The guarantee fairy

I lived on my own for about eight months before I got a blender. I didn't really think I was missing much.

One of the nearby volunteers left, and he left behind a blender. Who would turn down a free blender?

I inherited the appliance and quickly realized what I had been missing. It has really made pasta sauce and shakshuka-making much quicker. I have started making hummus on a regular basis. Although I like to eat my fruits whole, I have learned to appreciate fresh juice on occasion.

Well, Friday afternoon, I overestimated the power of my inherited blender while trying to make a batch of hummus. The motor stopped functioning.

The next day, I took it into the local electrician, who told me that it would cost more to fix the blender than to buy a new one.

I was already planning on going to Huaquillas Saturday afternoon anyway, so I just added "new blender" to my shopping list. (Huaquillas is the town on the border between Ecaudor and Peru. You can pretty much find anything there, including one of the finest statues in Ecuador.)

Blenders come in a few varieties - nice and economical. The nice blender will run you about 50 bucks and is a decent blender. You can find an economical one for about 15. I was looking for something on the nicer end of economical (something would last me for eight months).

When you are searching for something in this price range, you must be wary of vendors trying to convince you that their cheap, bad blender is just a cheap blender. And I don't have to tell you that the type of people you find working at Latin American border town electronic stores are not the most honest salesmen in the world.

After checking into a few different stores, I found a shop tucked away on the main street. The salesman was wearing a button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone. He was finishing up a lunch of soup, chicken, and a few pieces of tomato while watching a soccer game on one of the TVs he was also selling. He was also sweating profusely.

He had a few different models of blender on top of his display case. You had the top-of-the-line model, the end-of-the-line model (which looked a lot like my blender that had broke), and a third style that looked a little bit better.

The brand name was Forever, which I really enjoyed (I couldn't find any Ericksons). After engaging in a bit of bargaining, I was able to get a twenty percent discount. Then I explained to the salesman why I was in the market for a new blender.

Salesman: If this blender breaks, you can bring it to me.
Ian: What will you do if I bring it to you?
Salesman: I will get it fixed at no charge (I thought he was going to tell me "laugh in your face")
Ian: So, you guarantee that this blender will not break on me.
Salesman: If it breaks, you bring it back here with the receipt.

It was at this moment that I thought of Tommy Callahan.

Tommy: Let's think about this for a sec, Ted. Why would somebody put a guarantee on a box? Hmmm, very interesting.
Customer: Go on, I'm listening.
Tommy: Here's the way I see it, Ted. Guy puts a fancy guarantee on a box 'cause he wants you to feel all warm and toasty inside.
Customer: Yeah, makes a man feel good.
Tommy: 'Course it does. Why shouldn't it? Ya figure you put that little box under your pillow at night, the Guarantee Fairy might come by and leave a quarter, am I right, Ted?
[chuckles until he sees that Ted is not laughing]
Customer: [impatiently] What's your point?
Tommy: The point is, how do you know the fairy isn't a crazy glue sniffer? "Building model airplanes" says the little fairy; well, we're not buying it. He sneaks into your house once, that's all it takes. The next thing you know, there's money missing off the dresser, and your daughter's knocked up. I seen it a hundred times.
Customer: But why do they put a guarantee on the box?
Tommy: Because they know all they sold ya was a guaranteed piece of shit. That's all it is, isn't it? Hey, if you want me to take a dump in a box and mark it guaranteed, I will. I got spare time. But for now, for your customer's sake, for your daughter's sake, ya might wanna think about buying a quality product from me.
Customer: [pause] Okay, I'll buy from you.
Tommy: Well, that's...
Tommy, Richard Hayden: ...What?

For some reason, I thought that this blender, whether or not it breaks, was definitely a step up from the one that had recently crapped out on me. I also have a guarantee from this vendor, which could mean one of two things.

1) It's a quality product and lasts me for the rest of my service.
2) At some point in the next eight months, the blender breaks and I take it back to the vendor who will either help me fix it or laugh in my face.

The first one is definitely preferable, but the second one will obviously provide quality blog material.

---

When the salesman was pitching the blender, he emphasized how one can use this smaller attachment to make mustard and mayonnaise.



I saw the utility in this attachment for other sauces, but who makes mustard or mayonnaise?

I have been making homemade tahini for the hummus and definitely see the potential in the smaller attachment for that.

Resume booster?

If you have any questions about puppet management and creation, you can ask me.

I am now certified in the subject — after last week's ten-hour course.

This month is month of the arts in Ecuador. This means that there are a bunch of programs going on throughout the country to promote the arts - in a variety of forms.

So a troupe came through town last week promoting, promoting puppets made out of recycled materials. I thought this sounded interesting. Plus, I'll take any opportunity to receive further certification (This will go on my resume between handwashing and beekeeping).

The training was free and open to the public, so you got a variety of age groups. There was some younger kids, a few high schoolers, some school teachers, and a couple of Peace Corps Volunteers.

The entire week build up to each partificpant performing on the final day of the workshop.

After the first day was spent getting to know a bit about puppets, we devoted the second day to collecting reusable materials that we would use to make our puppets. On the third day, the instructors divided us into groups of three. We each chose a fable to perform on the last day. My group chose "The Lion and the Rat."

I wasn't very familiar with this story, so I had to do some independent research on the subject. To make a short story shorter: A rat wakes up a sleeping lion in the jungle. The lion is angry and threatens to eat the rat. The rat pleas for forgiveness, saying that one day he will help the lion out. A few days later, the lion is trapped by hunters, and the rat helps the lion out of the predicament.

It was my job to make the rat. We spent the next few days making our pieces. My rat was made out of a can of garbanzo beans, the top of a 20 oz. bottle, an eight of clubs playing card, two pieces of paper, broom bristles, and some carpet. I named him Fausto, because I thought he looks like a Fausto.



(If you buy ten sticks of hot glue gun glue, they give you a ridiculous hat.)

Friday was the big day. And I was kind of nervous because I hadn't performed since I appeared as the Chinese immigrant in "Anything Goes" in tenth grade. But it all turned out well.

I just remembered what the professor had been telling us:

• Remember that your character has to walk onto the stage. He just can't appear out of nowhere.
• Only the birds and insects can fly, everybody else has to walk along the top of the curtain.
• Don't take your eyes off you puppet. If you take your eyes off your puppet, you lose focus.
• Many of the items that we think are garbage can be used to make rats. (This is true because if you leave food scraps lying around the house.....)

And because of that, I'm now certified.

(You wonder why there haven't been blogs lately? I've been too busy playing with puppets.)

Fridge fixed

When I left off, the refrigerator repair had finally shown up at my house - just seven hours late.

He said that it wasn't my fault that my fridge broke. It was because, in Ecuador, electicity can very unreliable and often comes and goes as it pleases. These surges of energy are not very good for refrigerators.

Luckily, my refrigerator guy knows how to fix this problem. He looked around my kitchen and saw the gas tank I use for my stove. He asked if I would let him use the tank. I had no idea why but, sure, as long as it's in the name of fixing my fridge.



