A Closet Will Suffice

Our housing in Puerto El Morro, Ecuador:

When traveling, it is important to be very comfortable with your companions. So much so that when you are housed in a room that is 6 feet wide and 13 feet long, any problems that could arise are kept to a minimum. And when living in a room that is only slightly bigger than your mother´s walk-in closet, you better hope your roommate doesn´t have any privacy issues, cuz there just ain´t a door when you gotta pee.

Angelitos Alegres - Happy Little Angels

It's not everyday you get to graduate 32 Ecuadorian preschoolers. But when you do, it's a mix of slightly awkward, intensely adorable and simply confusing.

Amanda, Josh and I have been living in Puerto El Morro for less than two weeks, yet have already become the three town celebrities. Or at least the three strange gringos that are known for being tall, being white, and exercising – a very strange thing to do here. Puerto El Morro is predominantly composed of crab farmers and children under 10 years old. The residents' income largely comes from fishing and breeding an expensive type of crab. (We will unfortunately not be able to sample them though, as it is illegal to eat these crabs from January 15 to February 15 – the exact dates of our time here, while the crabs mate and grow new shells. Although yay for acts of environmental conservation!)

Life is tranquil; days move slowly and conversations even slower. The weather – which when you live this close to the equator hardly ever changes, is a popular conversation topic. As is my blonde hair; even the 5th time you ask me, my answer is still yes, it is natural. If we ask our host mother what type of juice we are currently drinking, we will not only be told the answer, but we will also be given – as though imitating the infamous scene from Forest Gump – a list of every type of fruit juice she is capable of making: pina, maracuya, guayaba, limonada, papaya tomatillo, melon, gelatina . . . When asked how old the city of Puerto is, everyone becomes involved in the debate. “Ohhh bastante! (A lot!)” The conversation does not speed up, but more voices are interjected as everyone tosses in their two-cents. “150 years!” “115.” “The church is 200 years old!” “200?!” “No...” “Mucha historia!” “My grandfather lived when Simon Bolivar passed through. Mucha historia.” The final answer? A lot of history, the town is very old. Yes, time has no real foundation here.

Historical time is seemingly lost, as is hourly time. Yesterday afternoon we arrived at the community center to watch the preschool graduation. In April the 5-year olds will begin kindergarten at the Big Kid School. We arrived early (and by that I mean on time. Everyone else showed up “on time” – an hour and half late). We sat outside the community center on the concrete benches and watched the parents and preschoolers trickle in. Moms arrived in heels and make-up, dads had their dark hair slicked back in style, and the petite graduates were dolled-up in their Sunday best. The teachers were all wearing gray business suits and looking incredibly clean. Everyone was so clean. Good thing we can just sit in the back and watch, I thought as I looked down at my flip flops caked in dried mud and my dirty capri pants, feeling rather under-dressed for the occasion.

Once almost all of the children had arrived – a good hour after they were supposed to, everyone stood outside the center. The preschoolers struggled to remain in alphabetical order, preferring instead to climb on the walls like monkeys or pull the girls' perfectly curled pigtails. The MC announced for the guests to take their seats. Amanda, Josh and I moved towards the wide double doors to find chairs in the back where we could whisper in English and snap a gazillion photos of the cuteness that was about to ensue. One of the teachers stopped us from passing inside. The MC then announced for the “Guests of Honor” to take their positions in the front of the room. The teacher pushed us into the line that included the preschool principal, education director, and the Catholic priest. Confused, and unable to spit out a counter-argument in Spanish quick enough to contest, we were soon sitting in front; three gringos staring like deer caught in headlights out towards a sea of smiling parents. (The irony should not be lost that the most I have struggled to understand during this entire trip has been when patient women who spend their entire day speaking to 3-year olds instruct me to do something.)

The graduates entered the room next, a train of 5-year olds that only derailed into mild chaos a few times. Next, we all rose to sing the national anthem which was a peppy dialogue between two different voice octaves about Ecuador's independence from Spain, or perhaps about how to cook corn – I really couldn't tell you what was said. I seemed to accidentally lose my pamphlet of language abilities outside the door of the community center around the time I realized that we were not just going to be passive observers but instead active participants. Convenient, Aer.

