Pobrecito

As I was sitting in the back of a car with one of the worst colds I've had in years and two chain smokers sitting in front of me this past Sunday I started to do something that I rarely do, pool the poor me card. Not just one poor me card but a couple of them. The cards went something like this,

Poor me...Spanish is hard. Not just normal hard but the really challenging, makes me feel incredibly stupid, hard. I can't even remember the freakin' verb Hacer for god's sake. And I fully know that every time someone says I speak Spanish well they are lying, LYING. I can't do this, especially whenever I try to say something beyond Como te fue or Que pasa and  people respond in English because they want to practice their English. Bullshit, pure and utter bullshit.

Which leads into one of the other poor me cards...

Poor me...what the hell am I doing in a big city like Quito? I should be in the middle of the country with pigs and chickens running around in my front AND backyard.  I guess I am not such a big city girl after all nor am I a girl that does very well in the rain. And speaking of rain, why did not one single person tell me that it pours, not cats and dogs, but rhinos and elephants e-v-e-r-y  s-i-n-g-l-e day here. It doesn't help that I only have one pair of closed toe shoes and no money to buy another. Don't even get me started on how expensive everything is in the big city and the politics that make it this way. Nor get me started on the black soot that has started to make a permanent home on my ankles from all the exhaust or the constant city noises that last until the dark hours of the night or the fact that my students tell me that I live in one of the most dangerous sectors of the city.

Oh poor f*&^#$ me...

As my car ride progressed my thoughts got worse and worse as I racked up complaint upon complaint about my current situation. Typically, during these rare occurrences, I give myself a swift kick in the ass but the optimism and creative problem solver in me must have gone on hiatus because I just could not kick the poor me cards out of my head. I almost cried and I carried my bad thoughts all the way into Monday along with the cold that was still haunting me.

Monday morning class was  uneventful and as almuerzo time  approached the black cloud  was still following me. After lunch I headed to my  extra afternoon class at Colegio Nuestra Madre de la Merced. This was to be my last class with the teachers and that had me even more down. I taught painstakingly slow because I didn't want it to end. This school, these people feel like home to me and at that point the only solution that I could find to my problem was finding a piece of home. Eventually the end of class approached and it was time to hand out certificates. As I called up the first teacher she threw herself on me and gave me a hug like I have never had before. I do cry. They cry. They take pictures with their cell phones. Each one hugs me like they were my mom. They thank me for being their teacher, for making class funny (which was really me just being self-deprecating), for being patient with them. They invite me to all their school festivals, they offer me a job, they wipe my tears. As I start to pack up one of the teachers brings me back to the front of the room, she says they have something to give me. She starts by apologizing to me that she won't be speaking in English and then proceeds to tell me how much it has meant to them to have a fellow teacher in their school. I understand it all and magically my response comes out in real, full Spanish sentences and they understand it and we hug again. She then hands me an envelope filled with money, a gift from them all for new shoes (or a bikini as one of them shouts out). I hand it back, there is no way I can accept it, teachers here make less than I do teaching summer school. They refuse and shove it back into my hands. I know I can not win against this bunch. As I head out the door they make me promise to come back and I promise I will. And of course I will, how could I not, they gave me my smile back. They kicked my ass for me.

And oh yes, I did get new shoes but not from the money they gave me. That money will end up in the hands of another soul who actually has real problems, not ones made up by a self-absorbed emotional chick stuck behind chain smokers, with a cold, in the back of a car for four hours.

A Hair Tingling Experience

Originally I was invited by the Orellanas (Clara’s family – the Branham High exchange student from last year) to meet a Shaman this weekend. I was overly excited and obnoxiously telling everyone that would listen about my plans. In true Ecuadorian fashion plans fell through (it will be another month before I get to meet her) and I had to eat a little bit of crow. With my new found free time I knew I wanted to do two things, get out of the hustle and bustle of the city and be outside. The perfect opportunity arose when two of my friends said they were ready to tackle Rucu Pichincha, the same 15,500 foot mountain I climbed about a month ago. Now these two girls are not the hiking type nor are they the resourceful type and I was a bit worried about them taking on the mountain by themselves so I offered to show them the way.  Armed with layers, lots of water and some sandwiches we head up the Teleferiqo and start our ascent up the mountain. At the start the weather was warm, sometimes even sweatingly hot, a welcome respite from the torrential rain Quito’s been having of late.