He runs out to his car to get some tool, chief among them was a blow torch. He hooked up the torch to my gas tank and started welding (soldar).



He got about fifteen minutes into fixing my fridge when he reconnected my gas tank to my stove and started packing up his stuff.

Ian: Is my fridge fixed? That was fast.
Repair man: Not yet. It's getting late. I'll come back tomorrow.

Keep in mind that he showed up at 4:00 in the afternoon when he said he would be at my house at 9:00.

The next day, he showed up on time and worked throughout the morning. When I came back to my house for lunch, he was still there but the fridge was starting to cool down.

He came back later in the afternoon to make sure everything was still working. Success.

---

Of any week for my fridge to stop working, this was probably one of the worst ones. On Friday, I had made mass quantities of food for shabbat dinner, assuming the the majority could be stored away in my fridge and heated up in my over for meals throughout the week. I figured that I could eat three meals of leftovers per day until Wednesday, at least.

That was the plan until Saturday morning when I went into the fridge to finish the previous night's dessert crisp and discovered it was room temperature. Thankfully, my neighbor's let me store my food in their fridge for the week.

Unfortunately, the schools were on vacation, and my neighbor's took advantage of the time off to travel a little bit with their kids, as opposed to their "home all day" schedule when there are classes.

I adjusted to this uncertainty by always having some food on hand to make an easy meal, just in case they weren't home. Obviously, it wasn't as easy as reheating leftovers.

Losing the waiting game

My fridge broke, again. This time, it wasn't my fault.

The wires that connect my house with my kitchen were in rough condition and finally bit the dust. The electrician came by and repaired the power issue. But another one remained.

My refrigerator did not take well to the comings and goings of electricity and decided to shut down.

The fridge made this decision at some point on Friday night, and I realized Saturday morning. I stored all my refrigerated foods at my neighbor's house and set out in search of the repairman.

One man in town has a reputation for being the only capable technician in town. He fixed up my fridge last time it stopped being cold, and I trust his work.

After three days of trying to find him, I finally caught up with him on Monday at lunch. He told me that he'd stop by later in the afternoon. He came into my house without any tools. He scoped around for 15 minutes, whistling a song the entire time. He said he had identified the problem and that he would come back on Wednesday morning at 9:00 a.m. to fix the problem.

I was waiting for him at 9:00 a.m. He never showed. I gave him the hora ecuatoriana. Still no sign.

In the States, you give a cable guy a three-hour time window to come by your house. Translating that into Ecuadorian time, that means he might show up in the next week. Luckily, I had something that cable and utilities companies would never give you - the man's home address.

So I decided to track him down and see why he didn't show up. I was talking to a fellow volunteer, Laurel, and she said that if I followed a repair guy to his house "in the US that might get you a restraining order."

Here, it's what I like to call accountability and the only way to get stuff done.

I posted a note on my door to the technician and headed to his house. An elderly woman answered the door.

Ian: I'm looking for the refrigerator repair guy.
Elderly woman: He's not home.
Ian: He told me he would be at my house at 9:00, but he hasn't showed up yet.
Elderly woman: (Laughing) He's so unreliable.
Ian: Does he have a phone number?
Elderly woman: We can't trust him with a phone. He loses everything.
Ian: Do you think he'll show up this morning?
Elderly woman: He might. Wait at your house all morning.
Ian: If he doesn't show up this morning, I'll come back here during lunch.

I went back home. I had so much to do around the house (e.g. laundry, clean the kitchen), but I couldn't do any of it because I wouldn't be within earshot of the door. I split time between a few episodes of Seinfeld, a few chapters of my book, and reheating some food that I had stored in my neighbor's fridge.

As soon as standard lunchtime struck, I was at his front door. He told me that he had forgotten and that he'd be at my house at 4:00 p.m.

He was there at 4:05, only seven hours late.

"Good" music

When the newspaper kids come to my house to learn how to use Photoshop and InDesign, they also if I have music on my computer. I open up iTunes, and they tell me that I don't have any "good" music.

Now, the newspaper kids and I have different understandings of what makes music good. My preferred music probably wouldn't be well-received at a discotec, whereas that's pretty much all the youth want.

After the "you don't have any good music" bit played out a few times, I asked them to make me a list of music that they would like to listen to when they are at my house so I could get what they want. I now have over 150 bachata songs, 175 reggaeton songs, 74 baladas de amor, and a good variety of other genres they enjoy (cumbia, vallenato, salsa, pop, etc).

By now, pretty much every kid who uses the computer is satisfied with the music selection. My iTunes collection is constantly changing. If the kids want to listen to a song, I want to make them happy so they continue learning how to use the programs.

Two days ago one of the kids came by with a few suggestions on how I could improve my iTunes library.

One of the songs he suggested was "El Dengue" by DJ Loko.

I had never heard of this song before, but having overcome El Dengue, I wanted to know what DJ Loko felt dengue sounded like.



The song does a nice job of expressing the ups and downs of the dengue. Its intermittent use of horns to show the intense headaches followed a brief lull to express how the disease hits use in waves.

If I were to critique the song, I would say that it doesn't really do an accurate job of representing the "everything tastes like chalk" aspect of the sickness or the "I feel as if I was just run over by a tractor" side of things.

While I don't know how that would be done musically, I know that DJ Loko's production is not it. But then again, if you were to accurately portray that in music, I don't think anybody would want to listen.

The dangers of working with cactuses

I spent this morning chopping off branches of cactus plants for a living fence we are building.

A word of caution when working with cacti: Always be aware of the spikes on the cactus, but don't forget about other risks. I learned that one the hard way.

The idea of a living fence is to make a barrier out of plants that people or animals wouldn't want to cross. We are making one of these in town and decided to make it out of cactus.

• It is a local species, so it would not be out of place in the botanical garden.
• Cactus has prickly things that hurt when you touch them.
• They are adapted to the dry season. You can plant them in the dry season, and they will you flourish.
• They are remarkably easy to reproduce.

The easiest way to propagate cactus is by chopping off a chunk of an existing cactus plant and planting that chunk in the ground. Unbelievably simple. Although I'm not sure if it works with all cactus species, it does with the local variety.



The first step was finding someone who had enough cactus on their property that wouldn't mind letting the us prune their plants for seedlings. One of my coworkers said that his neighbor, who lives on some hilly property near the river, has cactus coming out of his ears.

I went down there this morning with my machete to check it out. It didn't help that it rained last night, making the slope heading down toward the river. But I was wearing my work clothes and gardening gloves, so I didn't really care if I fell going down the hill, which happened repeatedly.

I spent a couple of hours chopping down cactus branches and putting them into a pile. It was a lot of fun. The cacti are on the side of a hill, and I had to crawl around the ground to get in better cactus-chopping position. I didn't get pricked because I have cat-like speed and reflexes and was wearing gloves.

Most of the cactus pieces that I took were ones that were lying on the ground and had already fallen off the plants. Well, little did I realize, cactus pieces weren't the only think lying around down there...

