Because I Feel Like Writing About Spanish

Week 2
I was going to write about La Playita today. I think I'll break my once-a-week posting schedule and write about it in the middle of the week, because I really want to write about La Playita. But today I want to write about Spanish.

Yellow-Crowned Night-Heron at Salango

Ever read “Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris? You should. Here's a link. Go ahead and read it right now. I'll wait.

Done? Pretty good, right? I first read it a few years ago in one of those anthologies you spend fifty bucks on for an English class but only read two stories out of. (I like to read, so I read all of them. Yes, all of them. Yes, I know I'm a geek.) I filed it away under “random stories about France” and then mostly forgot about it. I never really thought of it the context of “stories about learning a foreign language” until I came to Ecuador.

A street in Montañita

“Me Talk Pretty One Day” is what this blog post would look like if I were as good a writer as Sedaris. Everything I could possibly say about my experiences with Spanish he has already said (in far better prose than I could ever manage) about his experiences with French. It's true that I have yet to meet anyone (in Puerto Lopez) as sadistic as his French teacher, and my Spanish classes are one-on-one, but the other elements are still there: feeling intimidated by more-skilled speakers; trying to ghjfksdz conversations when I can only apkfam half of the wopmbas; and fear of using my broken, stilted, pathetic Spanish in public. Indeed, there have been times when I've walked past the meat market and thought, I would love a cut of meat right now. Too bad I don't speak enough Spanish to buy one. Why don't they just sell it in vending machines? But unlike Sedaris, I can't take comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone. Drew claims his Spanish is “broken”, but compared to me he's a native speaker. I'm sure there are people in Puerto Lopez who speak Spanish as badly as I do—but I haven't met them yet.

Me, Drew & Elisa near Salaite (photo by Rachele)

Here in the Costa region of Ecuador people talk with a strong accent, and they talk fast. Seis dólares (six dollars) becomes sei dólare, pescadores (fishermen) becomes pecadore, and Ecuador becomes Ehuador. In this sea of dropped esses and aspirated cees even Drew flounders—and I just drown.

And like the fat girl who knows how to swim but is too self-conscious to put on her swimsuit and get in the water, I keep my mouth shut—or use English—even when I know the Spanish words I want to use. In my head I can hear phrases—Sí, quiero ir a almuerzo ahora (Yes, I would like to go to lunch now)—and they're right: right grammar, right accent, right everything. Yet somehow the language gets mislaid between my head and my mouth and when I try to speak I forget words or mangle them into incomprehensability.

Turtle I rescued at Salango

Still, progress is being made. The other day Drew, San Antonio and I took Bruco for a walk down to the beach. A woman came up to us and started talking to us in Spanish. Mostly I heard, “Hola, ghdfisop buscar ahifgs fdhsalle un poco fhfiodsz pequeña gfsdla?”

But as I listened closely (and believe me, listening closely is incredibly exhausting) I found I could understand the gist of the conversation, and by the time she walked away I was elated. I knew that she was looking for her lost dog, and that it looked a lot like Bruco but was female and a little smaller. I had actually understood what she was saying!

I'm still a long way from really understanding Spanish, and even further from speaking it, but it's only been two weeks and I'm already getting better. So I say: bring on the Spanish! Más, por favor, más.

Better Late Than Never, Right?

Week 1
This morning I woke to the sound of rain and, half-asleep, thought I was back home. In more than a week here in Ecuador this is the first time it's rained, though it's supposed to be the rainy season, and I suppose I somehow thought the rain would never come. The weather was so constant from day to day that change seemed impossible.

Change, of course, is never impossible, and the rain is here. It must have gone on all night long because an enormous puddle formed in front of the front gate, so large you can't jump it but have to wade. The roof over my bedroom also sprang a rather sizable leak, though thankfully it missed both my bed and my suitcase, which is lying on the floor because I have still yet to unpack it.

The past week has been full of small inconveniences like leaks and puddles, and a few major inconveniences as well, but it has also been full of beautiful beaches, great food, and new friends.

Monday started off badly, much to my dismay. I met the other volunteers—Drew, whom I already new from the States, San Antonio, Elise, and Rachele. They all spoke at least a little English, but aside from Drew none of them spoke it as their first language. I was the only one there, volunteer or employee, who couldn't speak Spanish.