From PichinchaTakeTwo

As we slowly progress up the trail, taking care to recognize any signs of altitude sickness or major change in the weather, we get to the point where the formal trail ends and the hard part begins. I take the lead trying to remember how I had gotten across and up the rocks and sand the previous time. Of course I take us up the harder route and, as we are struggling to climb up sand, a local Ecuatoriana motions for us to cut across and follow her as she knows an easier way. The local and I chat (in Spanish mind you) as she waits for her boyfriend and I wait for my friends to catch up. I instantly feel a connection to her and realize that she would be a great friend to have in Quito. She shows me the best route up and the girls and I start the last and most dangerous part of the journey to the top.

We traverse a couple of sketchy rocks and reach the top, this time being more magical for me as I actually (thought) I had time to take in the view and ponder the magnitude of such a volcanic mountain. Here is where the story shifts from a normal everyday hike to one of danger, adventure and fear.

As I am off pondering the meaning of life, both Sarah and Tara exclaim that they are feeling a tingling in their hair. I think nothing of this as both have had tinglings, weird feelings, pains and aches all day long. In the matter of a few seconds of them proclaiming this several things happen. One, the Ecuatoriana and her boyfriend arrive at the top. Next, thunder rattles the entire mountain, lightning strikes inches from us (the source of the tingling) and it starts to snow. Now I know last time I said it hailed, and it did, but only for fifteen minutes and the hail melted the second it touched the ground. This snow was different. It was an instant flurry of not snow flakes but snow balls, the size of grapes, okay an exaggeration, more like the size of luscious blueberries. The boyfriend immediately says “VAMOS!” and, as all five of us look into each others scared eyes, we realize the severity of the situation. The thunder is not stopping, it is bone rattling and after each rumble lightning strikes so close to us that we could probably reach out and touch it if not get struck by it. The Ecuatoriana and I make eye contact and we decide, without words, that I will lead the route down as she makes sure the girls and her guy keep the pace as fast as possible without slipping and subsequently tumbling to a 15,500 foot death.

I am scared but surprisingly not for myself. I’m more worried about my friends who don’t have gloves and could easily get frostbite. My gloved hands were instantly frozen when the snow started and these were gloves that kept me warm through the torrential downpours of Machu Picchu (the last time I was caught in the rath of  mother nature only that time there were porters and guides leading us to dry areas and keeping us safe).

For some odd reason (probably because of all my Red Cross training or maybe because I was wearing my Red Cross t-shirt) I stay calm and at one point develop an on the spot emergency action plan if one of us happens to get struck by lightning or slips down the mountain. For a good five minutes I grappled with the notion of sheltering in place under an overhang of rocks because of the lightening but decided against it because there was no end to the clouds in sight and my friends did not have the clothes to withstand the cold.  There were points where the thunder shook the mountain so hard that rocks were shaken from their long standing homes and tumbled down the mountain, one of which knicked Tara’s ear. Within fifteen minutes there was a good inch of snow on the ground and after thirty minutes about four. Luckily this made skiing down the sand portion of the mountain, now snow portion that much easier and under different circumstances might have even been a little fun. After an hour of slipping and sliding, lightning dodging and shoe skiing we make it to a point where we can slow our pace. My adrenaline is still pumping but it is not enough to realize that I have a shooting pain running from my right knee to my ankle amplified more and more by the freezing temperature. I have to dig deep, real deep to keep my pain under wraps as I know my friends, who have been doing surprisingly well considering the circumstances, will come unraveled if I say I can not go on. It is the Ecuatoriana, my angel, who realizes something is wrong with me and quietly makes her way to my side where she whispers the motivating words I need to hear to go on. Her boyfriend also needs these whispers and the two fall back a few minutes behind us.