Apparently, my cactus seed search had bothered some hornets/wasps. They felt as if I had invaded their territory, which I probably did, and decided to go after my left elbow.

I couldn't really move very quickly because I was crawling underneath a bunch of cactus plants, and any miscalculated movement meant more stinging pain. I maintained my composure as much as I could and rolled to safety. I think I sustained about six stings on my elbow/upper arm (no cool swelling pictures because it didn't really swell up).

I regrouped and finished collecting cactus and lugging it up the hill. And my arm was sore for the rest of the afternoon and had a bit of a burning sensation, as if I had spent the entire day working with hot peppers, but nothing too serious.

But I just want this to be a warning that just because you have mitigated the effects of the cactus spikes that doesn't mean you eliminated all the risks.

Multipurpose rock

I wash my laundry on a concrete slab behind my house.

It has a faucet, drain, and flat surface where I can scrub my clothes.

All along I had been calling this a laundry rock.

I was wrong.

Last week, I was finishing my breakfast one morning when I heard a bird chirping. How pleasant, I thought. The birds had come to feast on the bread crumbs my landlord's wife leaves out every morning.

I heard the chirping again and noticed that it wasn't coming from my landlord's window. It was coming from my laundry rock.

I went to check what was going on. My neighbors were crowding around the laundry rock, holding a chicken in their hands.

Then, suddenly, no more chirping. Just blood dripping down the surface I wash my clothes on.

I had to run out the door, so I couldn't watch the clean-up effort or ask my neighbors any questions at the time. (And it's probably better that way)

This allowed me to reflect about what I had just witnessed and how I was going to handle my laundry situation going forward.

The whole chicken being killed thing isn't a big deal to me. The fact that they decided to perform the act where I wash my dirty underwear and socks made me think.

First off, who would kill a chicken where somebody puts their filthy clothes? Then I thought about some of the sanitary conditions of the local butcher shop and realized that my neighbor's set up was probably cleaner.

Then I considered whether this act would have any effect on how I do laundry for the remainder of my service. I don't think it will.

Any effort that I put into doing laundry is more about effort than results. I'm not exactly sure how much cleaner or less smelly my clothes are getting, but what matters is that I'm trying (and listening to some good podcasts). So a little diluted chicken blood on the drain? No pasa nada. Also, both of my neighbors have since done laundry on the same rock.

I asked a few other volunteers about what they would do in such a situation. And, unsurprisingly, my case is not unique. A couple of my friends recalled having their laundry rocks being used for dinner killing. Plus, I figure I encounter enough hazards that I really don't need to worry about traces of chicken blood on a surface that is exposed to quite a bit of soap and soapy water.

So I'm just going to move forward here and treat it as a learning experience - mostly opening my eyes to the possibilities of what I can do with that multipurpose rock.

Does anyone know a shokhet?

Is that a good idea?

Like any kids, my neighbors love playing.

Any time they are not in school, it seems, is spent playing outside of my door. That's how it should be. But their activity of choice is always changing.

When I first moved in to my apartment, their favorite game was a modified version of soccer (Bonus points for knocking over Ian's plants). The only losers in this game were my plants, which didn't survive the first two weeks.

Then they got into a game called seven lives (kind of a mixture between pickle and dodgeball).

Then, as tryouts for the citywide team approached, the older kids started practicing basketball on the narrow strip of concrete in front of my house.

After basketball tryouts, spinning tops became all the rage. Until last week...

I was walking back to my house when I noticed the kids playing on the street. I said hi to them like I always do and noticed that they were playing with a rope.

This was weird, I thought, I had never seen them playing with a rope before.

They had thrown this rope over the power line that leads to my house and started tugging on the two ends. (Acceptable to use "no pasa nada" here)

They were pulling very tight on the line, and I'm pretty sure they were pulling dangerously hard. I told them to stop because they might hurt themselves (and I might lose power). They dropped the rope as I walked away.

It was unclear if they picked them up again once I left.

How I coped with the U.S. losing

The U.S. World Cup run has been a lot of fun.

Their games weren't that pretty, but they were among the most exciting of the World Cup. Whether it be the gift goal against England, the comeback and blown calls against Slovenia or the drama against Algeria, the American team's performance has been conversation-worthy to say the least.

Although Ecuador did not qualify for the World Cup, the entire country is still living and dying with each game. More than everything, they like to talk about whatever games or teams they find the most interesting.

So even though the U.S. didn't play as well as some of the other teams, they were a frequent topic of conversation because of how their games played out. Whereas Holland might have played as well as any team in the tournament so far, their games haven't been quite as riveting as U.S.-Slovenia.

With today's loss to Ghana, the U.S. is done in South Africa. Like any American soccer fan, I was a little dejected this afternoon, despite being proud of how they represented the red, white, and blue.

But that dejection didn't last very long.

Immediately after the U.S. game ended, I headed over to the soccer stadium for Condor's match against Rio Amarillo. I know that I haven't blogged much about Condor lately. That's because nothing has really changed.

The team has lost every game for the last two months. They are far and away the worst team in the league, and attending their games has begun to remind me of when I covered Michigan's women's basketball team for the Daily. Condor hasn't been competitive for over a month - three 4-1 losses.

But I continue to go to the games to support the local team and help the AREvista sports writer. Today's game felt like it was going to be more of the same.

Condor played uninspired for the first 20 minutes against the best team in the league. It gave up a weak goal and looked completely disenchanted.

Slowly, the tide began to turn. Suddenly, Condor began connecting on some long passes and found itself in open space.

In the second half, Cesar Cordoba broke free down the right sideline and fired a shot from 20 yards out that flew over the goalie's right shoulder and into the top left portion of the net.

GOLAZO!

Some called it Condor's nicest goal of the season. The game was tied up. The few fans who showed up came alive. And even though the opposition kept making changes to find a way to find the net, it couldn't get anything going.

Condor couldn't break the tie, either. So the teams ended the match knotted up, 1-1. This was the first time the team had not lost in over two months. The team had no chance of advancing to the next stage. They were fighting for honor as much as they were fighting for the win.

And after watching the Americans come up short against Ghana, it felt good to see Condor lay it all on the line and salvage their first points in the league.

Not that bottle

Home-brewed alcohol is very common in Ecuador. On the coast, it is typically made of sugar cane and sold in a variety of glass bottles on the side of the road.

Now, because these are not operations in which appearance matters, the brewers will just put their moonshine in whatever glass or plastic bottle they can find. Then they move their table out to the street and open up shop.

So you'll find all classes of bottles - Gatorade, water, whiskey, pop, etc.

One of my coworkers said she accidentally left a bottle lying around the house. It was in a Gatorade bottle.

Well, her four-year old found the bottle and thought it was Gatorade. And well....

Luckily, she noticed this mix-up before anything went terribly wrong.

(Speechless)

I'm sitting in my apartment the other day when I overhear the following exchange.

Landlord: Are you pregnant or just really fat?
Prospective tenant: I'm just really fat.

