br /><br />Unfortunately, things are not always so fine and dandy. My friend got robbed this morning, right around the corner from her house, in a neighborhood that is supposed to be safer than mine. At gunpoint in broad daylight, they took her bag and patted her down to make sure they didn't miss a single thing of value. All the Ecuadorians had to say was "You're lucky you weren't raped." It just reminded me that no matter how comfortable I feel, how much I've come to appreciate where I'm living, how much I think I understand the rules--it's still Ecuador. It's still life. And nothing in life is simple or straightforward.<br /><br />Oh Ecuador.<br /><br />P.S. To the left are some new pictures of the gloriousness that is Ecuador.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-18966042747299142632008-11-20T18:38:00.000-08:002008-11-23T20:21:14.100-08:00The Day I Learned to Love GuayaquilMy friends and I love to complain about Guayaquil. It's dirty, busy, hot, big, ugly. We get whistled at, we get stared at. It's dangerous. There's no place to gather and just hang out. We escape the second we can for fantastic weekends all over this truly amazing country--tropical beaches, craggy desert seasides, cool mountains, farms, dry forests, a magical land of lakes and mountains known as Cajas National Park (so far, my favorite spot in Ecuador). We warn other visitors away from our beloved city. "Don't bother," is our mantra.<br /><br />Last Sunday, though, something shifted. I don't know if I just had a good day, or my mind has been opened up just a little bit more, but somehow I learned to love the city of Guayaquil.<br /><br />I spent Friday and Saturday day at my professor's beach house a couple of hours from Guayaquil. He decided to hold our class (of a whopping five students) out there, on the seaside edge of a poverty striken city called Embagao, and feed us ridiculous amounts of seafood, including a raw shelled creature, dripping blood and all. (Yes, I tried it. You better believe it.) Then, after some bonding (unavoidable with such a small group), some drama (unavoidable when you spend 48 straight hours together), and far too much food (unavoidable at all times in my life), we returned to Guayaquil. Before the weekend was over. On purpose. A never-before-seen event in the Ecuadorian life of Hayley Currier.<br /><br />Another never-before-seen event: cooking for ourselves. Four of us got together at one girl's host family's house, and we cooked, and we had exactly what we wanted. Vegetables--glorious green fresh vegetables that our host families seem to find sinful when preparing our meals--and not one bit of rice. Dinner was complete with a bit of wine and chocolate dipped strawberries and bananas, and the absolutely glorious, comfortable, amusing, and at times quite insightful conversation of good friends. Such things ARE possible in Guayaquil. We don't need to leave the wannabe modernity of our city to find comfort and ease. Step one toward enlightenment.<br /><br />After dinner, a typical Ecuadorian night out commenced, but we roved new territory--Zona Rosa. It was busy and fun without being overly built up or touristy. Just people doing their thing, and I was one of those people. A Guayaquileno among other Guayaquilenos.<br /><br />Sunday, though, was when enlightenment struck. Some friends and I decided to meet for a movie on the Malecon. The Malecon is the riverfront that always makes me edgy and frustrated--a multi-million dollar project to attract tourism to this export and business-oriented city. But the investment ends with the pristine sidewalks, where reality sets in quite quickly--where developing country big city norms abound. But last Sunday, that movie never happened. The weather was so nice, and the Malecon was so pleasant, my one friend and I just sat and talked for hours, watching the sunset over the river and eating two-foot tall ice creams. We walked through gardens and along boardwalks where Guayaquileno families gathered to let their children play on park equipment. Just normal people doing their thing. Guayaquilenos loving their city. Suddenly it just didn't seem so dreary.<br /><br />The city somewhere along the line has become not only familiar, but <em>comfortable</em>. I know how to use the public buses--no one ever knows quite where they're going, or whether they are going to decide to stop for you or not, but I understand their irrational system. I'm amused rather than shocked to find a man passed out on the front seat, not moving a muscle as people step over his bare feet to their seats, and laugh rather than jump to find a live chicken stumbling around at my own feet, as the driver races through the city as if getting in front of just one more car is the only thing standing between him and a lifetime supply of Pilsener (the Ecuadorian beer of choice...usually because there IS no other choice).