Obnoxious guide: Coco

This morning I woke up at 4 am to see the sun rise while hiking Machu Piccu and Waynapiccu (an adjacent mountain).

After the majority of hiking we got a tour of Machu Piccu from our guide, Jorge or Coco.

Coco spoke awful english and the tour would have taken half the time if he had spoken in Spanish...and I may have even listened.

"KHe-low. Ai em yor guy-d, HOR-HEY" (Hello I am your guide Jorge)
Butt yoo ken kull mee KOko (but you can call me coco)

Coco means coconut in spanish, but in some latinamerican countries it can also mean a virgin.

At this point I was just not sure what to call my guide...my options were limited:
1. Coconut
2. Virgin
3. Whore, hey

And his jokes sucked

obnoxious backpacker profile: cusco styles

Cusco loves gringos and gringos love cusco. It could be because of Machu Piccu, it could be because of the cheap massages, or it could be because of how lucky you can get in a youth hostel.

I am here celebrating December 25th (it just aint christmas) with a fellow intern. We picked a hostel with some of our Columbian friends who we met on our tour to Machu Piccu. They were mega down to earth and really wicked. They also helped us find a hostel here in Cusco. I think we may also be switching hostels tommorrow :)

Sex in the bathroom:
Chantel told me she walked in on two guys having sex in the bathroom.
"It was kind of awkward."
"Well..are they done? I want to take a shower"
"Uh...i guess...i think they left. I think they are scared of more people walking in on them."
"Cool...i´m showering then..."

Coke in the bathroom:
As I finished my shower, I here two dudes panting. Uh-oh...more sex in the bathroom. One guy left the hostel and I heard him snorting. When I got out of the shower I peaked at what was going on.

"Just flaring my nostrels"

I pretended not to speak english and walked away.

So I cant say that i always flare my nostrils for fun, but i also cant say that i do coke for fun...i can, however, say that i have blown my nose before, but never as ferociously as that.
¡Imagínate!
I am 23 years old and have never ever...flared my nostrils? Maybe it is an experience i am missing out on?

Seriously...just flaring your nostrils?

The only family I want to live with is my own

In Otavalo, I rent a room from an old couple. They are always around the house because they own a store on the first floor. Their son, who is in his 30s is always at the house.

When I first rented the apartment, I still had not met the old couple and was discussing all the when-to-pay-rent and what-is-included stuff with the son. After arranging everything he said, “Great! Welcome! You are now a part of the family.”

Aww…that is sweet. “Cool, thanks!”

“Seriously. You are now la hermanita (the little sister).”
“Haha, cool. Well I am already a little sister, so that is a role I play pretty well.”

We had a little chuckle. And I never chuckled again…

I decided I did not want to be a little sister for a 30-year old Ecuadorian. I did not share a childhood with you. I don’t share parents with you. I don’t share a last name with you. And you eat my eggs!

Some familial background
This family likes to have all the new-age gizmos. If you ask me…they are an
Ecuadorian family pretending they live in the United States (as three of their children do live there). How you ask…

1. They have every kitchen appliance under the sun (CuisineArt, KitchenMaid, Juice Maker, and every other unnecessary item), And they only know how to use the stove and a toaster oven.
2. They have Splenda. If you have been reading the White Food series of the blog, you know that Ecuador is land of sucrose…not sweeteners. (Please note that they just HAVE it…they don´t actually USE it. It is just for show)
3. Peanut Butter. Ecuador is also not land of peanut butter either. (also just for show)
4. Maple Syrup. Also…
5. They have North American vitamins.
6. They don’t clean up after themselves.
7. The son prefers the name Jefferson, when his real name is Santiago.

I also get the impression that all of the kids in the family (now adults) made an active attempt to escape to the United States. 3 out of 4 of the kids are married to gringos and now live in the US. The youngest married an Ecuadorian, and together they tried but failed to immigrate to the US. Trying to get out of Ecuador much?

I shouldn’t really talk though….my family is Iranian, and we pretty much all live in North America (except for my aunt who lives in England). What is different about my family though…is that they don’t annoy me. So I don’t judge them 

Annoying story #1
The family also has many appliances which they do not use, maybe because they do not know how or because they are just useless. While a DVD player can be very useful (for activities such as playing DVDs), two DVDs tend not to be more useful than one. I, on the other hand, was confused enough by the abundance of remotes that I wasn’t even paying attention to the multiple DVD players. After 15 minutes of confusion, I finally asked Jefferson how to work the DVD player. He came over and showed me how to use the older of the two DVD players. I guess I naturally figured that they would use the newer of the DVD players and didn’t realize that it was not connected to the TV.

He started laughing and I gave him an awkward chuckle.

He kept laughing. I looked at him with a puzzled look.

He kept laughing. I did not understand why.

He kept laughing. It wasn’t funny anymore.

He kept laughing. It wasn’t even funny in the first place.

He kept laughing. I still did not get it.

He kept laughing. Okay, okay. I know how to use the DVD player. You can go now.

He kept laughing. EFff…I mean, you always laugh at the little sister but this wasn’t even funny.

Annoying story #2
They eat my eggs!

Annoying story #3
I was leaving the house today and the father said “KHELLOO” (that is hello in an awful Spanish accent). He caught me by surprise. He thought this was funny.

He kept laughing. Awkward chuckle.

He kept laughing. Fuck this. I know where his son gets it now.

I left the house, closing the door with a big slam, as he almost fell to the floor laughing…seriously! I left before I was morally obliged to help.

Annoying story #4
They ate my cream cheese and I only found out as I was making the cream cheese icing of my carrot cake.

Annoying story #5
They keep the tacky Christmas music playing all day and all night.

Annoying story #6
They talk to their grown children as if they are talking to 5 year olds…for about an hour. Imagine having your parents talk to you in a baby voice for an hour! I mean, I know that you will always be their son or daughter, but this was too much. Goo-goo-ga-ga

What is particularly interesting about living with a family in another country is that you often learn how to embrace and understand the different culture. I haven’t gotten that feeling; however, I have recently bonded a lot with their maid, Martita. Every morning at breakfast we comment on how weird the family is. Every morning we walk around the house and laugh at the filth they left the night before: they leave soggy bread on the dining table and left over dinner all over the counters. My friends even visited one weekend and said “Wow! You weren’t kidding. They are pretty gross.”

After our morning parade around the house, we begin with the real cultural exchange.

“Try some carrot cake! It is very typical of North America.”
“Ooo…thank you. You have never tried Guava!! Here, have some.”

“WOAH! Did you just chop the head off that chicken!? In the sink.”
“Of course. I do it all the time. Like this…”

Then the family comes in and I continue calling them “Usted” and calling Martita “Tú.” I give her a little wink and I head off to work.

Annoying story #7
Every morning after breakfast they ask where I am going. Every morning I go to work.

¡Bobos!

algunas personas hacen huevadas = some ppl are do effed up shtuff...

Martha wrote in her blog “That was so dangerous. I am never doing that again.” I don’t know why she originally thought it would be a good idea to drive a four-wheeler on the highway, but I also don’t know why she thought it would be a good idea to do it again.

Driving four-wheelers on the highway is fun.  And it is easy.

To turn on: turn the key and press a button
To turn on the light: Turn the key again
To accelerate: Press a button
To break: there are multiple different ways…and I know them all.
Easy 

I was driving, and Martha was in the back. We both wore helmets, of course. We aren’t idiots!

“maryam, we are going through a tunnel. Turn on the light.”
“Yah yah.” I turned the key seconds before we entered the tunnel and I looked down and the light wasn’t on.
“Turn on the light, maryam!”
“I turned it on.” I started panicking because there was no light in the tunnel. “What’s going on?”
“Maryam!! You are slowing down!! Go Go Go!! The tunnel isn’t too big, you can see the light. So accelerate at least!!”
“I am trying. It’s not accelerating.”

The four-wheeler slowed down to a stop. I tried to fiddle with all of the buttons and the keys but I couldn’t see anything in the tunnel.

HONK! HONK!