Amazingly, the conversation continued afterward. There was no yelling, no violence, no questioning how someone could be so rude. They continued talking as if he had asked her what she ate for lunch.

I have spent the last day trying to imagine what would happen if that question were asked in the United States. I couldn't even fathom a response because I couldn't really imagine the possibility of it even happening.

I shall use it in gezunterheyt

So I bought a machete the other day.

I think we have a bright future together, as long as I follow the instructions that come on the handle.

Do no use the blade of the machete for leverage or as a hammer.
Do not use the machete as a tool to cleave.
Use the machete with movement away, moving away from you and others.
Do not use the machete when you are on an unstable surface.
Do not use the machete near cables or electrical equipment.

If anyone else in Arenillas knew that I was talking about a machete purchase like it was a big deal, they would laugh in my face. But coming from a culture where the machete is so underappreciated and underutilized, I think this is an acceptable reaction.

The only question is why it took me so long to bite the bullet. I'm starting a compost pile up. Chopping up into small pieces is one of the most important things to do with any compost pile. Also, I want to be able to chop it up whenever I want. (You never know when the craving [antojarse] to "machetear" [to use a machete] comes. And whenever it does arise, you definitely want to quench [aplacar] it.)

I purchased the Bellota 191, 24-inch machete. Insert Tim Taylor grunting. (Does Binford manufacture machetes?)

It's not like I had much choice in the matter. I walked into the hardware store and said I needed a machete. I was pointed to a wall full of Bellota 191. Since machete technology doesn't change very rapidly, I don't think it really matters.

Film review: Captain Pantoja and the Special Services

I have logged hundreds of hours on South American buses.

I have lived in Ecuador for over a year now. Before Peace Corps, I bused from Quito to Rio de Janeiro.

On these long bus rides, the bus company will normally show a movie - and put the volume up very high so there is no chance of doing anything else but pay attention. In all of this time spent on buses, I have seen a variety of films. There has been plenty of Van Damme, Stallone, Cage, WWE-sponsored action films, Anaconda, bad comedies, and 2012.

But on my way back from my midservice conference last week, I saw something that I had never seen on a South American bus before — a movie that was originally made in Spanish.

We were about half an hour out of Quito when the ayudante (bus attendant) turned on the TV. I couldn't believe it at first. I sent text messages to a bunch of volunteers.

This would have been enough to get a passing reference on the blog, but then the movie continued.

For the next couple of hours, I would have the pleasure of watching Pantaleón y las visitadoras. It was among most ridiculous films I have ever seen.

The Peruvian-made movie is about a very competent Peruvian army officer whose given the task of devising a task to satisfy the soldiers stationed deep in the jungle. He forms a corps of prostitutes who travel by boat and visit the various remote outposts. The officer is very organized and professional, and his organization reflects this. The group operates very smoothly, and he is rewarded for his work.

On the home front, he has a loving family, and a pregnant wife. He hides the nature of his "mission" from his wife. Things run awry when the soldier falls in love with one of the women in the corps, and the jungle radio station starts talking about how the Peruvian army is supporting such an operation.

It appears that Pantaleon has to make a decision between his wife and his lover. Will Pantaleon stay with his wife or stay with amante?t a

The ending is just as ridiculous as the plot line.

According to imdb, this is supposed to be a comedy. I didn't find it that funny. Maybe I didn't pick up on satire or sarcasm. Maybe I was so blown away by a movie that was a originally made in Spanish that I couldn't think straight. Based on my experiences this last year, I thought it was a decent social critique.

World Cup fever

My neighbors burn their garbage.

The fumes of these bonfires waft into my kitchen.

I know it's bad. I have told them as much - repeatedly.

But there is some communication and cultural gap that I'm having trouble bridging. It might have something to do with the unreliability of the municipal garbage truck (something I can attest to because I work in that office. It could have to do with some pyromaniacal tendencies (something I can't relate to because I was afraid of fire until the age of 20).

Either way, the trash keeps on burning.

Last night, they had a raging garbage fire going - probably one of the biggest since I moved it. Everything was normal until I saw my little neighbor (probably about seven) come outside kicking a plastic water bottle.

He is kicking the bottle around the backyard until he stops in front of the garbage fire. He sets up like he is taking a free kick and boots the bottle into the flames. Then he celebrates as if he just scored a World Cup goal as he watches the bottle melt in the fire, breathing in the sweet smell of victory and toxic fumes.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLL!

Stool Sample

Last week, I had my midservice conference.

Aside from catching up with all the other volunteers from my program and seeing them all for the first time since the swearing-in ceremony, there was one primary topic of conversation.

Part of the midservice conference involves a midservice medical exam. Part of said medical exam involves giving a stool sample.

They use the stool sample to check whether a volunteer has parasites, amoebas, and/or other interesting digestive situations. In order to give an adequate sample, one must place a turd in small, blue canister. The canister is about half full with a preservative solution and also contains a small shovel.

Several of the other volunteers have had some digestive issues throughout their first year of service and have some experience collective their poop for examination. Others, like me, were doing it for the first time.

Upon asking around, I heard quite a few different strategies that were adopted by my fellow volunteers.

Now, I understand the some people might not want to read all the how-to details involved in giving a testable sample. I have prepared a guide based on conversations with other volunteers. If this is something you are interested in reading, you can send me an email (ian.jacob.robinson@gmail.com).

But just so you know, my test came back clean.

No parasites. Giddy up!

A full day's work

I had a long day today.

I rolled out of bed at 6:15 and headed over to my friend's house to prepare for the day's labor.

I sat down on his couch, turned on the TV, and clocked into my "office" for the day. Today, I turned in a March Madness-esque day of worshiping soccer. I watched five games, on three completely different levels of competition.

The day started early at my friend's house with Greece-South Korea. At first, I was alone on the couch but twenty minutes into the game, his nine year-old son woke up and joined me.

I didn't really have a rooting interest in the game, but we decided to pull for Korea because my friend thought the country's name was very close to that of the President of Ecuador (Korea vs. Correa). That, and it would have made for a tough start to the day pulling for a team that played as poorly as Greece.

With the first game out of the way, our next course was Argentina vs. Nigeria. From what I have heard, in the Ecuador's absence from the World Cup, everybody has decided to cheer for every other Latin American country.

So there is an obvious attraction to Argentina. Plus, there is Lionel Messi - the Argentine star and one of the best players in the world. But the biggest intrigue about Argentina, and the reason most were interested in watching is the coach - Diego Maradona.

Maradona is considered one of the greatest soccer players ever. He received the undying affection of every Spanish-speaking soccer fan in South America by carrying Argentina to the 1986 World Cup championship. Since his playing days though, he has done everything possible to ruin that reputation (Cocaine addiction, alcoholism, obesity, financial troubles). He really likes media attention.

He's not my kind of player.