<br /><br />If I don't understand, I at least can negotiate my way through the machismo catcalls. The group of older men I pass on my way home from school everyday used to have nothing for me but whistles and a dirty-sounding "hola mamacita!" Instead of just looking straight ahead, as I was instructed, I greeted them one day. Now I get, "Buenas noches amiga" and a polite head nod. And I slipped a bit further into comfort.<br /><br />Streets are familiar, I know where to go to get things done. And with finding the beauty, the comfort, I've also recognized my own mistakes. How I've done this semester wrong in some ways. Why has it taken me three months to understand Guayaquil? Because I let my assumptions take hold as facts from day one, instead of giving myself a chance to explore, to get to know it. I got caught up in the flashy excitement of my weekend travel adventures, which are valuable in their own right, but have been taken at the expense of understanding Ecuadorian life in the Ecuadorian big city. Guayaquil is not for me--I could never live in a place like this, a place where I scrape city dirt out of my pores every night. A city so far from any place to freely walk, a place to be outside and be able to breath. But I let my weekend travel routine, dictated by my gringo tendencies and my desire to hang out with my awesome gringo friends, overtake what could be gained by letting myself get into a rhythm with Guayaquil.<br /><br />I don't regret one second of travel, one moment spent exploring this absolutely incredible country. It is a traveler's dream--immense variety and diversity with cheap and relatively effecient public transportation. I can't stand the thought of missing one inch within these borders. But I also want to LIVE here, not just TRAVEL here. I'm striking a balance, and I've got seven months to go to perfect it.<br /><br />On another note, I've had a few requests to follow up the whole "my host family's been stealing from me" incident. Not much to report, actually. I confronted my empleada, who flat-out denied anything. I haven't said a word to my host sister, because I don't have enough of a backbone. I left a note in my drawer with my money that essentially said, "I know you've been stealing from me, I know there is X amount in the drawer, don't do it again or I'll tell Maria Elena (host mom)." Things were normal between my empleada and I until she one day stopped talking to me, a good week after I confronted her. I now lock my drawer, and am keeping penny-by-penny tabs on my finances. Beyond that, I don't know what to do. I do, however, appreciate all of your messages and advice. If nothing else, I hope this little situation has begun some interesting conversations for you all. :)<br /><br />To Guayaquil, to the city you are in, and learning to love everything from tree-lined bike paths to People's Park (a little Berkeley reference for you).<br /><br />Salud!Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-16764206364795586732008-11-11T19:07:00.000-08:002008-11-11T20:31:38.115-08:00Another Lesson LearnedYou know that sinking feeling you get when you know something is wrong, and you're about to have to face it? I knew it Sunday night, but I didn't want to believe it. I kept making up excuses. But after Monday morning I was sure. Yep, my host family has been stealing from me.<br /><br />I have a drawer in my room at my host family's house for miscellaneous things--my passport, earrings, information about my program, and, until recently, my money. The drawer locks, but I decided from day one that if this family, the Rubios, are going to trust me enough to live in their house for four months, I'm going to trust them enough to not lock up my room or my things. Oh, trust.<br /><br />Friday morning I went to the bank and took out $200. I took $100 with me for the weekend (maybe a little high to travel with, but you never want to be without when you're going to a town without an ATM) and left $100 in my drawer, where I always keep my money. Sunday night, when I got back from yet another spirited weekend Ecuadorian jaunt, I found only $70 in my drawer. At first I tried to explain it away--I got my numbers wrong, I took out less than I thought, I took more on the weekend. I tend to be a little lax on the accounting front (you can save the lecture, Dad) and I always spend more than I intend. But $30 is hard to explain away. So I decided to do a little test. I put another $10 in the drawer, bringing the total up to $80, and wrote the number down and told two friends, just to be sure that I would remember correctly. I then left for work. When I returned just four hours later, there was only $60 in the drawer. There was nothing I could do but face the cold reality that my family is robbing me.