Then the priest rose, and we prayed, crossed ourselves, prayed, sang, listened to scripture, and then prayed. All against the backdrop of small children wearing button-up shirts and perfectly ironed dresses punching each other and whining. I became even more conscious of the 150 sets of eyes resting on us as I realized I didn't even know which body part came first in making the sign of the cross – the head or the shoulder? Shit. I decided to just sit, in my muddy sandals. Well I may be under-dressed and confused, but at least all I have do is just sit here and feign understanding.

Once the priest decided we were properly educated, the graduation ceremony began. The first child was called to the front. The tiny man dressed in his white button-up, bright blue slacks, polished black shoes, and blue bow-tie stood in front of the mass of observers waiting to receive his certificate. First the godfather (if you don't have one, your father; if your father couldn't attend, your mother; if your parents were busy, your grandparent) tied the graduation cape around the child's shoulder. Photo. Then one of the esteemed guests from our table pushed the tiny mortarboard cap on the child's head. Photo. Then I was called upon to give the child his certificate. Wait what?! I'm not important. But yes, Amanda, Josh and I were serving on the board of trustees so to speak and we were somehow without our knowledge serving the community, at least at this time, as much as the director and the priest were. I placed the certificate in the tiny clutches of an equally confused child and we both awkwardly gazed into the camera. Photo!

When each child has a name as long as the bus ride from Quito to Guayaquil, when three different people must rise and walk to the front of the room for each child's ceremony, and when a photo is taken of every step of the process, 32 graduates took quite a while. By the end of the alphabet, the preschoolers were either spitting on each other or jumping off chairs with their new flying abilities given to them by their new special capes.

Once all the children received their certificates, they were rounded up like cattle to perform their despedida (goodbye) songs. As their tiny voices filled the one-room community center, they quickly redeemed themselves from the monkey devils they had been just moments before. The teachers distributed tiny shots of the most rancid champagne I have ever tasted and we toasted to the longevity of the angelitos alegres (happy little angels). We were each given one heart-shaped cookie the size of my thumbnail, and a tiny ball of cookie dough wrapped in tissue paper. After happily consuming our preschool-sized treats I was ready to go. But then the colossal-sized meals were passed along – a heaping scoop of rice, fried chicken, and a few pieces of lettuce. I should have known. One thing Latin America is good at is cooking in huge quantities and ensuring that if you are at a fiesta, it is your own damn fault if you leave hungry. And then there was cake. And the children were once again adorable cape-flying terrors.

We left soon after cake, feeling that our incredibly important position as certificate and hat giver was completed. I said a few thanks and goodbyes, and ducked out, eager to shuffle my flip flops along the muddy, unpaved streets. It is not everyday that one gets to see 32 preschoolers graduate, let alone serve on the board of esteemed guests after only two weeks in a community. This town is welcoming, open, and eager to show their gratification. Not to mention, it is pretty dang cute.

An Emotional Exhibit

Oswaldo Guayasamin

(July 1919- March 1999)

World-renowned painter & sculptor, Quichua Indian, Ecuador's hero

Without knowing anything about Guayasamin as a man, or about his work and politics, we headed to one of the most famous museums in Quito - La Capilla de Hombre (The Chapel of Man), a tribute to the life and art of Ecuador's most revered citizen.

Within my first few steps into the museum I realized that this was not going to be a lovely stroll through a pretty exhibit while discussing how the cubism movement transgressed and later commenting amongst ourselves, What a pleasant afternoon. Instead, our hour spent inside the museum was an emotional, intense, and almost nauseating experience. The political statements entrenched in Guayasamin's paintings and the agony dripping off the faces on his canvas' were more than I could have prepared myself for.

"I cried because I didn't have shoes

Until I saw a child who didn't have feet"

Guayasamin's art tells of the struggles and pain of indigenous people across Latin America. Although the faces are dark and the hair is always black, his work also speaks to the broader issues of war and pain that plague the world. And they make one ask: Why does pain and sorrow have to exist? Will it ever end?

Mitad del Mundo

Today I visited the Middle of the World.

When you are in the country that is named after the equator (Ecuador literally translates to equator) it seems silly not to visit the line that folds the world in half.