“A BUS!!” Martha and I jumped off the four-wheeler. “Maryam, I’ll get the bus to stop. Move the four-wheeler to the side.”

Realistically, moving it to the side would not have saved it because the tunnel was only wide enough for a bus and the profile of two 22-year-old bimbos.

“Its not moving!” I yelled.

HONK HONK!!

“EFF! Don’t honk!! We know you are there.” I yelled partly to myself, partly to Martha, and partly to the bus driver who couldn’t even here me or the sarcasm in my tone. I continued to fiddle with all of the buttons and the key, not understanding how a tunnel could get so dark.

I took off my sunglasses  and continued to fiddle around with all of the buttons.

Martha successfully got the bus to slow down and a sixteen year old jumped off and started to push the four-wheeler.

As he pushed, Martha pounced on the four-wheeler. “Maryam, get on the back! I am driving.” With the combination of the sixteen-year old pushing the four-wheeler and Martha’s knowledge of how to drive the four-wheeler, we got moving. The bus trailed behind us in the tunnel and passed us once we got out.

“Maryam! That’s why I said I was never gonna do this ever again.”
“Why? You got stuck in a tunnel last time?”
“NO! Because I know you are an idiot and would turn the four-wheeler OFF as opposed to turning the light ON!”

…that didn’t really answer my question.

We continued driving our four-wheeler on the highway and passed a go-cart driving in the opposite direction.

“Hey Martha, have you ever driven a go-cart?”
“I am never gonna do this again!”

“Cierto….”

mentirosas

I have two friends, Chantel and Martha, who make up a lot of stories. So…this blog is not about me, but it is hilarious.

When I asked them why they did this, they explained that they did this usually to get creepy men off of their case. When they were with someone that they thought would be fun, then they would not lie. But once it got out of hand (for them, but again…i thought the story was hilarious).

They convinced two guys that they were from Spanish speaking countries and that they did not know any English. One was American, whose first language was clearly English; and the other was a Mexican who spoke some English but still had a thick Latin accent.

Key events of the night:
1. The American says to Chantel: “You are so lucky. This entire night I have been struggling to speak my second language. This must be so easy for you.”
2. The American and Mexican team up to teach Chantel and Martha some English phrases. The Mexican then says to Chantel, “Hmm…your friend can pronounce things in English much better. You need to work on your accent.”
3. The Mexican says to his American comrade (“knowing” that Chantal and Martha do not understand) “I am really tired. I either want to go to bed…or have sex.”

I met up with them the next day. “Umm, maryam. We don’t really want to go outside.”
“Why? What’s wrong with you guys?”
“We don’t want to see the guys we saw last night!!”

Dieta

Do I have an eating disorder? Am I incredibly large? Or are people just very comfortable with calling you fat?

In Canada, it is pretty taboo to tell someone they need to lose weight. Furthermore, people often do not go out of their way to help you lose weight. In Ecuador, on the other hand, losing weight is a team effort. Who says Ecuadorians are not helpful?

The “vecino”, who takes us to work everyday in the little illegal taxi, is a little overweight. (Vecino means neighbour) Apparently he has lost about 20 pounds in the past two months. What is his secret? Every morning he goes and drinks a jugo (juice). Several times a week everyone will talk about the jugos on the way to or from work. (Really these jugos are a protein-shake/meal replacement)

His apparent success with these jugos has convinced one of the other girls at work, Luz, to join him every morning. Now the jugos were not a topic of conversation several times a week—but everyday there was a discussion about these magical jugos. “maryam, come with me tomorrow and you will see!” The vecino and Luz would say to me every day to work, and again every evening returning home.

Finally, they convinced me.

One day, I met Luz at 9:00 am to go and meet the vecino.

“maryam, did you skip breakfast like I told you?”
“Yes.”
“Good”
“So what are these jugos like, Luz?”
“They are really thick. They are made with papaya and melon.”
“Luz! Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“What?”
“I HATE both papaya and melon juice!” Luz began to laugh and by the end of the conversation we had reached our destination.

We entered into a building to which I never used to pay attention. We walked into a room on the first floor. There were seats arranged around the perimeter of the room, except for one wall of the room which had a table with two blenders, two buckets of papaya and melon (vomit), a kettle, and other important utensils which help people lose weight.

I sat down and was handed a large glass of green tea. Luz instructed me to drink the litre-large glass of tea.

I also hate green tea. I gulped it down as if it was a cough syrup—the really crappy kind you gulp down hoping that not a drop will hit your taste buds. I was successful in downing the liquid. My taste buds, however, were not victorious.

I was then given about a large glass, about a litre more or less, of papaya-melon juice…but it tasted even more disgusting than I expected. As I took my first sips, Luz, the vecino, and all of the vecino’s family (weight loss is a family bonding event apparently) turned to me “Te gusta? Te gusta?” With the man who served me the drink still in the room I said con fuerza “NO! Of course not. I hate papaya and melon. I told you before.”

i.e. SURPRISE. This is disgusting.

But knowing that it was all I was going to have for breakfast before work, I finished the jugo. I tried to finish it as quick as I could to get through the horror and pain that was the blended drink I held in my hands.

“Calm down, maryam. Drink it slowly,” said the vecino. I then noticed how I began to feel really woozy. I just drank over a litre of liquid in less than 5 minutes, on an empty stomach. I was not sure if my nausea came from the massive amounts of liquid or the fact that merely the smell of papaya makes me want to vomit.

“¡CHUTA MANGOS! I am already full. I don’t want to finish this.”
“Finish it maryam. It is your breakfast.”

I continued drinking the juice—more slowly but with just as much difficulty.

“It tastes really funny. There is something more than just papaya and melon in this,” looking down at the drink with the face of disgust I had since I first sipped the tea.
“Of course!” said the vecino. The man who made the juices heard me and passed me a jar of powder. “You can read this, it’s in English.”

It was a vanilla protein shake. This was what everyone was drinking? The protein powder was the magic? These were the magical jugos? I was ingesting a jugo of papaya, melon, and vanilla. If I knew what I was getting into, I would never have signed up for this.

I finally got through the awful experience and we left. “So you are going to come back tomorrow, right?” asked both Luz and the vecino. I changed the subject.

That day for lunch, I ate with Luz. The chef gave us our plates and said “It is because of your diet.” Yes, Luz was on a diet, but I didn’t really understand why she included me in the club.

On the way home, the vecino and Luz were talking about the hilarity of my juice adventures. In order to shut them up and convey to them how much I did not want to return for more jugo, I said “If I don’t lose 10 pounds today, I am not going to drink those disgusting juices.”

One of the women turned to me and said “But maryam, being on a diet is not easy.”

“WHAT? I am not on a diet.” The entire car turned to me and said, “You’re not?”

I am no longer just the intern.

I am now the fat intern.

betsy from america

Quito is dangerous. Everyone has a story. Not to scare potential travellers to Quito, but you will hear stories of people simply being pick-pocketed to people being strangled until they pass out and then robbed. People may be robbed at gun-point and drugged. These things can happen everywhere…so be careful everywhere!

At the hostel there was an “American” woman named Betsy (all people from the Americas are Americans…I argue…nothing makes the United States of America more American than Ecuador of America). She was loud and from New Jersey.

Every time she entered the common room in the hostel she would ask, “English?” very loudly and enunciated. Everyone would look at each other debating if they should admit that we were all from Anglophone countries, knowing very well that if we did she would continue interrupting conversation. Finally, hesitating, everyone would answer back: “Yes, English.”

Then she would begin, speaking very slowly and loudly as if she were speaking to an ESL class. “I am Betsy from America.” She would pause between every sentence to make sure that the Canadians, the Brits, and the Australians all understood. “Two people just got robbed over on that corner.” She then continued to tell the details and what got robbed. “I don’t want to scare anyone. But be careful.”