<br /><br />This situation sucks from every angle, so much more, and so much deeper, than the money lost. I love my family--especially the mom. Maria Elena and I are tight, and we joke and chat all the time. I'm not home much, so we aren't as close as I'd like, but they are still absolutely wonderful people and I just feel so comfortable here, in this house. Or at least I did.<br /><br />When I noticed the money missing on Monday afternoon, I asked the empleada (maid) Lorena who had been home since I left for work. Just her and my host sister Carla. Here's where it gets tricky: I have no proof which of them did it. When I put the pieces together, Carla, the 23-year-old, mostly deaf veternarian student from a well-off family isn't exactly a likely candidate. However, Lorena, the most likely underpaid, and certainly overworked single mother of two looks pretty good. She needs the money far more than Carla does. Am I stereotyping? Am I letting my prejudices and expectations of what a thief looks like push me toward the empleada? But doesn't it just make sense? The whole thing just makes my heart hurt.<br /><br />Rightly or no, I've been working under the assumption that Lorena is the culprit. I don't know what to do. To tell my host mom would mean one of two scenarios--she doesn't get fired, but I spend the next six weeks with the awkward feeling of everyone in the house knowing this big secret; or, she does get fired and I make her life, and lives of her two girls, extremely difficult.<br /><br />I didn't realize how much it would hurt to have my trust trampled on like this. Lorena sits with me every day at breakfast and lunch, and she chats with me--she helps me understand the news or explains Ecuadorian cultural things or how she cooked lunch. More than likely, she's been stealing from me for months, because this is not the first time I've felt like there was less in the money drawer than there should have been. I guess I'm either too naive or too slow to have thought of stealing before this. How can Lorena sit across the table from me every day and make small talk while she has a pile of my money sitting in her piggy bank? I guess she just sees me as the stupid rich gringa who has so much money that she doesn't even notice it go missing. Which, in a way, is true. How long had she been fishing out of the Hayley Charity Fund Drawer until I finally noticed? It took a loss of $50 in a four day period for me to finally figure it out.<br /><br />This morning, at the urging of my friends, I confronted her, though in a very roundabout, chickenshit way. I said (in Spanish of course) "I am missing money from my room. I know you go in there to clean it, so have you seen it?" All she said was, "No! What a shame. I'm sorry." That didn't exactly convince me of her innocence, but at least she knows that I know. She knew what I was implying, so why wasn't she quicker to defend herself, to make sure I knew it wasn't her? Of course, why didn't she beg me not to tell Maria Elena? The drawer is now locked. And that's as far as I've gone.<br /><br />I'm writing this entry more for myself than anything, to relieve my heavy heart. I'm actually surprised at my own emotional response in this situation. It makes me sad, confused, and just a little overwhelmed. I want to understand where Lorena is coming from--I'm sure she doesn't have a lot of money, and taking a couple of bills out of a big stack from a rich American probably seems harmless. But I also refuse to hold someone to lower moral standards because of how much money they have. That is unfair and condescending--poverty does not mean a lack of understand of right and wrong, permission to steal, and most of all, an inability to understand friendship and trust. I thought Lorena and I were friends. Not best friends, but friends. I don't care how much money you have or what cultural differences exist, there are certain things that come with friendship. And trust is one of them.<br /><br />The question I have now, is what do I do next? How do I act around her? I'm not going to sit there and ask about her day and pretend like everything is alright. But I also firmly believe in the adage "Hate the sin, not the sinner." (I seriously think I just quoted the bible in my blog...what is happening to me? What? Who am I? But I guess I heard it from Alice Walker [see open letter to Obama] so I think that's OK.) Lorena's indiscretion does not define her, and she still deserves to be treated with respect. Thus, unless something happens, I'm going to take the mature, straight forward route--lock up the cash and just avoid her.