Located just 22km north of Quito is where French scientist Charles-Marie de la Condamine calculated the equator in 1736. A huge (and slightly ugly) monument stands in recognition of the measurement made in the 1800's. But he was wrong.

The actual equator, true 0'00" latitude - proved years later by GPS - lies 250m to the north in a patch of land owned by a local Chicha-maker (a popular drink made from corn). OK, I guess Charles Marie didn't do too bad seeing as how he forgot to bring his space satellites and super computers with him. Now, the Chicha-maker's home has been preserved, but has also been turned into the Inti-nan Solar Museum (below ).

For my $3 entrance fee, I learned:

On the Equator, you are 2 lbs lighter, have less gravity pulling on you, and you're weaker.

A raw egg can rest vertical on a nail.

If water is funneling out of a drain, leaves remain floating above the cyclone; they do not get sucked down into the funnel. --> Thus proving that tornadoes and tropical storms are scientifically impossible in this lovely country. Also giving scientific proof that legendary doldrums do exist.

Your shadow remains on the north for 6 months of the year. And then it switches to the south for the other 6 months. 2 days out of the year you won't have a shadow at all.

And I got a passport stamp! And if you know me, you know how excited I get over a stamp in my passport. And if you don't know me, just know it's a lot.

Amazonian Ayawaska

I recently finished Elizabeth Gilbert's infamous travel novel Eat Pray Love. During a short run I asked Amanda, how come we don't just walk into a quaint restaurant and immediately become best friends with the cook? Her response was: "I think our trip has been defined more by the places that we serendipitously end up." I think she couldn't be more right.

* * *

I arrived in Quito a little bit poorer, just a little bit tired, and completely ecstatic to meet up with Amanda again and finally meet our third travel companion Josh. We squealed, talked at lighting speed about the past couple weeks and then looked at each other and asked, Now What? Josh said, let's go to the jungle. And so we did. We spontaneously boarded a bus to Tena - what Lonely Planet describes as a touristy, quaint jungle town in the middle of Ecuador's Amazon. We had no plan, no place to stay, and few expectations.

After a six-hour nauseatingly curvy bus ride, we arrived in Tena, needless to say - hungry. After each eating 1/2 a chicken and an entire season's harvest of rice for $3, we embarked into the town. Which we quickly found consisted of a less-than-attractive main drag, a gas station, and a small, uninteresting market. As we were brainstorming how we could find something a bit more jungley and a lot less touristy and dirty, we popped our heads into a small wooden shack with a tacky sign that read Jungle Tours Info Here. We got suckered into their spiel and were soon signed up for a 4-day jungle expedition. I was apprehensive of what tourist trap we had foolishly locked ourselves into, but told myself that it was only four days and it had to at least promise something good . . . right?

4 days later that "something good" translates to:

- intense and exhaustive hiking through the jungle (all in rain boots);

- sleeping in a cave;

- swimming in the Amazon river;

- scaling towering, gorgeous waterfalls (that, in the States, would have required 9 liability forms signing our life away);

- eating mysterious fruits off of mysterious vines;

- sleeping in hammocks in a commandeered shack;

- learning how to trap a puma;

- and making friends with a revered Quichua Shaman.

From the outside, the jungle was an impenetrable wall of fluorescent green; an unconquerable, daunting mass of vegetation. But when in the hands of a native who has a detailed map of the forest painted in his mind - knowing every tree's location like you know where the nearby pharmacy is in relation to the gas station - the jungle became an inviting and warming habitat. Vines hung down from trees taller than we could see and tiny orchids clung to glistening moss on fallen, disintegrating bark. (P.S. way more orchids than Panama!) Our guides hacked at the jungle with their machetes, carving a fresh path for us to crawl through. The Quichua men would stop and point out a tree that is used for curing a tummy ache, and then at one that could be mashed into a natural shampoo. Then one that is good for infertility or one that is used for arthritis. (They all looked green and leafy to me.) Our guide Nixon told me that every person of the jungle owns a piece of land - men and women; everyone has a piece they can call their own. (Nice in a land often caught up in the machismo mentality.)