I wanted to tell her that the story she just told is drops in a bucket compared to…everything! Instead I turned to the Australian dude I just met, “How long have you been here?”
“I arrived in South America about an hour ago.”
“Oh. Um…don’t be scared. Just be careful:”

The next day he left the hostel twice. Once to pick up lunch and bring it back to the hostel. And the second time was with me to buy some garlic for dinner. He then told me that he would just start running everywhere.

beds are small and foreign vitamins suck

I am never inviting more than one person to Otavalo to visit me. I hate my friends.

I invited two of the other CIDA interns to Otavalo, “Don´t worry, I have a huge bed and we can all fit.” Even though it is possible, I don´t like it! I don’t like!

On the second night they were over I was exhausted. I needed a good night sleep. At one point I hear Martha breathing really heavily—bizarrely heavily. Maybe a bad dream…whatever. The heavy breathing continued, but soon enough she added some burps. This was weird. She began tossing and turning, and after a while I gave in and proved that I was awake and that I heard her….meaning that I had a responsibility to make sure she was oka, “Martha! Are you okay?!”
“No. I don’t know whats wrong.” I tried to get her something to help her feel better and once she was a little more settled I offered to switch spots with her and sleep in the middle. Some of the deep breathing and burping continued. The tossing and turning was translated into the odd kick in the hip and elbow in the shoulder. This sucked.

As I was about to fall asleep, the same thing happened on the other side of the bed. “Sonja? Are you okay!?” Same thing happened and once she was settled I again tried to fall asleep with Martha on one side kicking and elbowing me and Sonja inching her ass into my hip and moving her face ever so close to mine. This sucked more.

The next morning they were convinced they got poisoned from the restaurant to which I brought them the night before. It was a friends restaurant and I was indirectly insulted that they would blame his restaurant. If they hadn’t been kicking me all night, I might have been on their side, but I was more in the mood to shove them off the bed than to give them sympathy.

“Your friend poisoned us!”
“It was the carrot cake. Maryam, you didn’t eat it and that’s why you didn’t get sick!”
“I have eaten the carrot cake before! And I didn’t get sick! And it is by far the cleanest restaurant in Otavalo. I swear it wasn´t his restaurant.” The argument went on and we tried to figure out what they ate.
“I need some Acidophilus,” Sonja said.



Interlude to the story and background on Sonja and pro-biotics/acidophilus:
Sonja thinks acidophilus is the answer to all ailments. She takes one a day and is always asking me if she can borrow some of mine. “Sure, I don’t even take it. I brought it just in case (Just in case, I don’t know what).”

Once we were at the doctor and the doctor was about to prescribe me something when Sonja piped in, “Can she still take acidophilus?” I gave her a look to remind her that a doctor´s prescription was more important to me than any pill she wanted to convince me was the god of all pills. The doctor just gave her a puzzled look. “Probióticos,” she said making sure that she was understood.

Sonja has even spent days in Quito looking for them. She called me up once when I was living in the forest three hours outside of Quito, “maryam, I found a store in Quito that sells acidophilus.” I didn’t know what to say. “You know, just in case you run out.” I have been in three months in Quito and I am down 6 acidophilus pills, 5 of which I have given to Sonja and the last which I decided to take for kicks.

When I make fun of her she turns to me with a sour look and begins yelling, “IT´S IMPORTANT TO REPLENISH THE BACTERIA IN YOUR STOMACH!”



…..so why were Martha and Sonja sick?
Just before we went to bed, Sonja took her new Ecuadorean acidophilus. “Hey Martha, want an acidophilus? It’s important to replenish the bacteria in your stomach.”
“Sure, thanks.”
“maryam? Want one?”
“Eff off, Sonja.”
“Whatever. Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”

The next morning…
“SONJA!! I DIDN’T GET ANY SLEEP BECAUSE YOU DECIDED TO POISIN MARTHA AND YOURSELF WITH YOUR STUPID ECUADOREAN PROBIOTIC!!”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“You don´t have to know, you can just be less obsessed with acidophilus!”
“Shuttup, those bacteria are important! I´m gonna ask Rob to send me some more.”

Martha: “Why did I have to suffer too…”

keeping in touch with familia

I did not come to Ecuador with the intention of forgetting my family existed. But sometimes I do. I spent this week calling family from the embassy. I was spending the past two weeks in Quito taking a GIS course, and the embassy is on my way to class. Some days I decide to go to the embassy and step on home soil (well…its more like home marble tiles) and call family and friends.

Usually when I call my dad I am received with a warm hello and what is new. We talk for a bit and then he says, “I´ll let you go,” as if I already made any indication that I was in a hurry. “But I don´t have anywhere to be…”
“Who is paying for this.”
“Me.”
“Okay, bye. Thanks for calling.” Click. That is love.

Then there is my mother. Our fone conversations tend to be much longer and all about art school. No, I am not an artist, nor am I in school. My mom does all the talking. I guess you could say she does a good job at making it seem as though I never left home and that she is right beside me. Our calls usually end with me saying I have to go. While this might be embarrassing, I will admit that the calls usually end with me having to go to the bathroom. That’s how much I hear about art school.

Now onto my brother Sahm (pronounced Psalm). With him I had a conversation about how dangerous Quito is. The conversation ended with:
“Be safe. Don´t get a kidney stolen and don´t get raped.”
“How do you know that neither of those things have already happened to me?”
“You would be in Vancouver by now.” Fair argument. When I hung up I ran to the bathroom and checked my lower back for scars and stitches. I am okay!

When I got back to the hostel I suggested that the other intern and I get private rooms.

Another fun part of the conversation was when I mentioned that I was seeing an Ecuadorean guy. My brother immediately gets interested in these kinds of things. When I find something in which my brother is interested I immediately keep it on this topic of conversation, because if I don´t the conversation is dead in 10 seconds due to his unbelievably short attention span. Common conversation topics are economics and Grey´s Anatomy (which I pretend that I watch for his sake).

Once I found out that my brother was interested in something I had to say, I continued talking about the rasta boy. “He is in a reggae band that is actually pretty big.” My brother googled the band and laughed at the fact that I was seeing an Ecuadorean.
“A native Ecuadorean?” he said as if it is something so surprising and exotic when you are in Ecuador.
“Well, he isn´t indigenous but he is Ecuadorean.” For some reason my brother is always impressed with the race of the significant other of anyone!

I remember when he was introducing me to my cousins girlfriend at the time. “Ali has a girlfriend. She´s Persian! He is keeping the blood lines clean.”

My cousin ended up marrying this woman, and then made the silly mistake of making my brother the MC at the wedding. Sahm just had to open the night with “I NEVER thought that Ali would marry a Persian.” He then continued to make their Iranian-ness the theme of the night by blurting out Iranian words (with an awful accent) and pleading the bride to introduce him to some of her cute Persian friends. At one point he stood up singing Happy Birthday in Farsi in the middle of the speeches.

When asked how I knew the bride and groom all I could say was, “I am NOT Sahm´s sister!”

Sometimes I think that the less I call my brother, the less he will rub off on me. One can only hope.

Moving on….

My cousin is pretty much a brother to me (maybe...no, DEFINATELY more brotherly than my real brother) so I feel it is necessary to include him in this post. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have exactly the same blood lines. Fortunately for him, it makes him more normal than the other three individuals included in this post. When I feel as though I need to speak to someone who reminds me of home but is normal, I call him. Thanks Ali, you help the family blend into society…especially Sahm (but there is definitely room for improvement).

Anyways, I have been spending more hours at the embassy than I ever thought would happen. But I feel as though it is now my right as a citizen to make free long distance fone calls. Even though I spend minutes of each conversation explaining why I am at the embassy. My parents never thought it would be a common hang out, my cousin thinks I am a super-dork, and I don’t think my brother has ever stepped foot in an embassy.

¡me robaron!

Being robbed is no fun.

I was on my way to a soccer game and i got pick-pocketed. The bugger stole my soccer ticket. I was able to buy another one at the door for cheaper than my original ticket.

Lessons learned:
a) people who steal suck
b) bring enough money to a soccer game so that you can buy another ticket (5 of us got pickpocketed on the bus).
c) people who steal suck

Conversation with my dad:
"Dad, I got robbed today."
"What did they take?"
"My soccer ticket."
"And?"
"And nothing."
"Oh, I dont care about your soccer ticket."