I asked my my little buddy if he wanted Argentina or Nigeria. He said he wanted to wait until the teams came out of the tunnel and could choose which color he liked the most. He preferred the white/light blue uniforms of Argentina more than the greens of Nigeria. And since Argentina was the first country I ever visited in South America, I have no trouble rooting for them on occasion. And even though Argentina showed some cracks, it won 1-0. (Plus, I always like to see the African teams do well, especially on African soil. Except Algeria against the US, of course.)

Then I had a lunch break before the day's biggest game - US-England. I got together with a few other volunteers and some Ecuadorian friends at a local restaurant that has a relatively large screen.



When else will I have the opportunity to drape myself in an American flag and not be horribly awkward?

We were all happy enough with the game's outcome, though my heart could have gone without so many defensive lapses. Thank you, Tim Howard.

Then I headed over to the stadium for Condor's game. I had missed one Condor game, and it felt like an entirely different team. In the game that I missed, Condor lost 4-1 on the road, meaning that it had lost the first four games of the tournament. It was the only team in the league without a single result. I guess the fans finally caught on that this team was not very good.

In the last game I attended, I would say nearly a thousand people showed up. This afternoon barely saw a hundred people at the stadium. And Condor came out with the same enthusiasm.

The game briefly became interesting when Condor tied it up in the second half but almost immediately allowed the tiebreaker. The team has cut a few players because they just don't have the budget anymore and had to cut their newly hired coach as well.

Then, I went home for a bit and caught the final part of my quintuple header: Emelec-Barcelona. These are the two teams from Guayaquil, and it is called a "classico" because the rivalry is so intense. Emelec won, 2-1.

And that capped my day.

Now, I have to get some sleep before I repeat the same schedule tomorrow.

Fotos de mis padres

I know you really don't want to read text. You would probably rather be looking at pictures of my parent's visit. So I'll stop typing and let you look.


Together in Cuenca.


Shabbat in Cuenca.


Cheering on Club Condor. Even their presence couldn't get them in the victory column.


My parents embracing bag culture.


The best ten cents you can spend.


The mosquito net fell down in the middle of the night, but it was still on top of them so the mosquitoes never got in.


Helping take the recyclables out of the elementary school.


Mom getting out of out "taxi".


Cotopaxi is the world's highest active volcano.

Con mis padres

Apologies for the lack of recent blog content. I have been a bit busy for the last week, entertaining some important guests.

We have had quite a few blog-worthy experiences in this time. What has been lacking is the blogging time/internet connection.

We have been having a great time and will share the experience with the loyal blog readership very soon.

And trust me. You will not be disappointed. You might see a picture of my mom shlepping garbage out of the all-girls elementary school. You might see a picture of my dad making my bed more ergonomic.

That's just to whet your palate.

You will not see any Diet Coke. You will not see any pictures from the supermarket in Cuenca, either (I learned that from my last trip there).

Stay tuned.

The best five dollars I've ever spent

I have recently fielded some complaints from other Peace Corps Volunteers about the cleanliness of my bathroom - the toilet seat, in particular.

Now, this is something I take very seriously. Some of them wouldn't even sit down to do to the bathroom.

I am a firm believer that there is a direct correlation between how comfortable one is with their toilet and their overall disposition. If one has a reliable, clean toilet, they will be calmer and generally more productive. But if something is awry with one's toilet, it can dramatically affect their lives.

A case study:

During my first three months at site, I was not very comfortable. I attribute most of this to the state of the bathroom at my host family's house. First off, I had to walk through my host parent's bedroom to go to the bathroom - meaning that the bathroom was essentially closed from 10:00 pm - 6:00 am. This bathroom was shared between four adults, meaning that access to the bathroom during prime time (6:00 am - 8:00 am) was not always guaranteed. Then, when I could get into the bathroom, the toilet didn't even flush. I had to fill a bucket with water and throw that bucket of water down the toilet with enough force to imitate a flush. Sometimes, the toilet water splashed on to the floor, meaning that I would have to undertake a clean-up effort.

This all added up to me being generally anxious and always scheming about when I would be able to use a dependable bathroom. I was a nervous wreck.

Now, I have always felt comfortable using the toilet at my house. I have repeatedly cleaned the entire room with bleach and there are some spots that just won't come out. I was troubled by the fact that my friends didn't feel comfortable using the toilet in my house. I want this to be a home away from home where my friends are comfortable being themselves.


And I found this situation troublesome.

So I took action. I went to the local hardware store and inquired about how much it would cost to buy a new toilet seat.

The woman who works there told me it would cost five dollars.

Problem solved.


(This will be the first in a series of posts about lavatories.)

Can you do this with your sweaty forehead?

Human beings perspire.

It is completely natural. We sweat to cool off.

Living in the sauna that is Arenillas in the rainy season, one sweats a lot. Sometimes, it feels as if you are living with a permanent layer of sweat over your body - even when taking a cold shower.

It seems completely natural to try to wipe the sweat off your forehead.

It builds up. You get uncomfortable, and you don't want the sweat to just sit there. So you wipe it off. (In the world sauna championships, competitors are allowed to wipe sweat off their face)

But, down here, they don't just wipe the sweat off their forehead. The forehead-wipe is also accompanied by a wrist flick in an apparent effort to get the sweat off your (already-sweaty) hand.

This first came to my attention a few weeks ago during a balmy meeting at city hall. The fan was broken, and even though the window was open, air wasn't really flowing through.

Every few seconds, the leader of the meeting would wipe the sweat off his forehead. But it wasn't the wiping that caught my attention. It was the accompanying flick that made me notice.

He would flick his wrist with such intensity to get the sweat off his hand that you could tell he was really focusing on this. But sweat never flew off his hand. He kept sweating and kept flicking, but nothing came off.

He must have flicked his wrist hundreds off times during the meeting (he was definitely sweating profusely), but he couldn't wipe enough sweat onto his hand to launch a measurable quantity of perspiration into the air.

Obviously, I found this hilarious.

I quickly found myself explaining this situation to my friends, imitating his exact moves. It started in jest. I was flicking my wrist with the same energy that one with throw a curveball.

I wondered whether it was possible to brush the sweat off my forehead and then flick it into the air in any quantity.

I tried this for a few days but, as expected, couldn't didn't see any sweat flying. I figured it would take me until the end of my service to accomplish this feat.

Then, one steamy evening about a week after the meeting, I was sitting on my couch. I put the back of my index and middle fingers above my eyebrows, wiped the sweat off, and flicked. Like I always did.

But this time was different. I noticed a drop hit the ground.

At first, I didn't believe it. But when I realized that it had to be sweat, I immediately went for my camera.



Here's a step-by-step:

First: Gather sweat with first two fingers.



Flick



Hold position, as if you are shooting a three-pointer.

AREvista (fifth edition)

New edition of AREvista can be found here.

Huaquillas F.C. 1, Condor 0

I showed up at Condor's practice last Tuesday with the AREvista sports writer, ready to interview the head coach about his team's performance through the first part of the season and what he was looking forward to in the second stage.