On our third day in the jungle, one of the most respected Shamans of the region joined us. He took us deeper into the green. When he asked us if we wanted to drink ayawaska - a strong hallucinogenic plant that is used as a spiritual cleansing ritual - we all said why not. I realize anyone reading this is thinking: Aeriel, the girl that has never smoked pot and never touches drugs, did what? Yet, in the presence of a revered Shaman and when faced with the possibility of cleansing out any negative energy, it somehow felt right. We all participated in the making of the ayawaska - first the plant is cleaned, then mashed, and then boiled for several hours until it is a thick, incredibly bitter and vile liquid. And just a dab will do ya. While we were tripping on this plant, the Shaman cleansed each one of us, dedicating his full attention to chanting and summoning out the evil, negative spirits from our bodies and replacing them with light energy. Any more on this will require a deeper conversation over a copa de vino (glass of wine), but I will say this is as close to a spiritually enlightening experience as I've ever had. And in the morning I awoke feeling more alert and more aware of both my body and the environment. Bees landed on me and I thought, hello bee how are you today. This is not normal.

What I expected to be a tourist trap jungle tour in fact became a full immersion into Amazon life. We were accepted into the lives and trust of our guides and were shown places that I had previously only thought existed in children's books. And if anything, I can rest easy knowing that I have been cleansed by the Quichua Shaman that lives along the Rio Napo.

Adios Ano Viejo!

What better way to ring in the New Year than by bashing the old one to smithereens?

(Pinata found in Merida, Mexico market 12/31/2010.)

The Last 48 Hours

I have conquered the art of public Chicken Bus riding. I have navigated my way through tiny Mayan towns. I have survived Tegucigalpa. Yet Cancun, the child of Las Vegas and Orlando, the one place in Latin America that speaks more English than Spanish, took me down.

January 3, 2011

6 p.m.

I decide to get organized. After road-tripping for 2 weeks, everything I have is spread across 4 bags instead of the normal 2. (Note: The act of fitting everything combines both creativity and science, and is an art-form that only gets better with practice.)

I decide to take full advantage of the pool-side WIFI (thank you 21^st century).

I slip. In slow-motion only known in slap-stick comedies I step feet-first into the pool. Somehow during this graceful act I manage to keep both my laptop and the glass beer bottle above water.

I laughed. Then drank the beer.

7 p.m.

My computer won't turn on.

Robert disassembles the entire machine to let the moisture that splashed into the brain dry out.

I ask him if it will be OK. He honestly answers, I don't know.

I cry.

8 p.m.

Eat shrimp and rice (I actually started to miss it) and drink a large margarita.

12 a.m.

Eventually finish packing, stop worrying (kinda) and fall asleep.

January 4, 2011

3 a.m.

Wake up.

Robert screws the computer back together. It works! He tells me not to turn it on for a couple days to let it dry out a little.

I sigh, relieved.

4 a.m.

Arrive at Cancun airport. Discover that I am unable to board the plane to Quito.

Intermission to explain immigration laws:

• According to Ecuador's immigration laws, tourists cannot enter the country without proof that they will eventually leave. Apparently they don't want you chilin' there forever.

• A return ticket, or a bus ticket, is fine. As long as you have tangible proof that you will eventually leave. A ticket out of say, Buenos Aires will even do – because logically you must leave Ecuador in order to get to Argentina. The date is not important. (Of course if I was a bad person who wanted to stay in Ecuador to do bad things, I could obviously not afford to buy a meaningless ticket out of South America?)

• Because I am busing my way south I don't have a return ticket.. And because I don't know how long my money will last I don't have a plane ticket out of anywhere. Thus I am a problem child.

• While this is the law, Ecuador's immigration won't ever check. (Panama – where I flew to with only a 1-way ticket as well, has the same law and I had no problems.)

• The catch is that legally it is the airlines' responsibility to make sure I can enter Ecuador. Because in the 0.1% chance Ecuador denies me entry, the airline legally must fly me back to my point of departure on their dollar. Since I am not a resident of Mexico, Copa Air freaks out.

5 a.m.

I have 1 hour to find a ticket out of Ecuador.

I have a computer I am not supposed to turn on.

I turn it on.

I have 15 minutes of free internet.

I find nothing in 15 stressed minutes.

I cry. Just a little.

I return to the desk.

No sympathy. They suggest I try to buy a cheap plane ticket? But I have to do this over the phone.