After an hour and a half the three of us reach the Teleferiqo, soaked to the core. We jump on the first gondola and make our way down as Inca Rici, the Ecua sun god, ironically decides to break the clouds. We are in one piece, shaken, and wet but thankful for our lives and for the grand story we have to tell our family and friends. My one regret, I did not get the Ecuatoriana’s name or phone number, a true sign that I had an angel looking after me yesterday.

From Drop Box

As the seven o´clock bell tolls

To awake at the early hour of five o’clock means that you will inevitably stumble into the bathroom in such a dreamy state that you will forget, time and time again what it means to work the shower in this country.  Your dreams are instantly swept away when you realize how scalding hot the water is. This prompts you to turn the knob more than the millimeter needed to cool it down and once again you are shocked into awareness only this time by the frigid stream coming down upon you. It takes about a minute of the millimeter scramble to get to the perfect temperature although by this time only a dribble of water escapes from the shower head and it is easier to turn the water off and on as needed. 

In racing out the door you mutter something about having a good day to Piedad and Andrea. Always a little awkwardly as it has been a very long time since other people have lived the early morning hours of a teacher with you, so much so that you do not remember quite how to navigate the social norms of a sleepy morning. 
 As you step out your gate the moon, in a sunny sky, is just about to disappear behind the mountain you have previously climbed serving as a reminder that no matter how challenging the day may be you have had harder and you have always made do with a smile on your face.

The walk you are about to take has two parts to it. The first takes on the purpose of personal and peaceful reflection, two things that are hard to find a time and a place for. You have six blocks of downward zig zags through, what seems to be, Quito’s only quiet neighborhood, the only thing breaking the silence being the clippity clop of your outrageously trendy, extremely uncomfortable but culturally necessary shoes. Of which, alert the attack Chihuahuas that you swear will one day squeeze through their abodes fences and bite you with the veracity of a hungry hyena. As you approach the park and hear the church bells toll 6:30 you pick up your pace and prepare yourself for the second part of your journey.

It is here that you reach the streets with a never ending sea of blue busses, whistling policeman and the general bustle of many people holding the same purpose as you, to get to work on time. It is also here that you encounter the first challenge of the day, tackling the broken, often wet, pavement in the aforementioned outrageously trendy, extremely uncomfortable but culturally necessary shoes. You swear that the quick side steps and painful ankle rolls will either replace your klutzy nature with the poise you always wished you had or land you in the hospital with two broken femurs. You also have to contend with the constant stream of black diesel exhaust and young men who apparently have nothing better to do at 6:30 in the morning than to cat call and pst pst you.

And as you finally reach El Trole, or metro line, you realize how painstakingly insignificant you actually are. Where a seemingly nice old lady shoves you with the force of a gorilla into the bus, a tall mans behind nestles itself oh so serendipitously into the curve of your back and your breasts somehow seem to be in direct proximity and view of a man that has no problem with it. As your muscles constrict and contract with every swaying stop you remind yourself of the mountain and grasp inwardly for the peace of the first part of your morning. Finally you reach La “Y” stop and practically run the two blocks to SECAP where you brave the elevator five floors and greet the smiling faces of your students as the seven church bells start to chime. 

A Clearing Amongst the Clouds

The whirlwind that is learning, adapting and assimilating to a new culture, a new place, calms a bit in the classroom. Not to say there are not minor rain showers here and there but in the classroom I know how to handle them, which is in stark contrast to the lightning that strikes in the streets of Quito. The classroom is my home, my comfort. I am baffled at the resilience of my compadres, who are, not only taking in this new place but learning to teach at the same time. I would get swept away in the winds of the hurricane if I had to juggle both.

Although the norms are different, the people, the conversations, the learning, the laughing are the same in any classroom. They create a calmness -an acceptance in the optimism of humanity- in me. It is here that I can shed my raincoat, figuratively and literally. No matter if I am teaching suburban high schoolers in the US, orphaned boys in Guatemala city, high school teachers and nuns at a catholic high school, or young adults seeking to advance themselves in a classicist society, I am safe in the storm shelter that is my classroom. I learn from my students, they learn from me. We work together to create a clearing in the clouds, to see glimpses of the sun. And although that sun might only show itself for a second here or a minute there it is enough to give me the strength to brave the storm that I must face when I close the classroom door for the night.