<br /><br />I hate to think that I'm too trusting, too naive, too young and that's why things like this happen. Am I wrong to walk into a situation assuming the best of all people involved? Is it wrong to give people the benefit of the doubt? No, I can't accept that. I'd rather loose all the money in my bank account than start believing everyone is the enemy. (I hope I really believe that, but I also hope I never have to make that choice.)<br /><br />On another note, a volcano is erupting in Ecuador!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2008/11/11/2416129.htm">http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2008/11/11/2416129.htm</a><br /><br />To trust and friendship, amigos.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-23005199044567280842008-11-10T20:27:00.000-08:002008-11-10T20:37:40.085-08:00Take a Visual"When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence. "<br />-Ansel Adams<br /><br />So I'm hardly a photographer, but I thought it was time for you to see, rather than read, the glory that is Ecuador. Click on the link to browse through a sampling of photos (mostly of my vain ass) from the last month or so.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2388035&l=7ae68&id=1238613">http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2388035&l=7ae68&id=1238613</a><br /><br />I'd also like to take a moment to recognize the incredible moment that is the election of Barack Obama. I have heard so many times over the past few days, here in Ecuador, from my friends around the world, and back in Berkeley, that they are FINALLY proud to be an American. I couldn't be more thrilled, but I also love the perspective provided by Alice Walker for both Obama and the American people in her open letter to the president-elect. A short, beautiful comment:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.theroot.com/id/48726">http://www.theroot.com/id/48726</a><br /><br />Que te vayas bien, amigos. Amor y paz.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-91349656934000258472008-10-26T12:18:00.000-07:002008-10-26T13:21:54.438-07:00Rehab for Adrenaline JunkiesI woke up this morning and had to wait for the cows to be milked in order to get something to put on my porridge with homemade blackberry jam that we made ourselves last week. Last night I wandered through the garden, looking for vegtables to cook for dinner, and had to pick off slugs before throwing the lettuce into the stirfry. A kind of lettuce, mind you, I don´t even recognize.<br /><br />I´m definitely not in Guayaquil anymore.<br /><br />Last week, I had some time off school. While some folks went to the Galapagos, and some folks went to Peru, I took the week to go first to Banos, and then to a farm, Picalqui, to learn about organic agriculture and work on an honest to goodness farm.<br /><br />Banos is a touristy little town in the Andes Mountains that caters to the exciting-outdoors lovers. Somewhat randomly, a distant cousin of mine, Susie, is traveling through South America right now, and our schedules matched up, so I spent the weekend with her. We stayed in her incredible spa hotel--a far cry from my usual $5 hostal. It was a weekend so...it just didn´t feel real. I spent Friday night sitting in a hottub sipping wine and gorging on delicious food. I spent Saturday rock climbing, bungee jumping (ish...it´s a little different, but same general idea...pictures to come) off a bridge, and biking through the Andes to see waterfalls. I spent Sunday riverrafting through the rainforest and hiking, with a homemade blackberry juice waiting for me at the summit. We partied with our outdoor guides, I made friends from Guayaquil and plans to meet when I return, and we met a somewhat odd Canadian who decided to buy a waterfall and some land after a messy divorce and make it into a ¨Garden of Eden.¨ How did I get here?<br /><br />What was perhaps most interesting about the weekend (besides getting absolutely stoned on adrenaline) was the tourist industry here. A common complaint of the place is how touristy it is. Which is true--most menus have English translations, there are outdoor adventure companies on every corner, and there are more hostals than grocery stores. However, almost all of the tour companies are Ecuadorian owned. Guides make far more than the average Ecuadorian income. The town is relatively well-off. Certainly the wealth is not destributed equally, and Banos has its problems. But what is the alternative? The town tapped into an important source of money--this is a valid and successful form of development. Yes, it caters to gringos, but Ecuadorians made it so. Tourism isn´t the only option, but tourists shouldn´t feel guilty, and Banos shouldn´t be shunned for it´s particular response to globalization.