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.