But when I got to the field, the team's coach from last season, Gary Luna, was in charge. Luna had left Condor during the offseason because another team in Condor's league had offered him more money. He guided that team to a spot in the second round of the provincial tournament. And in the week before the first game of said tournament he is directing Condor's practice.

What's the deal?

Well, Condor really needed a coach because its head coach and assistant coach are both suspended for three months, essentially the duration of the tournament. That explains the need for someone else to come help out.

But didn't Luna ditch Condor for another team?

It's obvious that Bo Schembechler isn't pulling the strings for Condor. There's no "We want a Michigan Man coaching Michigan."

The Condor leadership went after Luna because of his familiarity with the players. My doubt about his presence on the team has to do with how the team played last year in the second round of the provincial tournament - uninspired and unable to score any goals.

Which is kind of how the team played Saturday.

In the first game of the Liguilla, Condor was out-played in every facet, losing 1-0.

Huaquillas controlled everything - from the pace of the game to the crowd. It almost looked as if Condor didn't belong on the same field as them. The opposition looked bigger, stronger, and faster (and had more facial hair). They played with more rhythm and dominated possession. Every time Condor looked like it might have a chance at creating some offense, Huaquillas's defense easily dispatched the risk.

Condor looked unorganized. The defense was shaky. The goalie was off his game. And the offense, as we already know, has no game.

At the end of soccer games, when a team is trailing by one goal, they normally put more pressure on the offensive end and create some game-tying chances. This week saw nothing of the sort. The fans actually started to leave before the whistle blew, even though the home crowd was one point from the tie.

After watching this match, my hopes for the rest of Condor's season aren't diminished, though. There was a large crowd at this week's game, which means that the club made a lot of money on entrance fees. They will now be able to use this money to hire better players (ringers, essentially) to continue improving throughout the season.

Even if a good portion of the crowd was Huaqillas fans traveling 20 minutes down the road, the gate proceeds still go to Condor. It will be interesting to see what kinds of changes Condor makes in the coming weeks because maintaining the status quo would be painful to watch.

That might look like a carrot

I was walking through a street market the other day when I came across an unfamiliar vegetable.

As is my custom when I see some variety of produce for the first time, I asked for a bit more information.

I was told that it is called "zanahoria blanca" (white carrot). They said that it is common in soup. That's the same way they describe quinoa here. (It's like saying "Oh, they put that in cholent.)



Hmm, I thought, I have never heard of a white carrot. I'm sure that there are other uses for this albino carrot. I'll just have to be creative.

So then I went to the best resource for obscure produce - the Internet. According to the Internet, this "white carrot" isn't quite the same as a carrot. It can't be eaten raw and should be treated almost exactly like a potato.

The Wikipedia told me that it is a common food in Brazil. So I asked someone familiar with that culture about it, and she said that she loves this batata-borao (Portuguese name, which calls it a kind of potato), especially in soups.

I thought this was a bit odd. People like eating potatoes, but I have never heard anybody say "I love potatoes." It''s not really the kind of vegetable that you love. It's the kind that you tolerate and might enjoy, but I think love goes a bit too far.

I don't really make soups, but there are so many ways to cook a potato that I figured I would just kind of wing it.

First I took the white carrot. Then I put it in boiling water for about 25 minutes. Then I mashed it up and mixed in some margarine and honey.

Then I stuffed it.



Its flavor is a cross between a potato and a peanut. It is a winner. Expect this to show up on my shabbat dinner table very soon - and frequently.

Shabbat dinner: 5-7-10

This week's shabbat dinner was an intimate affair - just five people.

We had planned on having a large group for dinner but for a variety of reasons (tropical disease-related and otherwise), most couldn't come (which is sad).

But on the bright side, that means there are more delicious leftovers for me.

It was a beautiful, delicious meal. I had some camera issues last night, so I don't have visual proof to share with you. Problem has been resolved, and future meals will be documented in word and image.

Menu

Challah
Hummus
Greek green bean/tomato caserole
Mac and cheese
Banana, noodle kugel
Apple/blackberry crisp

(I previously mentioned two metrics to determine the success of Friday night meals. The first is the percentage of guests in a food coma-like state. The second is how long the table remains silent after the food is initially served.)

Food coma?
Yes. There was a consensus food coma. It was a struggle to get up and wash dishes. I then quickly fell asleep in my hammock.

Silence?
10-15 minutes.

Both very strong indicators of a successful shabbat dinner.

Overheard
After eating three full helpings of goodness, I ran into the proverbial wall. I asked my friend how one would say that in Spanish.

Apparently, it is "entrada de caballo, salida de burro." This literally translates to "entering like a horse, leaving like a donkey."

Condor 1, Santos FC 0

Last week, the Condor faithful spent a half hour after the game clamoring of the referees head.

Tonight, that same group spent a half hour after the game caravanning around Arenillas, celebrating their team's classification into the next round.

That's soccer.

This afternoon, facing a must-win game at Santos FC in Pasaje, Condor netted its point in the 25th minute and held on for the rest of the match to advance to the Liguilla. Now, Condor will face the five best teams in the conference in a ten-game season to advance to a national-level tournament.

This afternoon's game looked like so many of Condor's other matches — scoring early and letting its guard down in the end. But despite allowing three corner kicks and a few other good chances in the final minutes, Condor held on and lives to see another day.

My first celebration caravan

Once we got back to Arenillas, a parade of cars coming back from the game amassed at the bridge. Then for the next 30 minutes, we drove through town, honking our horns and shouting about Condor's big win.

It is fun to see the community get behind its team and should be interesting to see as the season continues.

Punished

Well, after last week's outburst at the referees, Condor head coach Roberto Salazar was suspended by the soccer federation. For the next three months, he is not allowed to be on the sidelines during games.

The team's trainer was also suspended for three months.

Since the stadium was empty and pretty quiet, that didn't really affect their ability to continue doing their jobs. They just did it on the other side of the fence.



But it did create some interesting situations when the Condor players faked injuries and they called over the medic because the team's medic is suspended and there is a rule that the coach can't attend to injuries.

Since the assistant coach was the only person on the sideline, he had to go out and attend to injuries.

Just so you know, he has no medical background. Luckily, all he had to do was spray on the magic, heals-everything solution.

Just a bit outside

The Arenillas radion commentator did his best Harry Doyle impression during today's game, going through quite a few beers while calling the game.

Now, I understand that expectations of what qualifies as acceptable professional behavior might differ between cultures, but I think it might be a little bit out of line when the commentator starts complaining on the air that the next round of beers isn't coming quickly enough.

His main job during games is to read off the advertisements.

By halftime, he was kind of slurring his words together a bit and mixing up the words he was saying. Then, when he was asking about the out-of-town scores, he clearly wasn't paying attention because he had to be told five or six times before being able to tell the audience that Santa Rosa and Fuerza Amarilla were scoreless.


Home away from home

Although Santos is a team from El Guabo, they do not have their own home stadium and have to play their games in Pasaje (half hour from El Guabo). As a result, there were about as many Condor fans on hand as there were Santos fans, canceling out any home-field advantage.