Last lesson learned:
d) when you need consoling after you have been robbed...your dad is not going to provide it.
e) people who steal suck

Thanks dad.

And Ecuador won!

religión

sooo....i have been honoured to meet several rastas while i have been here. but i am still confused as to whether it is an honour or not.

For those of you who are not aware, rasta is a religion. A rastafarian is one who practices the rasta religion. And they can sometimes be semi-ridiculous.

My most awkward moment would probably be when i was asked what i think of The Virgins?

First i was confused. Virgins? Do you mean virgins in general? Why was he talking to me about people who don´t know where babies come from? THE virgins? I didnt really get it. His response was "I think they are just good people." I can dig that...but i am sure some virgins are not good people. I think? Still confused. I think this all got cleared up when he then asked, "and what about Jesus."

OHhhhh......The Virgins. Biblical virgins. okay...now i felt i was in a better position to respond to what initially seemed like a very bizarre topic (virgins??). Unfortunately my response was, "i dont really think about virgins." This surprised him. WHat surprised me was that there was more than one virgin in the bible. (Well..."virgin"....how did mary have a baby without sex. i just dont believe it. i am not calling her a lier....but i am insinuating that she might be.)

This brings me back to the days when i went to an all-girls non-denominational private school..which was actually christian: Every year at christmas time there was a carol service. Everyone went to the church and sang hymns and read from the bible and held candels. During this festive event i would always fall asleep.

Every year, about 20 grade 12s would read an excerpt from the bible. Being a school leader i was expected to read as well. I did not want to. When one of the teachers asked me why I wasnt reading i didnt really know how to say what i wanted to say. What i really wanted to say was:

Do you actually want me to stand in front of 2000 people and read from the bible. 2000 people will be looking at me and taking me seriously? i wont be taking myself seriously? My family is muslim...to us, a church is a tourist attraction. you go to a place with lots of history and you check out a church. you go to another country and you check out the church. you take pictures of a church. we forget that it is actually a place of worship. oops....back to rastas.

Anywhoo...after i spoke with that rasta i met another.

Something he told me that resonates in my mind was, "There is nothing wrong with cannabis." Of course there is nothing wrong with cannabis, the onljavascript:void(0)
Publish Posty thing i question is why you are the only person on the coast who talks at about 10 words per minute. i think i had a pet guinea pig that spoke faster than that. Is that mean? or am i allowed to say that because i am from BC?

This rasta also said "my father is a carpenter so i have carpentry in my blood. i made everything in this house, even the house." i was impressed, but i couldn´t help but chuckle because i was sitting at his dinner table. Sonja, who was sitting beside me was also sitting at the dinner table but eating her dinner about 5 cm above me. I feel that there might have been something wrong with the cannabis he was smoking when he built the legs on that table.

That being said, i feel like a lot of rastas are great people and we share a lot of ideas. And to some rastas i just wanna say, "so you´ve got dreads...get over it!"

the best things in life might be free, but you still need to pay for stuff

Getting out dinero is a pain in the butt. I learned early on that I was only able to get money out of one of the banks. With that being said, sometimes when the economy crashes it is difficult to take money out from any bank.

Ugh! What a pain in the butt. All I want to do is eat, but apparently I am having problems doing that. I am a little afraid. Yikes!

Because the US does not know how to control the economic world that it actually does control, innocent people cannot survive.

Sounds familiar….capitalist morons!

White Food: Part 4

This was the most white my meal has ever been, and it was very delicious. But still…the nutritional value of my dinner was definitely jeopardized.

The meal: Empanada with Moroccho

The Empanada: A deep fried piece of batter filled with cheese. White white white!

Moroccho: A drink served warm. The drink is made of milk (whole milk) and ground up mote (white corn/maize). The drink is not sweet so you need to add something to sweeten it up…white sugar. If you do not want to add sugar, you can add panela.

Panela is brown. It is the only thing on the table that is not white. That being said, panela is a sweetener and is a substitute for the bowl of white sugar that is placed beside it.

Bon apétite.

i will always be "the intern"

This blog is coming long overdue. I have been working at a rescue centre for birds and have gotten to know a good chunk of the crew with whom I work. They are the stars of the next few posts.

I have met a lot of Ecuadoreans in the past 6 weeks. Ecuadoreans are generally very nice, warm, and welcoming. Those about which I can generalize have not made it into my blog.

José Antonio: It took me a while to warm up to him, but now I totally get a kick out of him and we joke around a lot. And by saying we joke around a lot, I really mean that he makes fun of me a lot. A lot. At first, I thought he just saw me as just the intern. After getting to know him better, I learned that that was not actually the case.

He definitely didn’t take me seriously…I was definitely not wrong about that. In fact, the more we got to know each other, the less seriously he took me. But his not taking me seriously was not because I was just the intern. It was actually for the same reason most people do not take me seriously. I am a lot more comfortable and accustomed to that, so it is really no biggy; however, my main concern right now is figuring out why MOST people do not take me seriously. It is either A) because I don’t take myself seriously, or B) because I don’t others seriously. It very well may be a combination of both, but comments on this post are welcome. Nothing offensive on this page please.

So who is this José Antonio guy? Why do I bother mentioning him? Why does he work at the park? Why does he make fun of me? Lets answer these questions:

Who is this guy? Why does he work at the park?
He was a falconer like the director of the foundation. He trains, flies, and feeds a number of the birds twice a day so that they get their exercise and get fed. He has been working with and studying birds for years. He has worked in zoos in Spain and Quito. Only the director and him are able to do flight exhibitions, and both of them have been falconers for eeons.

He is originally from Madrid and, for missing Spanish cuisine so much, has developed his cooking skills. He has taught me how to make croquettes and Spanish omelette. He also helps me with my Spanish. I am currently reading books in Spanish, and we occasionally sit down and go through the last 50 pages I have read and he acts as my personal dictionary and tells me the definition of all of the words I do not know. He has also taught me almost everything I know about birds.

I have really warmed up to him because he has a lot of confidence in me, and I can tell that he sees potential. He always wants to challenge me and wants me to learn more. While that is nice and all, I am sometimes freaked out because I don’t know where this confidence comes from. Because I often don’t share his sentiments…

Why does he make fun of me?
I think I give him a lot of material to work with.

Firstly, he thinks I eat a lot. The words I hear every day literally translate into “What a beast!” Yesterday he added “she is just a pit” and “You aren’t hungry? Are you sick?”

He makes fun of me because he thinks I am an alcoholic. Every day I bring a water bottle to work and he asked what was in it. Before I could answer he said “whisky?” After that I was known as the alcoholic intern. You would typically think that showing up to work hungover or actually drinking would give someone that sort of reputation. Not with me…apparently I am whatever people tell me to be. In this case that is in alcoholic. I tried convincing everyone that I actually don’t drink that much, but now I have given up and I too make jokes about what an “alcoholic” I am.

He also makes fun of me and the imaginary sex life. This topic of conversation has snowballed much like the alcoholic reputation. It started when one of the girls said “mañanero” and then asked if I knew what that meant. I don’t know how, but I actually guessed correctly that it meant “sex in the morning.” (You know you have a good grasp of the language when you can guess the meaning of words like “mañanero”) That day, I was talking to the taxi driver that I watched a Spanish movie the other day.
“Oh yah? Do you want to borrow some of my Triple X films?” he asked, thinking that I don’t know what Triple X is. I don’t think he realize that Triple X translates into Triple X in English…it doesn´t take a linguist to figure that out.
“No thank you,” I calmly replied, “I think I am satisfied with my mañanero.” José Antonio, everyone in the car (all the people from work returning back to town) was shocked that I knew the meaning of mañaneros and Triple X films. Everyone was laughing. It was funny. But I did not realize that from then on I had a reputation as a sex pot.