<br /><br />Then Monday, my friend Kyle and I spent the day on buses heading north, to get to Picalqui, the farm where I´ve spent the past week. Though the website is slightly misleading in this respect, Picalqui is a part of a Ecuadorian-run foundation that´s been working on development projects on four different sites for about 70 years. The particular part of the farm where I´m working is owned by Stuart, a rough little Englishman and his girlfriend. They decided to make their life here in ruralish Ecuador, growing organic produce for personal consumption and sale. He gets volunteers to pay a little for an agricultural education, which helps fund his work, and the work of the foundation. Volunteers stay together in the volunteer house. It´s a beautiful example of communal living--we cook together, work together, live together. Last week there was Alex, a dramatic, tragic American who is spending a year here ¨getting away from the FUCKING rat race, man¨; Paul, a German working off his obligatory military service for a year on the farm; Jenny, a 28 year old from Colorado working on her Spanish with 2.5 months in Ecuador before starting nursing school; Wendy, a soft-spoken woman working on the farm while her fiance works in a legal help for refugees office in Quito (the capital, about two hours away); and Simon, a 24 year old Brit, who was also a development studies major and is traveling around the world, working on different agriculture and environmental projects. And Kyle and me, two study abroad university students with a week to burn.<br /><br />What an incredibly different paced life. We get up early, cook breakfast, work in the garden weeding or shoveling manure and compost, cook lunch, work some more, cook dinner, hang out, read about permaculture, talk about why the world is going to shit and what we want to do to fix it, have a little campfire, some mint tea from the garden, and go to bed. I´ve learned so much--from Stuart, from my fellow volunteers, from just being on the farm. It´s just been so pleasant, and so important to my overall education. Outdoor work is going to factor into my future career, and agriculture is essential to development. I´ve had a perfect week, and I can´t wait to move into my co-op at Berkeley and start an organic garden.<br /><br />Here´s where I get to admit my own folly. Where I fall victim to my youth. (Maybe you don´t have to send this one to Grandpa, Mom.) I´m staying another week. School starts tomorrow, but I´m still here at the farm (well, actually in Tabacundo, a tiny town a 15 minute busride away). I´m not going back yet. Next weekend is Dia de los Muertos and my Guayaquil friends as well as my Picalqui friends are all going to Cuenca (a beautiful, rich city in the mountains) for the celebration. That´s where I´ll switch lives. But I´m not ready to go back to unsatisfactory classes, an extremely difficult job that is not what I want to do with my life, and a big city. I have been loving life in Guayaquil, but I just need to be here for one more week. I need to be outdoors, eating fresh vegetables. I need to be in this place where a night out consists of me in my badass hiker pants (plastic built in clip belt included) and tevas walking along a dark trail to hitch a ride with the local fruit seller to a little town´s independence fair, drinking hot alcoholic beverages from street vendors in front of a very poorly controlled bonfire, followed by dancing in the town´s only discoteca and singing the only English karaoke of the night. What will I remember in a year, five years, ten years? A week of class, or this beautiful little break on a farm?<br /><br />I´m happy, I´m satisfied, I´m learning, I´m growing. I miss home, I miss you, but there is no way I´m coming back any time soon.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4653430725656405409.post-41260425248731222008-10-04T23:45:00.000-07:002008-10-05T23:33:28.619-07:00Lost in Translation. But Not Always.<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Translated from original Spanish conversation</span><br /><br />Taxi driver: "Do you need a hotel? I can take you to a good hotel."<br /><br />Me: "Actually, I live here."<br /><br /><br /><br />OK, so I don't <em>really</em> live here. I'm certainly no Ecuatoriana. That much is made clear to me every time I walk down the street, with all of those eyes staring at my oh-so-UN-Ecuadorian haircut, clothes, backpack, walk, accent, expectations... I stick out, for sure. I am Gringa Suprema, and I am all about owning it. But it was cool to be able to say it, anyway.