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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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…”
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.
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.
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