While this sex pot reputation can be embarrassingly hilarious at times, it has also proved to be just plain hilarious at other times. José Antonio has an intern whose parents were missionaries. The guy is 19 and he himself is a saint. He is from Texas, and consequently speaks perfect English. He happened to walk into the office when I was giving some of the workers an English lesson. I was teaching them useful words for the park, such as eagle, falcon, owl, nest, etc. When I saw him walk in I decided to put mañanero on the board. He naturally asked what it meant, and when I told him he fled the office with a scared look on his face. He told José Antonio what I had just told him. José Antonio decided to go along with it, so he told his intern to be careful because I was an “avion,” the Spanish word for plane and the word we use for someone who is quick to hit on people, someone who goes in for the kill, someone who is having a frequent mañaneros. ;)

That evening, we were taking the taxi back to town as usual and I was talking about how excited I was to sleep in on my day off.
“With who?” asked José Antonio.
“No mañanero?” asked the taxi driver.
“Probably not. It is a Sunday, it is always difficult to find someone on a Sunday.” I replied with a smile. Everyone in the taxi laughed, except for the saintly intern. I turned to him, “What are you doing tonight?”
“I am going to Quito” he said with conviction as he sank into his seat, thinking that the more he sank the further he would be away from me. “DIRECTO!” Everyone laughed at this too…except for the saintly intern himself.

Yepp…so José Antonio and I have definitely warmed up to each other.

white food: part 3

I ate pork fat today. It is white before you cook it. Once you cook it, it is no longer white, but the colour of fried fat.

WHY IS THIS NECESSARY!! I am still getting used to NOT eating vegan food…let alone eating pork, which Muslims do not traditionally eat (i.e. I did not really eat growing up).

Good ol´ José Antonio (few posts ago) knows that I do not like eating neither pork nor fat. Our conversation went a little something like this:

“What is the name of this in Spanish?” he asks me pointing to the pork fat. He wanted to make sure I remembered the name because, like I said, he always wants to make sure I am learning.
“Chicharrón” I reply.
“Very good. And what do you call it in English?”
“Pork fat.”
He gave me a smirk and I knew what my next post was about.

bathroom blogging

There is something very familiar about being in Ecuador. Parts of Ecuador are so similar to Bolivia, where I spent four months a few years ago. I felt very comfortable from the moment I arrived. That being said, there are still some things that I need to get used to because they are very different from Bolivia.

I am still trying to get used to the bathroom situation here. I was expecting to have the same problems as I had in Bolivia, but it is pretty different here…surprisingly so.

What exactly do I mean by the bathroom situation? I mean the bathroom situation.

In Bolivia, people often do not take care of the bathrooms. They can be very very disgusting. And more often than not, you will find that you have neither soap nor toilet paper. Every traveller quickly made it a habit to carry toilet paper with them. Individual toilet paper rolls were sold everywhere because it was just such a necessity. The host family we lived with even charged us for toilet paper.

In Ecuador you can politely tell someone that there is no toilet paper in the bathroom and, instead of getting a bizarre “so what, why are you asking me”-look, people will put more toilet paper in the bathroom. Individual toilet paper rolls are not as abundant as cigarettes, and you don’t always have to stock up on serviettes when you go out for lunch. In the house I was living there are three bathrooms. Once I used the toilet paper in my bathroom, I started taking toilet paper from the other two. After a while, I realized how different bathroom culture in Ecuador is…so I asked the housekeeper for toilet paper. And she gave me a roll of toilet paper.

Toto, we aren´t in Bolivia anymore!

It never occurred to me that someone would give me toilet paper. Talk about culture shock!

¿how bilingual is biliningüe?

Working in different languages:

Working in Spanish has been a great way for me to learn. Unfortunately, you must take the good in with the bad. The good: my Spanish is getting better. Sometimes I am even more comfortable in Spanish that English, which brings me to the bad. The bad: my English is getting worse. I constantly depend on spell check because I will look at the words and be convinced that they are correct. The words are correct if I were writing a different language. Below are a handful of the words I have misspelled:

-International (I spelled it internacional)
-Emphasis (I spelled it enfasis)
-Photos (I spelled it fotos)
-the radio (la radio)
-Carrots (I spelled it zanahorias) If anyone makes fun of me for that one I am going to kick them.

Next are my troubles with commands. I am constantly underlining things (Ctrl S) instead of saving things. This is especially annoying at times they decide to randomly turn off the power. But again, now I am forgetting how to do these commands in English.

Ctrl G = guarder (to save)
Ctrl S = subrayado (to underline)
Ctrl N = negro (literally to blacken….but it actually means bold)
Ctrl K = cursiva (to italisize)
This one trips me up a lot because the word cursive does not even begin with a K.

The commands I used back in Canada often do something trippy to my document, or they open up a new window or pop-up box. I will learn eventually; but I kid you not, every command you would use in English will do something. There are 26 letters on both English and Spanish keyboards, and no one had the tact to share the commands with other letters. Effers.

I also have problems finding different forms of punctuation. I remember when I was in Bolivia, I would have to get on msn and ask someone to send me the opposite of the backslash, because I needed it to login to an email account and I did not know what to press on the computer. There was a key that had the image of the opposite of a backslash (which I cannot show you because I do not know how to find it on this computer either) but I did not know what to press to make the punctuation show up on the page.

Another element of working/living in a different language is that no matter what you do, people think you are stupid. It is almost as if they think that education does not exist in English or that 2 plus 2 does not translate. I have had people tell me that gasoline is almost surprising…especially after I tell them that I studied Environmental Science and Geology. HELLO! I repeat: I studied Environmental Science (why petroleum is bad for the earth) and Geology (where petroleum comes from). One might just think that I could carry an intelligent conversation about petroleum. I also come from the country which is the biggest polluter in the world per capita…I might just have an opinion. With all of that said, I still get the same line: “Petroleo es malo.” I do not feel particularly enlightened after someone says that to me.


Working in your first language
Today I had an interesting experience translating something Spanish into English. This experience was a combination of having the difficulties of working in two language AND having people think you are stupid.

To keep it short, I basically had an argument with someone who is a native Spanish speaker (and NOT bilingual in English). He was trying to convince me that something I had written was grammatically incorrect. I spent about half an hour explaining to him why I was right and he was wrong, and never once did I use the excuse “I don´t know, it just sounds right”—which we all know is a cop-out. He was still not convinced.

The conversation ended when he told me that “you can’t do that in castellano (Spanish).” I told him “Well, it is a different language.”

But in my head I thought “Well DUH! It’s a different language.”

white food: part 2

There is more white food. When you think they can no longer sneak it in your meal…it is there.

Let us recap what is NOT white: the salad and the meat. Today I was fortunate to have these parts of my meal whitened.

Usually my salad does not have a dressing, but today it did. After thinking long and hard I think that I figured out all of the ingredients in my salad dressing. It was only mayonnaise. My peas and corn were covered in mayonnaise.

Next the meat. The meat was served “apanado” which means covered in pan, which means covered in bread. My protein was covered in white carbohydrates. And then fried.

To top it off…they laugh at what I eat. They said that they ever had a meal with me they would have to bring pills to calm their stomachs. This is where I would probably tell them to suck it up because I ate:
-Soup with pasta and potatoes
-Main dish of rice, potatoes, peas and corn with mayonnaise, breaded and fried meat
-watered down orange juice with lots of sugar

And I am fine. If you ask me, there are a couple people who could use some cultural sensitivity training.

maryam´s condor count: 5

That is over 10% of the condors in Ecuador. There are less than 60 condors in Ecuador, including those in captivity. There are 3 in El Parque Condor that have been either rescued or donated (the park is a rescue centre for birds of prey), and I have seen two in the wild: a male and a female. But this post is not really about condors.

Love affairs in the work place can be a bad idea, but that is not even the reason I avoided hitting on the other intern. I avoided it because I wasn’t interested in him.