<br /><br /><br />But I'm not quite a tourist, either. I live with a Ecuadorian family, eat Ecuadorian food, go to an Ecuadorian university, speak the Ecuadorian language (mas or menos). I am one step up from tacky tourist, but haven't quite been initiated into the cult of the truly at home. I'm somewhere in between floundering and perfect, but that's working just fine for me.<br /><br /><br />The life of an international student is glamourously exciting, and this international student is all about rolling with the punches. Guayaquil is...fascinating. I'm not going to lie (another East Coast or Australian import to my slangbank...we're a very honest group: "I'm going to be honest," "Just putting it out there," "I'm just saying," ¨Let´s talk about it¨ all come up with ridiculous frequency), Guayaquil is not the most beautiful or comfortable city I've ever been in. It's big and dirty and hot and sweaty with a million and a half problems. I have spent the past six weeks trying to find my place in this place that is so not me. I am stepping outside my comfort zone (like my hippie team work terminology?) to make my home here, among all that can be classified oh-so-foreign. Guayaquil is ruled by the rich and conservative. They don´t recycle. I´m working with children. I can´t smile and greet people on the street for fear of my cheerfulness being taken the wrong way. The closest nature is a good 35 minute busride, once I spend 20 minutes getting to the bus station, and hiking is none-existent. I miss my bicycle, I miss the Berkeley hills and their miles of trails, I miss student activism, being able to walk everywhere. Where are my aging hippies? Where are my friendly street vendors? Where is my grass, for god´s sake? (Not THAT kind of grass, folks.) Guayaquil is just not so into beautification through nature.<br /><br />But what a magnificent challenge! What an opportunity to try something different, be immersed in something that stretches my mind and my life. Makes me really recognize what´s important to me. To learn. It´s a cheesey cliche, but I absolutely LOVE to learn, and learn in exactly this way. Through conversations and traveling and trying things and having things happen to me and making things happen around me. It´s different and just so much freaking fun.<br /><br />My days look something like this:<br />1) Monday through Thursday, I spend the morning at my internship with all of the scary children. (See previous entry in all it´s soul-searching glory.)<br />2) I then return home to hot soup (despite the ridiculously hot weather), pretend to do homework, and fall asleep.<br />3) At 3:45 I walk 15 minutes to my bus stop to take the private University bus (with air conditioning...aaah, the luxury of the rich) 35 minutes to campus.<br />4) I have an hour and a half of a rather unstructured Spanish class, and another hour and a half of a rather unstructured History of Ecuador class, where conversation usually disinegrates into debates about the recently passed constitution (oh yes, an exciting time to be in Ecuador indeed...heeeelllllooooo socialism!) and the extranjeros trying to convince the Ecuadorians that gay people are not another species.<br />5) I go to the University's gym, and watch the Ecuadorian men build up their muscles, look at themselves in the mirror, and do absolutely no cardio. They may be able to knock me out with a punch, but I could outrun them in about two minutes. Just putting it out there.<br />6) I return home to my host family at around 9:30, reheat excessive amounts of rice and bananas for dinner, and chat with my host mom. Mom and I are mad tight (thanks again to the East Coast slang...I really am the only West Coast representative and my native tongue is just getting stamped out of existence) and she is endlessly patient with my fledgling Spanish.<br /><br />Fridays, though...Fridays are when things get interesting. Because of my program, I have a special four-hour class called Institutions of Ecuadorian Society--basically four hours of story time with Jorge, our very knowledgable but completely disorganized professor. The existence of this class, far more than it's actual content, brings up an interesting dilemma for me. When are "problems" cultural differences and thus merely different than my hifalutin US standards, and when are they things that should be improved on? Is a lack of structure, something I see both at Fundacion Crecer and my university, a "Latin American Thing" (an LAT, if you will) or something I am legitimately allowed to be annoyed with and do something about? I don´t want to judge everything based on what I´m used to, but I don´t want my experience to suffer because I think it´s cultural, and it´s really particular lackings. It´s a fascinating and difficult problem, and one I´ve spent many hours discussing with my fellow extranjeros.