I go to the pay phones to call COPA Air's 1-800 #. (Who knows what country the person I'm talking to is in...)

The cheapest ticket Copa can find me is $385.

Fail.

I return to the desk and say I need more time. What should I do?

Mind you this is all in Spanish.

They tell me I can get on the flight tomorrow. All of today's are full.

I say OK, please put me on the flight tomorrow.

I have to also do this over the phone. Of course, I should have known.

Success. $75 later.

6 a.m.

I am now in Cancun at least for another 36 hours.

I hold back tears.

I look for a taxi. They all cost at least $50 to get back to the hotel because it so early.

At this point, defeated, I sit on the sidewalk, don't even look for a curb.

The security guard takes sympathy on me and tells me he will find me a cheap taxi.

7 a.m.

$30 later (not cheap but don't care) I am back where I started the morning.

I cry really hard.

9 a.m. - 10:30 a.m.

Frantically research all possible bus lines that leave Ecuador in any direction.

Find a lot.

Find none that sell tickets online.

11:00 a.m. - 5 p.m.

Head into ugly, noisy, dirty downtown Cancun City. (No, the locals don't live in the Hyatt with bleached white towels.)

Find a travel agency. Explain my weird travel question. In Spanish. Margarita, my now dear friend, has never dealt with a travel agency in South America. Cool.

Book a ticket (that I will never use) over the phone that travels from Quito to a small border town in Peru for the 31^st of January (made up date). Will cost $40.

We email my passport information. I am instructed to wire the money to Peru via Western Union.

Go to one Western Union. Take 10 minutes to fill out the form. The service is broken. Come back later.

Go to another Western Union on the other side of town. (The bank is tucked in a warehouse that sells cellphones, cameras, dishwashers, and mattresses all at layaway prices.) The line is out the door.

Wire US $40. Western Union charges $18 service fee. Damnit.

I walk back to the market where I then divide my time between checking back with Margarita to see if my electronic ticket has been sent to her office yet and trying to ignore the many cat-calls by the young Mexicans selling hats, shot-glasses, and cheaply made wood carvings of Mayan temples.

The gentleman from Peru eventually emails my ticket to Margarita.

Drum roll...

It doesn't get me out of Ecuador!

Just to the border. But on the Ecuador side.

It's useless!

Exhausted, angry, annoyed, broke, and once again defeated I say OK, pay Margarita and leave.

5:30 p.m.

I enter my room and I am pleasantly surprised to find gorgeous flowers waiting for me.

(Later I find out not they were not left by Robert. So either they are the gift of a sketchy hotel attendant or a gift from above saying to calm down. I like to think it's the later, but checked the lock on the door 3 times before falling asleep.)

6 p.m.

Walk to the laundromat where an elderly 5'2” Mexican man greets me warmly, sees my face, and with very few words passed between us gives me a hug.

Exactly what I needed.

For the next hour I wait for the washer to stop, and then the dryer, and he busies himself ironing and folding his other clients clothing.

We talk, I vent.

He gives me another hug. Yay for friends.

8 p.m.

I indulge in the comforts of home: countless time spent on Facebook.

11 p.m.

Eat a hamburger. The only food I have touched all day because I was too angry at all the money that had just been wasted.

Sleep follows soon after.

January 5, 2011

11 a.m.

I put make-up on for the first time in weeks. Or months.

I brush my hair straight.

Perhaps if I look more like a sophisticated civilian and less like a homeless, confused cat-lady I will have more luck getting into Ecuador.

12:30 p.m.

Shit.

The man at the COPA Airlines counter is the same attendant from yesterday morning.

I freak out. And think about running away.

Then realize that would be stupid.

12:45 p.m.

Get courage to go to the counter.

“You look familiar,” he says.

Haha... I laugh.

He begins to check me in, scans my passport, and leaves the counter saying he'll return. There's a problem. Sigh.

When he comes back however he tells me I owe $110.

We argue. In Spanish.

I tell him that the lady yesterday told me $75 to change my flight and she should have told me about the additional costs as well.

He agrees. Then compliments my Spanish speaking. Where did I learn?

Good. Maybe he'll forget to ask about my ticket out.

I watch breathlessly as my boarding passes print. Then my bag claim sticker.

“How are you getting out?”