He is a cool guy and we share a lot of interests. That is why I didn’t hesitate to say yes when he invited me to go hiking along the crater of Cuicocha. Things were going really well: good company, good conversation, good hike, good weather, and great scenery. I started getting antsy, however, when we stopped to look at the view and he told me he really liked my company. I told him I liked his company too, mostly out of politeness—not because I don’t actually like his company, but because I never would have thought to tell him explicitly. He followed this up by saying “mucho” with a lot more conviction than I would typically prefer. I responded with a very awkward “thanks” and I turned the other way. I felt really awkward and decided to look the other direction hoping that something would help break the silence. After a few minutes of silence and playing with any piece of vegetation I could find, my wish had been granted and meters away from us flew a Black-Chested Buzzard-Eagle (guarro is the local name…or águila pechinegra). “Mira un guarro,” he said. Yay! A guarro. That is exactly what I needed to break the silence (while it may not seem that way to the average person, I will remind everyone that we are both interns at a rescue centre for birds of prey…and there is a Black-Chested Buzzard Eagle at the park).

I thought I was saved…and then came the worst part: the poem. Oh the poem…

“Can I read you a poem?” he asks, and I, thinking that he is just going to read any random poem out of the book, say “sure.” MARYAM YOU SHOULD ALWAYS THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK! The correct answer is “No, I would like to enjoy the scenery in silence.” As soon as I said “sure” (the silly four-letter word still haunts me) I realized that he wasn’t going to read any odd poem in the book. The situation just seemed so contrived: We were near the end of our hike, looking at beautiful scenery, and next… “Can I read you a poem?”

COME ON! Why do Latinos have to be such romantics.

Before he began to read he said “I hope you understand it.” I definitely understood the part that went like this:

Every time you walk into the room

And I know that I am not with you

It is like a blow to the head…

This was definitely a barf moment! BARF BARF BARF! And if I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I was wrong. “That was nice,” I said awkwardly (you would think I didn’t know any other state of being) as I looked the other way…again! Eye contact…I had to avoid all eye contact. Eye contact is the look of love. A look I am not prepared to be gracing other unsuspecting interns with…wait a minute…I was the unsuspecting intern. I was the prey. I felt really uncomfortable. I was in the midst of silence again. I needed something to break the silence…again. My wishes of silence-breaking were already granted. I did not believe that there was any possibility of them being granted again. Miraculously, they were. This time by an Andean Condor flying no more than 20 meters away from us. A CONDOR! Imagine! “A CONDOR!” I yelled.

I love birds of prey.

I believed that his was my saving grace. A condor had been sent from mother earth to save me from my awkward situation. It had been sent to tell me not to worry; to tell me that someone was looking out for me…or so I thought.

The condor created as much excitement in my friend as it did me: “Omigosh (the Spanish version), a condor! I come here all the time and I never see a condor. I am so lucky! You brought so much luck! You are so lucky. How lucky I am to be here with you…” and he went on as I continued to gawk at the condor and amaze myself at how close it was flying to us.

Then came the worst part.

He scooted over towards me and said “hold me.”

HOLD ME? Who says that? And it was such a desperate “Hold me.” Why so desperate? Why so awkward? Why are you touching me? WHY ARE YOU SO UNNECESSARILY HUGGING ME?

I was frantic. I didn’t want to hold anyone. “Get out your camera! Take a foto! Take a video.” I insisted. He loosened his grip and started taking a video of the condor. I calmed down as he let go of me.

I invite you all to check out the video of the condor on facebook.

End of story.

Condor count: 5

Weeks in Ecuador: 5

Time (in seconds) I have to wait before I cringe from a love poem and “hold me”: 5

…please excuse me.

white food. it is white.

I have gotten very into “comida típica” in Ecuador. Comida típica, or typical food, is advertised anywhere that isn´t full of gringos as well as places that are full of gringos—which poses the question, “where is it not advertised?” (Or as an Ecudorean would ask ¿Where is it not advertised?) The answer is nowhere. I know what you are now thinking….a double negative and a pointless paragraph. Well if you made it this far, you might as well keep going. J

Typical Ecuadorean food for me is a typical Ecuadorean lunch. Lunch is the biggest meal of the day in Ecuador (like in Iran…it is pretty much in my blood to love big lunches). It often consists of a soup, a main dish, desert, and juice (sopa, entrada, postre, y jugo…pretty unnecessary to translate, but I am still getting used to typing in english again).

Sopa
OMG. The soup is awesome. I love soup. There are so many different kinds of soup, but surprisingly (not so surprisingly) potatoes will always find their way into the dish. Unfortunately, lately I have been having a lot of warm…NOT HOT…but warm soups. It is especially bothersome when it is actually pretty cold outside (at my current placement we often eat lunch outside).

Entrada
At my other placement I have been eating a lot of vegetarian food. Vegetarian food is by no means típica. An entrada típica includes a little piece of meat (for you Canadians it is probably the proper size of meat as recommended in the Canadian Food Guide J), about 50-60% white rice, potatoes, and some salad. The salad component of the dish has between 1 and 3 different kinds of veggies and no dressing. The overall breakdown of your plate is most commonly 10% meat (protein), 10 vegetables (vegetables), 25% potatoes (starchy carbs), and 55% rice (carbs). You may often get some ají or hot sauce to add some flavour to your dish. If you do not get that, your dish will definitely have the typical spice of a typical meal. In Canada we call it salt.

Postre
This often does not exist. The times I have gotten a postre it was either fruit, sometimes fresh but often canned, or ritz crackers with jam.

Jugo
MMMmm. The juice is awesome. It is always made with fresh fruit, water, and about as much white sugar as fruit. Yikes. Just add it to your plate of salt, potatoes, and rice.

Bon apetit….¡Provecho!

new bestfriend!!

so i have a new best friend. My cabaña-mate. He lives in my cabaña with me and he is this 19 year old dude from France. He studies agro-engineering and has to do a 5 month placement. He is doing it in the cloud forest with me. He is a pretty wicked guy and is obsessed with african, carribean, and rastafarian culture. I have met some of his rastafarian friends in Quito and we spent the day playing soccer in the streets. It was super bacán (cool).

He has a very thick french accent when he speaks Spanish, and some of he twists some of his words around but i don´t have the heart to correct him. The best part about his speaking spanish is that he calls his girlfriend his enamorada, which translates directly into lover. Once i dared ask him about his novia (girlfriend) and he gave me a really strange look. I was not sure if he didn´t know the word for girlfriend or if he was truly insulted that i called his lover his girlfriend.

I guess in the english language people my age often use "lover" with a bit of tongue-and-cheek as if the person is a sexi love affair. "i spent the night with my lover," or "i have an italian lover." I find those kinds of phrases a lot more common than, "Yes, my lover is also an agro-engineer" or "My parents think my lover is a wonderful girl." The latter frases have a lot less tongue and a lot less cheek. It is as if you are labeling your relationship with someone as merely a love affair, which could be fun if it didn´t come with all the responsibilities of a parner.

I think i need to be more open to different uses of the english language. Lovers with commitment.

Obnoxious Backpacker Profile #5

The feature of this post is Mr. Cool, 41-year-old Californian who was married and in the army. Not that being divorced or being in the army is a bad thing...but this guy was quite a character.

Defining characteristics:
1. Honduran background originally, but very little trace of it in his behaviour. He wears a baseball cap, sunglasses, and shorts...a combination you would never see on a latin man. I am surprised he doesn´t have a hawaiin shirt. He has a very stereotypical US accent and is unnecessarily loud.

2. He says "fucking" as if it is an adjective that adds meaning to what he is describing. Such frases include: "It was a fucking friday, you know?" and "I´m gonna order another fucking cuba libre." If we are on the topic of profanity, I might as well clarify that the second statement was actually, "I´m gonna order another fucking cuba libre or some shit." He gave me a very dry look when I informed him that "some shit" wasn´t actually inluded on the happy hour menu.

3. You could tell that he had been in the army and was trying to be cool and ease his way into society (some would say that the best way to do that is NOT to go to South America and hang out with backpackers...but to each their own).