<br /><br />After this class (read Confessions of an Economic Hitman...absolutely fantastic) a new kind of education begins. I hightail it to the bus terminal with whatever group happens to be traveling that week, and leave for some glorious adventure away from our city. As the bus pulls away from the terminal every week (and never on time...I think that's a LAT) I can feel myself shifting gears from highly-structured Hayley to go-where-the-wind-takes-me Hayley. This is one of the most diverse countries in the world, and explore it is just delicious.<br /><br />A quick rundown of the past month and a half of adventures, with increasing detail not based on the amount of fun had, but the recentness of the trip, and thus the coolness factor in my mind:<br /><br />Weekend #1: Salinas, a beach town a couple of hours from Guayaquil. Our gringo group was just getting in the swing of cheap hostals and sketchy beach rentals (running out of gas on that jet ski was a serious possibility), and most importantly, scoping each other out.<br /><br />Weekend #2: Stayed in Guayaquil. In true Ecuadorian fashion, we watched a futbol (soccer) game, got unfathomably excited about watching good-looking, sweaty men kick a ball around, and went out to celebrate the win of Ecuador's national team against Paraguay. As has become the usual, we were shown a good time by the International Club, one of the only student groups on campus. These folks have decided to create a club who's sole purpose is to befriend the international students and take us out. Sometimes this exotic foreigner thinks the guys' motives are less than innocent, but they are all wonderfully nice, and we are becoming quite good friends. I spent Sunday searching out a tiny bit of nature outside the sprawling metropolis that is Guayaquil, and used the opportunity to clear my head and my lungs of smog.<br /><br />Weekend #3: Cuenca, a beautiful city in the Sierra (Andes Mountains). Blessedly cool weather, a river running through the center of town, safe, beautiful streets, a gorgeous national park right next door--basically the antithesis of Guayaquil, and about a 6th of the size. I fell so deeply in love, I am considering studying there next semester instead of Quito, as originally planned. But no relationship is simple, and Cuenca brought up some important questions for me. What is it about this city that I liked so much? Is it because it's more like home, more like what I'm used to? It felt like it has more culture than Guayaquil, but is that just because there are more folks wearing traditional garb? I must not fall into the trap of orientalizing the indigenous population, or trying to see them as timeless. Also, Cuenca is a very well-off, well taken-care of city. Besides being far less of a challenge than Guayaquil, would I really get a complete picture of Ecuador studying in such a place? Is if fair to say the rich are not "real Ecuador"? The rich folks in my History of Ecuador class said this themselves...we, as foreigners, need to see the "real Ecuador" by going into poorer parts of the city or talking to the indigenous community. But are they not Ecuadorian? Are they not just as much a part of the "real picture" of this country as the kids at Fundacion Crecer? Either way, after three days of animal markets, eating fried pork right off the pig in the middle of the street with the head still attached (we can get into the morals of my eating habits later), and trying glorious new foods like sugar cane and cuy (guniea pig, just like good ol' Cupid who lived in my sister's room for three years or so), I was ready to apply to the University of Cuenca.<br /><br />Weekend #4: Montanita. A hippie colony on the beach, and basically a 24-hour party. A necessary stop, because these two streets of party town are just as much a part of Ecuador as Guayaquil, as Cuenca, as my host family. However, once is enough. I got my obligatory surfing in, listened to a reggae concert on the beach, and ate myself into a coma. But I also continued the conversation I've been having for years now about the value of tourism. Tourism can be a fantastic alternative for a community to say, oil exploitation. Or it can be Montanita--where the restaurants and hostals are almost entirely owned by foreigners, and the Ecuadorians scrape what they can from selling jewelry and delicious street food (banana smoothies and egg hamburgers are really the only meal worth having)--not exactly the way I was hoping to spend my time in Ecuador. However, not a minute was wasted. I had an absolute blast, and met six million people from all over the world: Ireland, Ecuador, Argentina, the States... There's no such thing as a wrong move when you travel, except not moving, I think.