It was so quiet in the stadium that everybody could hear the Radio Voz Arenillas announcers as they broadcast the game. At one point, the radio announcers pointed out a mistake that the refs had made, and everybody else got mad at them.

Phrase of the day

Donde la papa quema - literally means where the potato burns. (I'm pretty sure this is what I heard)

The announcer mentioned this when Condor had some good chances to score. I believe it refers to being in good position to score, as in "They are spending a lot of time down where the potato burns."

Remembering Harwell

Last week, I began a blog post with a quote from the Bible to describe the change in season.

"For, lo, the winter has passed..."

As much as I enjoy quoting the Tanakh, by quoting that phrase, I was quoting legendary Tigers announcer Ernie Harwell, whose soothing, Georgia accent meant the beginning of spring (and more importantly baseball season).

Ernie died yesterday at the age of 92.

Some will remember his catchphrases (the above phrase that he used during the first broadcast each spring, "Like a house by the side of the road", "that ball is long gone", "two for the price of one", etc), but it was Ernie the person who left an indelible mark on Detroit, the State of Michigan, and baseball fans.

For anybody who grew up listening to Tigers broadcasts, Ernie was the voice of summer. There is no logical reason why, growing up in Detroit in the 1990s, baseball would be someone's favorite sport. But Ernie's presence in the booth made listening to games so pleasant and enjoyable no matter how pathetic the Tigers were.

And just by listening to Ernie's broadcasts for the first 14 years of my life and never actually meeting the man was enough for him to be one of the people I most admired. His personality came across through the radio waves, through how he told stories, and narrated the game. He never made himself part of the game. He maintained a professionalism and a humility that was admirable. In an era where broadcasters and journalists increasingly made themselves part of the story, Ernie stayed out of it. He came across as a complete mensch.

When I was 14, I attended an event at the Jewish Community Center that was featuring Ernie. I think it had something to do with a new book he had just written. I realized that I had left my copy of the book at home and didn't have anything for him sign. And like any baseball-obsessed kid, autographs meant everything to me. I felt around in my pocket and realized that I had my baseball yarmulke. I asked Ernie to sign my yarmuulke, and he told me that he had never signed one before but that he would gladly sign it.

Like any other pieces of memorabilia, I should have stored it in a safe place. But with my Ernie Harwell-signed kippah, I was so happy that I wore it around my high school until I could find a replacement baseball kippah.

It was my first personal interaction with Ernie (although listening to him on the radio felt like he was talking directly to you, he was actually speaking to millions of people), and he came across just as he did on the radio - completely down to earth.

A couple of years later, I was interviewed by the Detroit Free Press, and I mentioned that Ernie was one of the people that I most admired. The night that the piece appeared in the paper, the phone at my house rang. It was Ernie. He called me to thank me for the nice things I had said about him in the newspaper. Ernie Harwell, the voice of the Tigers, called my house to thank me for something I said about him in the paper.

The amazing thing is that I know this was just the kind of person Ernie was.

After high school, I worked as an usher at Comerica Park and would often see Ernie around the ballpark. He was always friendly, and when we spoke, he said he remembered signing the kippah and calling me about the article. When some of his friends came to a game and were sitting in my section, he would talk to me for a few seconds before heading back up to the booth. Seeing him around the stadium, he treated everybody else with this same level of respect.

He was a different kind of person.

Judging by the public's reaction to his retirement, his illness, and his death, it is clear that people admired him for much more than simply being the voice of the Tigers.

What made him so memorable isn't what he did in the radio booth and in his life. It is how he did it - with a level of respect, humility, and outreach - that sets him apart.

Fuerza Amarilla 2, Condor 1

Soccer fans are passionate.

Their devout support, through good and bad, is something I wish American fans would display a bit more.

But there are times when this passion crosses the line, like Saturday afternoon.

A near riot broke out in the stadium after the game as the frustrated fan base gathered to take out their anger on the referees for some questionable calls. For half an hour after the game ended, the fans were still gathered there as police officers surrounded the referees to protect them.

Now, I understand that the ref's made some questionable judgments that might have impacted the game. But at the same time, these calls didn't decide the game, and nothing good can come of waiting for the refs to leave the stadium. The game already ended, and the result wasn't going to change.

The calls in question came late in the game with Condor trailing by a goal. The ref called a foul on a Fuerza Amerilla player inside the 18-yard box, which would have resulted in a Condor penalty kick. But the line judge ruled that the foul was not inside the box, but about four centimeters outside.

So instead of taking a shot directly at the goalie, Condor had to face an eight-man wall. The ball sailed over the net, and the whole situation changed the momentum of the game. A few minutes later, a Condor player was called for a red card for what seemed like some incidental pushing. The player and Condor's coach, Roberto Salazar, got in ref's face about the calls, and both had to be restrained by the police.

The refs were unable to restore order to the game for five minutes, and by the time play resumed, they were already in the 47th minute of the half. It seemed clear that the ref's had lost control of the game. And the fans have grounds to gripe.

It crossed the line from acceptable to unacceptable when the common insults about the ref and his mom´s occupation (common prostitute) were replaced by broken beer bottles and mobs at the fence.

Did the refs make some bad calls? Sure.

Did Condor continue to suck at offense? Even more so. Like any other week, if Condor could have converted one of its three golden chances, we wouldn´t be talking about riots.

Instead of getting mad at the refs and waiting for them to leave the stadium so that you can intimidate them further, the Condor fans should ask the club leadership to put more resources into the club, like Fuerza Amarilla did this week.

(Segue into my next point)

There was a buzz in the stadium before the game.

One of the greats in Ecuadorian soccer history was going to be playing for Fuerza Amarilla. Recognizing the importance of this game, the Machala team signed a big name.

Cuchillo Fernandez.

Throughout the 90s and early 00s, Fernandez was a fixture in the Ecuadorian premiere league, playing for some of the country´s top teams. I would say he has spent the last five years in the downward swing of his career.

He is nearly 40 years old and started playing professional soccer before most of his current teammates were born. He is playing the Ecuadorian equivalent of independent minor league baseball.

He can´t play the full 90 minutes any more. He can barely go 45. He subbed in about midway through the second half. He didn`t do too much to wreak havoc on the Condor defense, but his presence on the field definitely changed how Condor defended and led to Fuerza Amarilla´s second goal.

Now, I don´t know about Condor´s financial situation. But I can´t imagine it being out of their price range to hire a player for a game or two to ensure classification to the next round.

Chances to advance

Here is the table of positions. Each team has one game left. The top two advance - the other two go home.

Santa Rosa 8
Fuerza Amarilla 7
Condor 6
Santos FC 6

A team gets three points for a win and one for a tie. Condor plays at Santos. Fuerza Amarilla hosts Santa Rosa. The fun thing about this weekend is that each team has a chance to advance.

Condor controls its own destiny. If it wins, it will advance. According to a conversation I had earlier today, Condor would lose the tiebreaker, which is based on goal differential. So Condor's path is clear: win and advance. Otherwise, the season's over.


