Pam's Blog

It seems like the bathrooms here are all a result of the lack of resources. Water, electricity and ability/system to process.

Water: In Puerto Lopez water is trucked in from an hour away … and that’s the water for showers, toilets, sinks. Bottled water is cheap. One of the places in Puerto Lopez I bought water charged a quarter for a bottle, the same bottle I paid $2 for in the Atlanta airport. The water pressure is nearly non-existent (because water is a limited resource … or is it a mechanical issue) and the temperature of the hot water is luke warm at best.

Electricity: Maybe the water temp has something to do with the electricity. It must be expensive. There are signs at the school to remember to turn out the lights and at Hipatia’s the family is very good about remembering to turn things off. The hallways in the apartment building (and at the hotel in Puerto Lopez) aren’t well lit or lit at all. On a regular basis I see the transport of blue gas tanks. They are about two or three times the size you might have to run your outdoor gas grill. I’ve seen people carrying them on their backs, in individual push carts, and a truck load full of them. My teacher at the Spanish school said they are for the cucina (kitchen).

Toilets: Throughout the country in every bathroom there are garbage cans to put the used toilet paper. When flushed the toilet paper doesn’t go down and I’ve fished my fair share out of the bowl and put it in the garbage can. Must be a water pressure thing as well as a water treatment issue. I always wondered “whose job is it to empty the trash in the bathroom”. Twice Hipatia has asked me to gather up the garbage from the bathrooms in my host family home.

My trip TO the basilica yesterday went off without a hitch. RETURNING I got mixed up and got off the trolly one stop too soon, got on the bus going the wrong way and then got on the bus going the right way but the wrong bus. It’s all part of the experience and I got where I was going, sense of humor intact, albeit a little slower than I expected.

It seems like I’ve become more acustom to the sort of loosey goosey way things work. I feel like I’m getting even more “go with the flow”. And maybe that’s because I can’t ask (or now I’d be able to ask but don’t necessarily understand the answer). Or because I have limited responsibilities. I get most of my information by observing, seeing how the person in front of me paid for the bus fare or bought a ticket to the museo.

In my travels yesterday I spotted a McDonald’s and a KFC right across the street from each other. In another part of town I saw a Subway. On the side of a bus there was an advertisement for Domino’s Pizza. It’s hard to believe American fast food restaurants could make a dent in a culture like South America’s. The mom and pop food stands and tiny, tiny restaurants are so pervasive here. Every street has them, either ON the street or tucked in the bottom of a building, often no bigger than a garage. I walked by one yesterday that had three tables.

Today, Adreana, la professor de espanol, took me to the market. There’s a section of the market that is all fruit, a section of vegetables, a meat market, and a “food court”. There must have been 20 or 30 food counters where you could get lunch or just juice. Ecuadorians are crazy about their juice. And I can see why. There are so many more fruits than I’ve ever seen. They whir them up in a blender and, viola, juice. It’s yummy.

While on the coast I observed, or rather heard, the men on the street whistle to each other. They communicate with each other, whether it be a greeting or a way to get someone’s attention so they can have a conversation or do business, for example, to hail the moto-taxi or give someone a lead on a tourista needing some service.

Although there are fewer whistlers in Quito (it’s just so loud here with noise pollution) drivers communicate by honking their horns. There are the “Hey, get it moving” honks, there are the “Hey, I’m passing you” honks, the “I’m entering traffic and I’m letting you know”, the “hey, I’m right here next to/behind you” honks, and the “Yep, I see you’re crossing street” honks.

At one point today I got to my limit of noise. I just had to come back to home base, close my eyes and plug my ears for a while.

At a little taller than 5’7”, I’m on the tall side for an American woman. Here, in Ecuador, I feel like a giant. I’m taller than all of the women and almost all the men, sometimes a whole head taller. In the US, I’m used to being taller than a good number of woman but to tower over the men is a different feeling. I already feel like I stand out. I don’t have a tanned face, jet black hair, or speak Spanish and being taller than a whole bus load of smaller people adds to my “Oh, she must be a gringo” look and feel.