Rachele and

Patacón

If you have ever been in a situation like this, you know how lonely, how frustrating it is. If you haven't... I don't think any description can do it justice. During the volunteer orientation, during lunch, during discussions of what we were going to do next... all I could do was sit there and listen as hard as I could, hoping I would pick up enough to understand what was going on, while everyone else ignored me, assuming (correctly) that there was nothing I could add to the conversation. I hope this doesn't sound like bragging, but I am a very intelligent person. I am used to being one of the smarter people in any given room, but here I was—and still am—constantly five steps behind everyone else. Feeling stupid and useless is an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation for me.

After orientation and lunch there was absolutely nothing to do until evening, when we were supposed to go to La Playita, an important turtle nesting beach, and patrol for nesting turtles. I went upstairs and laid down on my bed. It was miserably hot and humid upstairs, and even more miserable in my room, and most miserable of all on my bed, inside the mosquito netting, but I felt miserable so it suited me. I didn't know what else to do with myself. I couldn't hang out with any of the other volunteers, because I couldn't understand what they were saying; I couldn't go out into the town because I couldn't understand what anyone was saying and we weren't supposed to go out alone anyway; and I couldn't help around the house because I couldn't understand what anyone was saying.

I never expected to enjoy this internship. That may sound a little strange, but I went into this knowing I was an introvert and a poor traveler and no good at Spanish. I expected I would be challenged, learn a lot, and occasionally have fun, but not to enjoy myself. But this—this was impossible. I was staring at three months of lonely, friendless, boring misery. I seriously considered going home. I told myself I would give it a week, and if things didn't get any better I would hop on a bus to Quito and take a plane back to the States.

I felt better after reaching that decision. On the one hand, the thought of giving up made me feel terrible, but on the other hand, the thought of three months of this was unbearable. One week was a compromise, a survivable amount of time. 

The view from the balcony

My real hope was that, even if things weren't better after a week, I could convince myself into staying just one week more, and then just one week after that, and so trick myself into finishing the entire internship.

Everything changed when we went to La Playita. Drew, Elise, Luis and myself climbed into the bed of a pickup truck with a couple of tents and an overnight bag apiece. We rode like that, standing up in the back of the truck, north out of town. I'd never ridden like that before—I'm pretty sure it's illegal in the States—and it was wonderful, amazing, exhilarating. That was the moment when I knew I would stay in Ecuador. It was like someone had flipped a switch. I was so ridiculously happy I knew I could make things work, if only for moments like these.

I'll save any more talk about La Playita for another week, since I could write an entire post about the beach, but it completely cemented my decision to stay. It didn't take a week for things to get better, it only took a few hours. The language barrier definitely makes things difficult, but not impossible. Already I'm getting better at understanding what people are saying, and I'm taking Spanish lessons to help things along. And it turns out that a language barrier is absolutely no barrier to friendship.

There are moments when I really wish I was home, or when I really crave a glass of milk (impossible to find here) or just want a hot shower (also impossible to find), and in those moments I'm... well, I'm not miserable, but I'm certainly unhappy. But there are also moments when I'm walking along a beach, or lounging in a hammock on the balcony, or eating some incredible soup, when I'm blissfully happy and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. There are more moments like the latter than the former, so as far as I'm concerned, Life's Good.

In Which I (Literally) Don't Know Where My Towel Is

Week 0
“No plan of battle survives first contact with the enemy.” - Helmuth von Moltke

I've been on the road for five days now, and the greatest lesson I've learned is the important of patience and flexibility. As a traveler you can make airtight plans on paper, but they're sure to spring a leak as soon as you step out your front door. Speaking of which...

“It's a dangerous business, going out your front door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.” - J.R.R. Tolkien

The plane from Hell

There have been a lot of leaks—and casualties—so far. Things went wrong early when my flight from Miami was unable to land in Quito due to poor weather conditions. After circling Quito for half an hour, we flew to Guayaquil (a 30-minute flight) to refuel (another half an hour) flew back to Quito, circled for half an hour more waiting for a break in the fog, and then flew back to Guayaquil. By the time we landed in Guayaquil everyone on that plane was frothing at the mouth and ready to lynch the pilot; even the stewards were pissed. The kind of heart might say, “better to be diverted and delayed than dead,” but we learned later that we were almost the only flight to not land in Quito that night. Everyone agreed that, even if it really wasn't safe to land (and the pilot wasn't just being a sissy) we should have just stayed in Guayquil the first time.

