a taste of Ecuador

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the view from my living room. Cotopaxi at sunset

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Here I am in Quito, Ecuador. By far the most polluted city I have lived in. It doesn’t take long to understand rules here. The first rule is that there is no such thing as on time. As soon as I entered the airport I realized that none of the name cards said my name. My host family was missing in action, but I was too tired to care. I made myself a beautiful “my name is Quena” sign and sat on my bags until my very hyper and hip host mother came to pick me up.

The next lesson I would learn is that riding a bus is a sport. The buses rarely stop here, they keep driving and commuters jump in and out of the speeding bus. I have gotten quite good, I must say so myself. The buses are full of life, there is Justin Timberlake bumpin’ and there is no such thing as a person limit. There is a comfy crash pad at the front of the bus that serves to seat the extra 40 or 50 people that they cram on the bus. Wonderful snacks, such as pork feet and dried bananas are sold non-stop so there is no time to get hungry.

proof that my name does mean flute moon....and I am easy

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My first week here I got to experience my first Ecuadorian day of school. I walked onto campus all proud in my chacos and nalgene in hand. I soon realized I was out of my league. Universidad de San Francisco is more plastic than Laguna Beach. Just imagine southern California at its worst and times that by 10….that’s my school. Everywhere I walk there are plastic surgery nose bandages and Prada bags. Most of us exchange students, there are 250 of us in total, have realized that we are the outcasts….and are beginning to embrace that. The school is beautiful, surrounded by mountains and on my hour ride to school I see Cotopaxi’s snowy peak. The school itself resembles more of a country club than a school; there is a pond with koi, a pagoda and cafeteria with professional chefs, the works.

Octavalo....a sea of colors and alpaca wool

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The city of Quito is big and dirty. But beyond that there is a lively atmosphere I have not been able to find in the states. There are vendors of all kinds, indigenous women in brightly colored dresses cradling their babies on their backs. It’s always a treat to try to cross the road…..I have already been “tapped” once….my theory is this: the bigger your car is the faster you get to go and the less you stop. I began my stay by waiting until the lights changed, then realized lights don’t mean shit, so I now run whenever the locals run…If 80 year old men with canes can cross the street so can I…well let’s hope.

This last weekend I decided I need to get out of the city, I left in hopes of being able to breath again. So I set out with other exchange students to Octavalo, a small city 2 hours away from Quito. The closer we got to the village the more I felt relieved. The fields were full of cows and little men and women sat on their porches, watching the busses go by. Their clothing was beautiful. The women wear little woven saddles, black skirts, white woven shirts and 100s of gold necklaces. It seems they always have a load on their backs, a child, papayas, wood and even puppies. As I walked off the bus into the middle of nowhere ( I think locals like to get the gringos lost) I suddenly let my guard down. I felt safe…in a way you can’t in a big city. The town was full of little shops with local art, my friend Tyler and I ran around amazed that we could buy 4 pairs of earrings for one dollar…..I think the locals must be used to seeing the new white kids run around shopping ecstatically. I have realized that by the time I am ready for bed the locals are just starting their night. My nights have been filled with embarrassment as I have tried to learn to salsa dance……my host mom insists that every night after dinner I have a dance lesson. I can’t say that I have not gotten any better….not at all. I still am that white girl that can’t dance.

after my spit up corn drink, this was dindin

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And so in Octavalo we all had our first taste of yamor. Now yamor, I realized after I drank 3 cups, is an alcohol made of 7 different kinds of corn. The only thing is, that local women chew the corn and then spit out into a vat, then served to unknowing tourists like myself…it is quite the treat really. But as I say, when in Ecuador, do as the Ecuadorians do. After I had a few cups of my corn spit brew I decided that it was a very good idea to eat in a hole in the wall restaurant with a 3-course meal of 1 dollar. I spent part of the night regretting that…….and hogging the hostel bathroom. The next morning I was awoken by a didgeridoo (that’s a hostel for you) and set out for the market. Now I have been to markets, but none this big and this cheap. I spent my day bartering, I skill I will need in this country because the taxis always seem to like to raise my prices. The people in Octavalo were amazing, kind and good hearted. I think that Octavalo was my first real Ecuadorian experience.

volcanoe near Octavalo

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So in a nutshell, Ecuador is different from anywhere else I have been, which is what I was searching for. There are times when I wonder what I am doing here (like when I have 3 kids and a grandmother sitting on my lap on the bus or when my realized my host mom’s ‘real good Colombian coffee is indeed Nescafe). But there are times when I look around and realize that people here know how to live, they dance after dinner and drink chewed up corn drinks, that’s what life is all about.