There are times at home when I see someone unusually tall I think to myself “Wow. That woman is tall!” I wonder anyone here has thought that about me. I sure have!

The city of Quito is at such a high elevation the temperature is mild and it is in the clouds. From the air it is an amazing place that goes on and on and on. Crowded with people and car/bus/taxi traffic. There is a sense of orderlessness, a casual chaos to just about everything (which may be pervasive to this country).

We pulled into Fargo yesterday after driving almost 1,500 miles through North and South Dakota. As mentioned in my previous posts, there’s a lot of farm land in this part of the great United States of America. Hay, wheat, soybeans, corn, sunflowers … and a lot of each. We got some chuckles along the way reading what restaurants, churches and billboards had posted. Here are a few:

Billboards:
“Don’t text and drive, but it’s safe to pray”
“Be an American. Use Ethanol”
“BE POLITE”
“DNT TXT & DRV”

On a church sign: “Exercise Daily. Walk with the Lord”

On a restaurant sign: “Take life with a grain of salt … and a shot of tequilla and lemon”

On a sign in one of the parks: “Do not approach the buffalo. They weigh 2000 pounds and can run 30 mph … faster than you can!”

And, entering ND the sign says “Welcome to North Dakota. Legendary”

In addition to meeting the chaacters of the Old West through stories, we ran into some modern day characters.

My cousin Robb is a salesperson for a drug company that sells only to independent pharmacies. The job over the last 30 plus years has gotten tougher. The company he orginally worked for was purchased, and then that one bought by a bigger fish. Independent pharmacies are disappearing and the economic squeeze on everyone, even drug companies, trickles down to the sales staff, requiring them to make more visitis to pharmacists and, at the same time, reduce travel expenses. Robb’s territory is western ND, SD and Nebraska. Lots of open land from one small town to another. He doesn’t like it as much as he used to but it’s all he’s ever done and, like many of us, is adverse to change.

Included in his territory are pharmacies on Indian Reservations. Alcoholism and drug addiction are notoriously high on the res. There is a sense of lawlessness, poverty, and sadness on the res. Robb’s job includes carrying drug samples .. and a nine mllimeter pitol in case he’s accosted.

Robb’s favorite phrase? “Better living through pharmancy”.

In addition to meeting the characters of the Old West through stories, we ran into some modern day characters.

At Spearfish Canyon an older man with a cane and a dog (not on a leash) approached me asking what I was shooting. Handing over my camera, he told me he shot Canons for years and currently has a Nikon, which he doesn’t like. Quizzing me he asked me where I was from, what I did for a living, etc. When I told him about my ‘retirement’ from printing, excellent financial advisor, and ability to save, he told me he was in the financial investment business. He cut to the chase asking me which crash I lost money and how I recovered and when I got out of the market.

After I commented that I live a simple life he said he was frugal, with a capital F. Then I introduced Dad, another frugal North Dakotan. Once he knew our last name he queried us on our heritage. His name was Kuchara, which instantly rang a bell. There was a Kuchara family that lived on Elmwood Avenue when I was growing up and, of course, he was related. This man was a cousin of Jim Kuchara, the cop who lived on our block for years.

Finding out I was Norwegian, Swedish, Scottish and Dutch he wanted to see Dad’s eyes. My eyes are brown – definitely not Norwegian blue, like Dad’s, or hazel like Mom’s. Mr. Kuchara asked both Mom and Dad to remove their sunglasses so he could inspect their eyes. Seeing them, he told me I was likely part Laplander, the people who lilve in the most Northern part of Norway and eat reindeer.

His dog’s name was T-bird and, being off leash, wouldn’t leave my cousin Robb’s dog Lola alone. Robb was annoyed but Kuchara seemed to not notice, only calling T-brid twice to heal and sit, which he didn’t do for long.

In the parking lot Kuchara approached me again, telling me that some scenes from “Dances with Wolves” were shot near our next stop, where we saw him again but didn’t speak with him.