The airline put us up in hotels, which was both nice and only right, but meant we had to stand in line for another hour or so waiting for vouchers, and then for a shuttle to pick us up. I made friends with a group of Jehovah's Witness missionaries who were sitting next to me on the plane, and we stuck together during the ordeal, which was good because I don't think I could have survived on my own. Samantha, the woman leading the missionary trip, was an absolute pillar of strength. There was a point, while waiting in line in the Guayaquil airport, when I was so tired and so hungry and so upset that I wanted to just collapse on the floor, cry for a little while, and then pass out. If it wasn't for Samantha, Cassandra and the others I think I would have. I know the four of you will never read this, but thank you.

Amazing bed

On the bright side, I wound up in the Hilton, which is probably the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in. I shot off a quick email to let my mother know I wasn't dead (in retrospect, the email sounded slightly hysterical, which I put down to lack of sleep) and passed on the bed. It was a very nice bed, though I can't say I was in any state to appreciate it.

Because Puerto Lopez is a 4-hour bus ride from Guayaquil and a 10-hour bus ride from Quito I tried to get my hands on my checked luggage (still safely in the hold of airplane) so I could go straight from Guayaquil to Puerto Lopez. After an enormous amount of stress, a couple of expensive taxi rides, and a lot of fumbling in Spanish, I found the right place—but discovered that I was two hours too late and everyone had already left for the day. I went back to the Hilton and burst into tears. I'd gotten so set on this new plan, which was faster and cheaper and more comfortable—and had the added advantage of another free night in the Hilton—that I just couldn't handle the disappointment. I was angry with airline for putting me Guayaquil in the first place and I was angry with the airline reps for not keeping normal, sane, American hours, but mostly I was angry with myself for not going to the airport earlier. There's nothing worse than having no one to blame but yourself.

So I flew back to Quito with the rest of the passengers Friday night. Miracle of miracles the shuttle, which was supposed the pick me up the night before, was at the airport and waiting for me. Cristina, my future boss, had made reservations for me at a hostel for Thursday and Friday. They'd cancelled my reservation when I didn't show up, but they still had an open space. I said I wasn't sure if I wanted more than one night—after the Hilton the Posada de Maple seemed uncomfortable and dodgy—and crashed on a bunkbed in my dorm.

Amazing shower

After a good night's sleep and a truly amazing shower put things in perspective, I decided I wanted to stay a second night after all. Unfortunately, the open slot had disappeared sometime during the night, so I had to pack up all my stuff (forgetting my towel in the process) and take a taxi to a different hotel. After that difficult Spanish conversation, I spent a few minutes looking out over the Posada's courtyard honestly wondering what I was doing. I'd had second thoughts before, but they were mostly just really loud nerves. This was my first real moment of doubt as I wondered what I thought I could do here in Ecuador when I could barely understand the language. It was not a pleasant question, I can't say I've answered it.

“Courage isn't having the strength to go on—it's going on when you don't have strength.” - Napolean Bonaparte

I picked the hostel “Secret Garden” out my Lonely Planet guide, which was something of a mistake. First of all, the cabby couldn't find it for ages, and kept the meter running the whole time he was circling and idling, so I paid $7 for what should have been a $2 ride. Then, it turns out the Secret Garden has five floors, and the reception desk is at the very top. Who does that? Those were the steepest, tallest stairs I have ever seen in my life. The Secret Garden wasn't bad, but the Posada was better and cheaper, too.

So Saturday was spent buying my bus ticket and buying food for the trip. The closest grocery store was probably a couple miles away, but by that point I was sick of taxis so I walked. It was fun exploring Quito's New Town on foot, but I got a couple blisters and had the uncomfortable experience of being the only gringa within a 1-mile radius. I learned that Ecuadorian grocery stores carry Nutella but not peanut butter, and that they drive their grocery carts the same way they drive their cars—which is to say, like absolute lunatics.