<br /><br />Weekend #5: Puerto Lopez, a beach town yet further north on la Ruta del Sol, or the Pacific coast of Ecuador. Everything had a slightly different feeling, because this was the weekend of the vote for the new constitution. According to Ecuadorian law, no alcohol is allowed to be sold for 48 hours before the election, meaning that folks partied at home and not in the bars and discotecas, as is the norm. As is also the norm, enforcement was sketchy, but it did make the streets much more tranquilo than usual. At night, I drank fruit batidos (smoothies) around little fires on the beach, and danced salsa in the sand to the music from some guy's cellphone. During the day, my travel buddies and I caught the tail-end (ha ha) of the whale-watching season, and took a fantastic boat trip out with Wiston Churchill, a nice Puerto Lopez native with the cheapest fares in town. Accompanied by his five year old son who (successfully) called the whales with his well-worn song (Ballenitas!), we felt massively ill, snorkeled at a little unnamed island, and had the absolute best time joking with Wiston, and speculating on the source of his quite interesting name. (Yep, that's Wiston, not Wintson, and he is quite Ecuadorian.) Despite our own unsuccessful whale calls a la Dorey in Finding Nemo (wwwwwwhhhheeeeeeerrrrrrreee aaaarrreeyyyyyoooouuuuuuwwwwhhhaaaaaaaaaallllllesssss???) we were blessed with the most incredible breeching whales imaginable. To watch the calm ocean suddenly explode with a gigantic humpback whale, to be reminded of the world that lives out there, and to see such an incredibly enormous animal get itself completely out of the water is absolutely breathtaking.<br /><br />On the boat, we met a lovely woman named Christina, a 60-year-old retired nurse from Switzerland who has been traveling for the past two and a half years, and plans to keep traveling until she dies. She has no more plan or structure than to know what continent she's going to be on, and never takes pictures, because all of her memories are in her head. While I can't imagine stopping my chosen profession (that I hopefully love to devote my life to and that is wonderfully beneficial to the world...please don't make me be more specific than that) that young, what a beautiful life. Her kids are grown, her spouse is gone...it's just her and her backpack, and doing exactly what she wants to do in any and every city she pleases. Excuse my idealism, but Christina is going on my list. You know, that list of things I want to do in my life that includes the Peace Corps, getting my pilot's license, and doing the entire Appalachian Trail. Don't scoff. Goddamn, I love being 20.<br /><br />What I loved most about this weekend was how much I felt like I learned. We went to a small community called Agua Blanca that has chosen to cultivate eco-tourism in a very controlled way as their form of development, as opposed to many other, more destructive options. I had a great time grilling our tour guide (for the archeological site and a hike) and got one more picture of Ecuador to add to my list. My buddies and I sat in the back of a camioneta (pickup truck) and bumped along to Manchalilla, a national park with the supposed most beautiful beach in the country. Manchalilla, however, was closed due to the election...but our camioneta driver didn't really care. He seemed quite intent to earn his twenty bucks. He lowered the metal chain blocking our way and spend right into the park, without paying. Soon enough, we were being chased down by the park police, one lone little guy on a motorcycle. We all held our breath in anticipation of being taken away in handcuffs, possibly led in a line behind said motorcycle. All it took was a little finangling, and what ended up being my first South American bribe, and we were on our way to the beach. What we ended up paying our friend Mr. Motorcycle Cop was actually LESS than if we had paid the actual admission to the park. That's definitely an LAT right there.<br /><br />Well, there are certainly more stories to tell, but I tend to get caught up in details, and I've probably lost half of you by now. I'm super happy here, things are varied and exciting. It's not perfect--but I can't wish for, expect, or even want perfection. I'm learning so much every single day, and I can actually say with some confidence that my Spanish is improving. I have far too many extranjero friends and not enough Ecuadorian friends, I don't watch TV or read enough in Spanish, and my classes aren't exactly inspiring. But I wouldn't go home if you paid me. Life just looks different from this side of the equator.<br /><br /><br />P.S. Ecuadorian fun fact: Iguanas eat whole bananas, skin and all.Hayleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03234951795423928357noreply@blogger.com2