Fun word

Futbolisticamente - soccer-wise

My first quince

I remember watching a movie in high school Spanish class called ´´Quince´´. It was about a Mexican girl´s 15th birthday party.

In Latin culture, when a girl turns fifteen, she doesn´t get her learner´s permit. Instead, she has a big party to celebrate the fact that she is no longer a child, that she is now expected to assume the responsibilities on adult.

Sound familiar?

The only things missing are the candle-lighting, Star Trax, the hora, and a mitzvah project.

Last week, I went to my first Quinceñera (15th birthday party). One of the youth from the newspaper group was turning fifteen and invited me to the event, which was going to be held at her house.

When I heard that the party was going to be held at her house, I didn´t know how they were going to pull it off. She doesn´t live in a very big house, and it´s pretty full of stuff. But when I stopped by a little earlier in the afternoon, they had cleared out the entire house and filled the room with a circle of chairs and put another circle of chairs in the yard. Where everything else went I have no idea.

The family had spent the entire week making pink and white decorations for the house. It was really nice, and their hard work definitely paid off.

I was told the event was going to begin at 8:00. I asked some of the other newspaper kids who had been invited what time it was actually going to show up. They said that there was no way it would start before 9:45. So I got there at 9:40, and things got under way just before 10:00. They also told me not to eat beforehand because there was going to be dinner at the party. Well, dinner was not going to be served until the wee hours of the morning, so I had a full meal ahead of time.

Like any event in Ecuador, there was an enumerated order of events to take place. Someone announces the event and its place in the order of the day before said event occurs.

The ceremony started with a procession of various people, starting with something like to flower girls, followed by the birthday girl´s parents, and then the birthday girl, accompanied by her male chaperon (in this case, her brother). The birthday girl takes a seat at the front of the room in a decorated chair.


Then comes the ceremonial changing of the shoes. The birthday girl entered the room wearing some sort of flip-flop house shoe. The flower girls weren´t flower girls. One was a shoe girl. When entering the room, she carried a pillow with a high-heeled shoes perched on top of it. Then birthday girl´s parents perform the shoe-changing ceremony.

After the shoe ceremony, the other flower girl is called up. This one is the makeup girl. On her pillow, she was carrying some makeup. Then the birthday girl´s godmother is called up to apply makeup.

Then, it´s time for the speeches. First, the parents give a tear-jerking speech about how their little girl is all grown up. Then, the birthday girl gives a tear-filled speech, thanking her parents for everything they have done for her and for making this such a special night.

After that there is the first dance, father with daughter and mother with son.

Then, they quote Buzz McAllister and say ´´Enough of this gooey show of emotion.`` Dance party!!!!

And so the dance party begins, rotating ten-minute sets between tecno-cumbia songs (favorites of the parents) and reggaeton (preferred rhythm of the teenagers).

When the adult music is on, all the kids go out to the front yard. When it's time for reggaeton, the kids dominate the dance floor and the parents sit down. There was no klezmer set, so I stayed seated the whole time.

After the first dance set, there is one last rite of passage - and it has nothing to do with the birthday girl. (Ecuadorian dance parties work in a sequence of 15 minutes of dancing followed by three minutes of recovery before another set comes on.)

And much like a bat mitzvah has events that symbolize the assumption of responsibilities, so too does the quinceñera. Though the significance of this last part was a little lost on me.

All of the birthday girl's best friends line up on the dance floor. Then the birthday girl's chaperon puts a blind fold on. He reaches up the birthday girl's leg and grabs a garter. He takes it off her leg and puts it on the leg of one of her friends, all the while the crowd is cheering for him to put it higher and higher on the girls leg.


But he doesn't stop at just one garter. He performs the same act on every one of the girl's friends, making me feel uncomfortable each time he reached up her leg or one of her friend's. I have tried to think about what this could signify. I have no idea.

After this, I waited around for a few more dance sets before realizing that it was getting a bit late and that I didn't want to sit through this quinceñera all night long.

So I said my farewells and headed home.

---

Is it weird that there is a special birthday party for the girls when they turn fifteen that means that they no accept the responsibil´ities of being a woman in society but there is nothing for the boys? Does that mean they never have to accept responsibilities?

Shabbat dinner: 4-30-10

Every week, we cook shabbat dinner here.

It has become a bit of a tradition in Arenillas. It has become normal to hear Ecuadorians discuss last week's challah, the unlimited possibilities of kugel, or the raw material for making farfel.

Friday night dinners are my favorite time of the week. I have explained this before, but it bears repeating. More so than a religious event, dinner is a time to be spent with family and friends. The week is over. One need not worry about the week that was or the one that will be. One can simply focus on enjoying the food and conversation at the dinner table.

Friday night dinner has become an institution in my house. Some things are constant. Each week, I make a challah and (almost every week) a dessert crisp. I borrow tables and chairs from the ceviche restaurant across the street.

What does vary from week to week are the rest of the menu, the guests, and the shenanigans that are bound to ensue. As a way to remember these dinners, I have decided to include a shabbat dinner feature on the blog. That way, I can share these meals with you and easily refer to the dinner menus.

It has also become a great bonding experience for the volunteers in the area. There are a few other volunteers nearby, and Friday night dinners are a great opportunity for every one to get together.

Without any further ado, last night's dinner:

Menu
Challah with raisins
Blintzes (cream cheese, chocobanana, apple cinnamon)
Hash browns
Fritatta
Blackberry/peach crisp

The menu was a success. One easy metric for shabbat dinner success is the amount of conversation at the table immediately after the food is served. Aside from asking for a certain dish to be passed, the only sound was that of silver wear tapping plates for about ten minutes.

Another metric is the food coma ratio. I think last night's meal achieved an 83 percent food coma ratio.

I have not made blintzes before but learned that they are relatively easy and delicious. An instant classic. They will be back on the menu in two weeks for shavout shabbat. We decided to focus on the sweet blintzes filling but are resolved to attempt savory blintzes one week. Pretty maids all in a row...



This was the first time that I added raisins to the challah. I would say it was well received.

Sarah made a veggie fritatta. We had planned on making a quiche but when we learned that a fritatta is a quiche sans crust, our quiche turned into a fritatta.

Last week, we were kind of bored of making the same crisp dessert so many weeks in a row. But when I brought out dessert, there was nearly a mutiny. The guests demanded a crisp. And well, we had to capitulate.

What broke?

For three consecutive weeks, something in my house has broken during shabbat dinner.

Two weeks ago, my fridge broke during dinner. It spent a week in rehab but is back and better than ever.

Last week, one of our guests tripped over and broke my fan. It spent a day at the repair shop and is now functioning again.

Yesterday, the guests were carrying my glass table (my landlord's glass table) from the kitchen to the living room when the bumped into the door. The glass table top fell and shattered.


Should I start locking all of my stuff up before people come and putting protective plastic on everything else?

Overheard

"Ian, when you go back to the States, you should open up a restaurant."