View from the Quitumbe bus terminal

This morning I took a taxi bright and early to the bus terminal. I settled in to wait—I'd got there early on purpose—and waited... and waited... and waited. Finally, about 10 minutes after my bus should have left, a man came and started rounding up passengers waiting close to me and directing them off somewhere else. With some limited Spanish and the visual aid of my ticket we managed to tell each other that I was trying to Puerto Lopez but that the bus I had purchased a ticket for wasn't coming. He made it clear that I should come with him to get to Puerto Lopez, so I grabbed my bags and followed him completely out of the bus terminal and across the street, past a gas station. Now I know this sounds crazy and dangerous, but he had a manifest with my name on it, which he could only have got from the bus company, and all the other passengers—whose destinations were presumably close to mine, since they were waiting in the same area—had done as he directed. So followed him and got on his bus and settled in for a long bus ride.

Ugly photo of beautiful scenery

Oh, Lady, was it long. At first it wasn't bad. At the higher elevations the weather was pleasantly cool and the terrain was tropical rainforest like I'd never seen before, but as we left the Sierra behind the temperature spiked and the air became wet and sticky. The towns we passed through were poor, poorer than anything I've seen in the States, poorer than anything I've even heard of in the States. Santo Domingo was especially depressing. It must have once been a much larger, more prosperous city, but at least a dozen large buildings—once hotels or apartment buildings—stood empty and decaying. It had a post-apocalyptic look, and reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Cherobyl.

Ten hours later I finally got off the damn bus in Puerto Lopez. It's probably the most prosperous town I've seen since leaving Quito, and my first impressions were good. I found Equilibrio Azul just fine, but the gate was locked and no matter how hard I pounded no one opened it. There was a very large dog just inside; he licked my hand when I reached under the gate to pet his nuzzle. He was very sweet, but didn't fetch anyone to let me in.

“A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.” - John Steinbeck

I'd lost my cell phone in Quito so I couldn't call anyone. It was getting dark, I was tired, thirsty, hungry, sticky, sweaty and smelly. I wanted a shower and a bed and somewhere to take my shoes off. Somewhat warily I consulted my not-so-trusty Lonely Planet and dragged my bags to a nearby hotel. No one was at the desk and no one showed up when I rang the bell so, I grumpily hauled myself to a different hotel I had passed on the way over.

I seem to have bad luck in picking hotels, because this was a real mistake. I'm writing this from my room right now, and I can tell you that if you come to Puerto Lopez you should not stay in the El Ruta del Sol hotel. It's ridiculously loud—street noise, TV downstairs, radio next door, dogs outside—unbelievably overpriced—$20 for a bare-bones room—and the receptionist tried to kiss me. Who does that?

After I locked myself in my room—and stuck the chair under the door—I took a shower, but I can't say it did me much good because the air conditioner doesn't work and I'm sticky again. At least I don't smell. Much.

I know that was really long, but on the bright side you're all caught up on my adventures! Tune in next Sunday for the next installment. In the meantime, you might enjoy the50 most inspiring travel quotes of all time. I sure did.

Ciao!

The Introductory Post That Should Have Come First

T-0 days

“Why should I read this blog?”

There are a lot of blogs on the 'Net, many of them far superior to this humble contribution. You may ask yourself why you should spend time reading my writing when you could be playing sudoku or knitting or even doing homework.

Actually, nevermind about the last one. It's obvious why you would do anything rather than do homework.

The answer, I suppose, is that there is no good reason, except perhaps that you know me, as a friend, as family, or as a student, and you are willing to take a little time out of your day to read the words I write. I like to think they are rather well-composed words and won't be too hard on your eyes.

And just what am I writing about? As a Fisheries and Wildlife student at Oregon State University I have to complete two internships to graduate. As luck would have it, there's an international internship program—IE3 Internships—with opportunities that fit the bill perfectly. Since I've always wanted to study abroad, I jumped at the chance to do one of my internship in another country. That's why today I am leaving for Puerto Lopez, Ecuador, where I will work with a nonprofit organization called Equilibrio Azul.

Equilibrio Azul (that's “Blue Balance” in English) is a conservation group that works in Parque Nacional Machalilla (Machalilla National Park), Ecuador's only marine reserve. Machalilla includes some of Ecuador's rare tropical dry forest—threatened by deforestation—and Isla de la Plata—“Silver Island”, named for the cache of silver Sir Francis Drake supposedly left there. Isla de la Plata is often called the “Poor Man's Galapagos”, and is where I hope to spend a lot of time working with birds.

Over the next eleven weeks, I'll be chronicling my adventures in Ecuador and my work with Equilibrio Azul. I hope you'll have as much fun reading about them as I will having them.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.