Funny story to which I received another dry look:
I was at a hookah bar with my friend Julie, this British dude, and Mr. Cool. We got onto the topic of weight because we were discussing how in the UK they often measure weight in stones (1 stone=14 pounds THIS IS EXACTLY WHY THE IMPERIAL SYSTEM IS RIDICULOUS!!). The Brit and Mr. Cool are about the same height, but the Brit is substantially less stones than Mr. Cool. To this Mr. Cool says, "Well, you are only 23." To this I say (in my deep sergeant voice) "YAH! So grow up and gain some weight SOOUULLL-DJERR!"

This is when i got the stern look.

creepy crawlies...and touching them

i am grossed out by things:

1. I thought I had a spur on my hat, so I decided to pull it off. The spur had wings. The winged spur was not a spur but a bug. I chucked the bug and said "AGH!"

I should have never looked at the spur

2. Boots in a forest are stored upside-down for a reason. I often wear the boots when I am helping build the cabaña. As a result, there is sometimes cement in the boots the next day. I put my foot in the boot and felt what I thought was cement at the toe. I turned the boot upside down (with a tilt) so that the ´cement´at the toe would fall out. Out came a frog. I stared at it in shock. It was either:
a) alive and also looking at me in shock. i think it was alive because 10 minutes later it was gone from the site at which it was staring at me.
b) dead and eaten by a bird.

3. I have never seen some of these kinds of bugs. One looked like a spider with 20 (at least) legs.

4. I am being eaten alive.


I also saw my first live, not-caged snake.

cool.

where i live (not a post of comedy)

This post is less about the comedy and more about where I am actually living. http://www.mindocloudforest.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=1&Itemid=31 I live on the second floor of the cabaña in the photo found in this link. I have a bug net with many holes in it. I have sewed one up so far. I thought i would never use up that pink thread...who knew?

The guy with the binoculares is the caretaker. His name is Luis, he is 29 and super cool. He has a wife, Hermania, and a son, Daniel. Such a lovely family. Hermania cooks all the meals which are mostly vegetarian. Which I am so stoked about, except I could probably do with less carbs. I am wondering if I will always be mega stoked on yucca, rice, potatoes, and corn. Luis is awesome. Very animated and talkative. Hermania is super lovely, such a sweet heart. Daniel....he is 5. How can a 5 year old not be wicked? come on!

Anyways, it is pretty cool. This is my first placement: I work in a small community called Milpe which pretty much no one has heard of...but it is close to a town that some people have heard of. :) It is a bird sanctuary and I can bird watch anytime I want. I can go for a hike pretty much any day. It is pretty lovely. I ate fresh strawberries today. Soo delicious. There are also banana (or banano as they are called here) trees and coffee trees. Mega chevere (cool). I fall asleep to the sounds of owls and insects, and the occasional moth which zaps itself on a light. I wake up to either the sun, song birds, or a hummingbird which flies ferociously into my window. Once I heard a big ´thunk´on the window followed by a splat...i hope the hummingbird was okay. Sometimes they like to flutter really close to my head when I am reading. It is quite an art to stand still near the heavy flutter and sharp beak of a hummingbird.

There is also a French volunteer, who i have yet to meet; and a german girl who is working at the school nearby who may move in soon. They will be my new friens. other than that, there are a lot of birders who come in and out. All is good. Love

next post...insects!!

traveller´s dilemma

(i may be spelling dilemma wrong...but i dont care...the only spell check on this computer is spanish)

Traveller´s dilemma # 1:

a) you want to be nice to other traveller´s because you have a common bond in being a gringo
b) you stop trusting other gringos because they steal your ipod charger after you let them borrow it

story:
I let some dude borrow my ipod charger (well...it is technically my mom´s, so he stole my mom´s ipof charger). He took forever using it so i told him to leave it at the front desk at the hostel for when i return. No charger. ¡Qué puta es!

Traveller´s dilemma #2:

a) you want to hear about other people´s travels and the places they have been because you can instantly find a common bond
b) some people love hearing themselves talk and after a while, you never want to talk about Ecuadorean travel destinations!

story:
1. i walked into my dorm room to go to bed and this one guy was just about to go to bed. he saw that i was awake (clearly because i was walking) and decided to talk and talk and talk about his travells, his adventures hitch-hiking, how great and down-to-earth he is, and blah blah blah. i must be quite a conversationalist if i kept him talking with successive uh-huhs. Finally he shut up when a spanish girl came in and said "buenas noches" with a shut-the-eff up tone.
2. i spent about three hours in one room listening to more "i am so down-to-earth and experienced"-travel stories. The british girl got about an hour and the american guy about two. I am really glad i had a book. To be honest, i wasn´t listening so much as i was in the room looking up from my book between chapters and acting like a bobble head.

i have been in ecuador a week, and i have already found a third of the traveller´s cocky and obnoxious, a third kind of weird and awkward, and i am pretty indifferent towards the rest. There have been about 5 who were really cool. my ratios are not so good.

Traveller´s dilemma #3:

a) being a traveller
b) everyone hate´s travellers

from A to B

Directions are difficult to follow. They are even more difficult to follow when you do not follow them. We decided to go to this hiking town with this American guy (actually we told this guy we would go with him to the hiking town even though he did not invite us), so our next step was to get there.



We took a cab to the train station in the south of Quito (which reminded me sooo much of La Paz). Apparently the south part of Quito is the poor part of Quito and gringos should not go there. I probably should not have been in La Paz at all then. hmm



So we arrive at the train station and the American, lets call him Ken, says we are supposed to get a bus going South (according to the instructions he was given).

"Which town are we going to?" I asked.

"Uh...michincha i think" So I went around to all the buses that would be heading south of Quito (buses to Riobamba, Baños, etc.) and asked them if they stopped in Michincha. None of them had heard of this place. Finally, I asked to see the instructions that Ken was given. We were not going to Michincha... we were going to Machachi.



So we began looking for a bus to Machachi. Sonja and I basically dragged this American guy (who did not speak Spanish) all over the Quito without telling him what we were doing. We were following the directions that people gave us...but he did not understand a word. We ended up taking a bus to another bus station (which took about 20 minutes because it drove through every street in southern Quito) and then a bus to Machachi which also went through ever street in southern Quito...AGAIN!

I learned pretty quickly that it is very difficult to ask Ecuadoreans for directions...to a bus. Busses do not alwasy stop at bus stops or bus stations. They will often stop in the middle of a street or a middle of a roundabout. ANYWHERE. Because of this, everyone would point in a general direction and say "over there." We would walk about 10 steps in the "there" direction and ask someone else who would proceed to point us in another direction.


On the bus to Machachi we realised that we should have just gone back to all the buses heading south and asked them if they stopped in Machachi...the town that actually existed. They would have then gone south and dropped us off at Machachi. We could have taken only one bus which would have gone directly to Machachi. That option, on the other hand, would not have given us a tour of south Quito.

at the equator!! well..no...but really really close..promise!

so i am in quito! not far from the equator ..i think it is about a half an hour drive. but that really isn´t important. anyways, i am going to talk about some things that are very different in equator.

1. there are never any hooks for your backpack in any of the bathroom stalls. never! people probably always put their stuff on the ground. its not like people pee on the ground, but still--bathroom floors are not typically sanitary surfaces.

2. people hiss at you less here than they do in bolivia. they still stare (this girl punched her boyfriend because he was checking me out..that was pretty funny), but they do not hiss.


And those are all the differences. well not really, but those are the fun ones to mention. :)

People here are pretty nice...except for the lady who sold me my phone card. Sh sold me a phone card (which i paid for) and then sold me a new sim-card (or chip as they call it here) and as i was paying for my chip, she claimed that i had not paid her for the phone card. ¡PUTA! it was actually pretty upsetting because i didnt really have any money for the rest of the day, and i was pretty hung over and i wanted a churro.

and why did i not have money? because that "universal" PLUS symbol on my debit cards (denoting which bank machines you can get money from without being charged) is not so universal. apparently only one bank in quito accepts my card. And that bank had problems with their bank machine today. awesome!!

but i dont want this post to get too long, so i will stop it now. stop!

how being polite could turn into a date

jess had her boy toy over last night. i figured it would be polite for me to get to know this guy, learn about him, and have a conversation about him. naturally we got to a point in the conversation about his brother. i asked what his brother's name was and if he was older and younger to which trever responded, "it sounds like you are pretty interested." of course i am interested, i like knowing about people's family.