By bus. Here's my ticket all the way to Peru, I show him my sketchy printed receipt.

And...

IT WORKS!

3:45 p.m.

I am finally on a plane to Quito. $200 unnecessary dollars later.

I sit next to an Australian who went through the exact same thing. Damn you Mexico.

I'm never boarding a plane again.

One Helluva Year

January 2, 2011. Can you believe it? On the 1st of every year, we all take a moment to think back on what has happened in the last 365 days. And we ask ourselves, where was I this day last year?

Merida, Mexico is known as the heart of the Yucatan. The central plaza is constantly crowded with young couples making out, a mariachi band, street vendors selling elotes (sweet corn with cream and chile powder) and Nutella crepes (yes, I indulged), and a man screaming bible verses through a megaphone. The mercado takes over a good portion of the town and in the words of cheesy travel-writing, I felt one with the people as I wandered through the crowd buying grapes and trying not to vomit when I passed the rows of dead meat.

But New Year's Day was not anything like it was the day before. The city of 1 million people was shut down. When I went running in the afternoon, it was like walking through Mexican Pleasant Ville. It was as though I had stepped into Jim Carrey's Truman Show, but with houses painted brilliant shades of reds, greens, yellows, blues, and flamingo pink. The only people on the streets were confused tourists wondering how this dead city could possibly be the heart of anything, a lady slopping water on the sidewalk in front of her house, and a few stumbling men who didn't realize the drinking from the night before had come to an end.

So as I ran through the eerily deserted streets, I took the time to reflect on my last 365 days . .

Exactly 1 year ago today, 1/2/2010, I was packing for 2 months in Guatemala. I was preparing for the trip that would instigate my desire to travel and my urge to learn Spanish. I got a glimpse of what it felt like to be pushed out of my comfort zone and tested. I got only a glimpse but was left wondering, could I do this for longer? When I returned to Albuquerque in March, my thirst to "get out" was not satisfied, but rather fueled.

I think back on the 7 months I spent from April to October, pretending I liked my marketing job and fully admitting I didn't like my waitressing one. I realized good relationships need to come to a close sometimes, even if it means tossing yourself into that scary place of limbo. Why is it we sometimes tend to feign happiness just because doing what we really desire is too . . . unknown?

I think back on how this trip came to be. Confused about life and where I wanted it to take me next, I was certain about one thing. I needed a new experience, a new place. Whether that was moving to NYC or Chicago or Peru, I craved that feeling of pushing your own envelope, of beginning anew. I spontaneously shot a quick email to Amanda, working for United Nations' media in NYC - she's got to know of something, I thought. My email was titled: Life Changes, not really realizing how foreboding that title, which soon became a thread of 25 replies, really was. Within a few weeks, we had a plan. Within a week more, we had tickets (1 for the wrong day - perhaps that, more than anything, is a sign of what a strange, scatterbrained year it has been).

Not a week passes when I don't lean across the table and ask Amanda, "Remember when we bought a one-way ticket to Panama?" Pinch me please. 365 days after I first set out for Central America, I am once again surrounded by Spanish, and pushed out of my comfort zone daily.

So there's my reflection. But I suppose every New Year's comes with the imminent question which we sometimes shy away from, what next?

What is next? Well there's Ecuador, Peru, Chile, Argentina, and perhaps Paraguay!! And then, you ask. Exactly, I answer. Amanda is flying to Egypt to visit her brother and I . . . well, I don't know. And while this is quite possibly the most liberating situation I think one could be faced with - to be able to go anywhere, it is also scary. What would you do with no strings attached but a $50/month student loan? I want to return to school, but to study what? I want to move to Chicago or San Francisco or NYC, but to do what? I can't explain how strange it is to not have a plan or a routine. And while I feel as though I am currently thriving off this lifestyle, I must admit (even to myself) that I could not do this forever. Why is it we crave structure in our lives? Why does society hammer into us the need to have a career? And mostly, why do I cringe so much from the question: So what do you do back in the States? Perhaps then, as I look at 2010 as a year of changes and realization, I will look at 2011 as becoming more and more OK with my response to that question: I don't know yet.

"Be patient towards all that in your heart remains unsolved. Try alone to love the questions."

- Rainer Maria Rilke