"would you take him to a movie?"
"okay" Okay? Who answers "okay" to a question like that. i must also add that i am really awkward when responding. awkward awkward awkward awkward. did i mention that i was awkward?
"he would really like you"
"okay" Again...who says "okay"?

in my head i am asking myself if i would like him?

this conversation was followed by us trying to convince trevor to drive us somewhere exciting in Nova Scotia. Jess and I love adventure. This dude does not like camping and apparently he showers about four times a day. I LOVE camping and i am lucky if i shower 4 times a WEEK. He chuckled when i said this but i was definatley NOT joking. so...if his brother is anything like him, i could go on a date with someone who hates being outside. which is perfect for me because i probably won't have to end up spend too much time with him because he hates being outside and i hate being inside.

all our dates will be in a doorway/front step...the most tense part of any date

tomatoes....gotta get your lycopene

So, i have some beef with the tomato industry (mind the pun...i love puns). I was especially troubled when i lived in southern ontario for the past 5 years. for the majority of the year, tomatoes come from mexico...but when it is tomato season in ontario, you are blessed with the glorious ability to buy local tomatoes :). Unfortunately, what most ontarians do not know is that most tomatoes in ontario are grown in giant farms, with lots of pesticides, and by MEXICAN farmers. SOO if your tomato is not from mexico, there is a good chance that the farmer is. These Mexican farmers (or migrant workers as they are more accurately called because they are often not given the honour of being treated like a farmer...you know...with rights!) are living in very poor conditions, in small houses, are not allowed to unionize, and are not given proper health care but are sent into fields with no protection against harmful pesticides, etc. :(

on my flight back to halifax, i saw an unusually large group of Mexican men who were clearly not taking part in a scenic sight-seeing tour of Canada. it didnt take me long to realize that they were probably a group of migrant workers. yikes! Very weird to experience. At the Halifax Airport they were met by some old guy. I know i am assumption-city right now...but i am assuming that they are all mexican migrant workers who are going to work very hard in Nova Scotian farms for minimum wage. Oh the shame to labour rights!!

To top of this tomato dilemma that i have, the other day I went to the beach with some of Hanka friends. For the most part they all seemed pretty nice...you know, the typical Haligonian Hippy :). I'm hoping that I can find something in common with these folks. Then near the end of our beach-filled afternoon, one of the guys began talking about his friend who moved to Ontario and was growing tomatoes and making millions.
"In Leamington?"
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
"It's the tomato capital of Ontario"
"Yeah, he is making tomatoes for Heinz"
"REALLY! Is he working with Mexican farmers?" (i knew that at this point i might get all human rights on his ass...)
"Yeah, he is learning spanish to speak with his farmers"
"You know they mostly live in poor conditions"
"Well he gives them a house..." This conversation was going nowhere. Actually, it was getting closer to that place in my head where i scream "YOUR FRIEND IS MAKING MILLIONS BECAUSE HE IS EXPLOITING FOREIGN LABOUR"

anyways....he was making millions and that was what matters. not all farm owners treat their farmers poorly, but come on.....a Heinz tomato farmer.

ugh...i had to rant

don't forget your bra

this is a quick little story of glory :):)

i used to live in kingston, a town of about 150,000 or something people between ottawa and toronto (right on lake ontario), and it is actually kind of nice. i probably never would have said that in my five years living there.

anyways, leaving the city was a difficult and arduous process. i had to pack up and move out of my house (and i only had one arm to help me do this because i was still recovering from shoulder surgery) and squat at a friend, tim's house before i actually left the city. it was busy and hectic but the least of my worries at the time.

anywayyyyss...in all the mess of leaving town, i forgot a lot of things at tim's. many of which i didnt realize that i had left there. i arrived back in vancouver and noticed that i had left my vest and my towel at tim's. alas...both things i can live without i guess. as my time in vancouver passed, i noticed more and more things that i had 'misplaced.' it never occured to me that these things would be at tim's.

while i was in vancouver being flakey...

Tim: Hey Alex (his girlfriend), i put some of the stuff you left here (his house) in that box.
Alex: Sweet.
Tim: Oh, and your bra is over there.
Alex: That's not my bra.

I like Kingston.

newfoundland

NL is great! It is so beautiful and the people are so nice. Newfies also have a really cool island mentality which I really dig. It is such a hidden gem in Canada. It is also effin cold!! I was wearing my toque in the end of June. And it wasn't a dinky-ass toque...it was hard core (fleece lined, ear flaps... the works!)

we also saw puffins and moose. apparently i screemed (not high pitch..but a surprise screem) when we saw the moose. i dont remember though.

what the popo don't know....

For those of you who are unaware, I moved to Halifax. Didn't think it would happen, but it did. When I arrived in Halifax, I was immediately informed that I would be going to Newfoundland for a week for "work." Road trip styles...


For those of you who are unaware, St. John's is on an island. This meant that on top of a 7 hours in the car, we also needed to take a 17 hour ferry ride. 3. st. john's is effin far! St. John's is very far.



anyways...this story begins in halifax, nova scotia (NS)



two of my friends, Em and Lacey, pick me up in the van. i walk to the back of the van to put my things in and-- "stop! you can't open the trunk!" Em yelled.

"what? why?"

"i dont know...its weird or broken or something. Martin (our friend who had let us borrow his van) told us not to." Alright...



i hop in the back and we drive off to pick up our fourth passenger, Hunka. As we are driving, I notice it is unusually bumpy. "Hey maryam, there is no suspension in the back." That explained a little...or a lot if you are looking for a reason for the immediate nausea.



We arrive at Hunka's house and she says she has the company creditcard. "do we need to fill up on gas?" she asks.

"nope. we are good. we have half a tank. we can't fill it more than half a tank or else it will leak."

Rules of the van:

1. Do not open the trunk

2. Do not fill the tank more than half fill

3. Race to sit in one of the front seats.

Sooo...the road trip is going well. We did not have the typical need-to-go-pee-inconveniently stories since we had to stop so frequently to fill up the gas tank. there was a gas station just before the causeway between mainland Nova Scotia and Cape Breton, so we filled up (well...half-filled up...) and were on our way. about 20 minutes into cape breton we see a cop car driving in the oncoming traffic. no biggy...we were not speeding. strangely, the cop car turns around on the highway and begins to follow us along with another cop car. they are signalling us to pull over. "i was going BELOW the speed limit..." says hunka. the cop came over to hunka and asks to see her at the back of the van. Once at the back of the van we hear, "did you ladies stop to get gas?"



This is when Lacey realizes and exclaims to em and i: "WE FORGOT TO PAY FOR GAS!" Simultaneously, as if out of a cartoon, we all put our hands on our heads as if trying to keep in what little brain cells we have left: "oh mi godddd!!!!" followed by em's comment, "we are four silly bimbos." we are four silly bimbos.



So hunka walks back to the window to talk to us..."so guys, we didnt pay for our gas . . . and apparently our license plates have expired over a year ago." WHAT?! we just stole gas and we are driving an unregistered vehicle? It turns out we actually stole gas and the license plates are not registered and we don't have the registration in the vehicle and we don't have insurance on the vehicle and we don't have proof of ownership and we don't even know who legally owns the van.



the cops also informed us that it is a 1500$ fine to drive an unregistered vehicle. We got pulled over in a car with no registration, no insurance, no proof of ownership...all because WE STOLE GAS! now, i am an environmentalist, but stealing gas isn't really my form of protest.

We called the gas station and paid for the gas with our credit card. Then the cops were going to get us towed to the nearest city where we could rent a car. The car rental places would open in the morning at 8am--the same time as our ferry. After much deliberation with the cops they said "We are going to drive that way (pointing in the opposite direction of the ferry), you ladies can decide what you want to do. But you should decide what you want to do once we pass that hill." They then drove off.

And so did we.

Clean record