That's not part of the routine

For the last two weeks, my town has been in fiesta mode.

You can find the schedule of the fiestas by reading this excellent publication, which was put together by some of the local youth, but that's besides the point of this post.

The fiestas end on the anniversary of our town's founding. In the morning, they mark the event with a giant parade.

The parade is giant in many ways. First, the entire town comes out for it — plus most of the neighboring town. Second, it lasts six hours.

Six hours.

It started at 9:00 a.m. and lasted until 3:00 p.m.

And it's not like there was much variety in the groups that marched. The pattern was typically high school war band playing the same melody followed by a group of students marching followed by an elementary school followed by a group of citizens walking followed by another high school war band playing the same melody.

I contend that Arenillas needs a bobsled team.

While the people who were watching the parade started to lose enthusiasm for what was going on and began milling about after a while, likewise the parade participants were also beginning to lose interest.

Look at this photo of a group of high school professors in the parade. Notice anything odd.



Luckily, with the help of computer technology, I can zoom in and point out ridiculousness.



But he wasn't the only one to take more interest in the news than the parade, a parade in which they were marching. Numerous people broke formation to buy a newspaper during the route.

Taking a load off

About a month ago, I realized that my neighbor's compost pile was lacking carbon.

I could have simply resorted to any of the convenient carbon sources that I encounter daily: dry leaves, rice shells, wood ash.

But I didn't.

I decided to contribute a little bit of myself to his pile.

After nearly eight months of growing my hair out into an outstanding Jewfro, it was time to get that mop under control.

Actually, it was more of a realization.

I can't think of a single experience that pushed me over the edge. I think a culmination of months of kids yelling "Michael Jackson" every time I walked down the street. Plus there was the time the little girl called me ugly. Plus there was the hair blocking my sight. And the weight.

So ... I decided to look for a barber.

The thing about me and my hair is that we don't trust anyone. The same woman cut my hair for more than fifteen years (I don't really remember when I started going there). A few times, I tried other places, out of convenience, but it just wasn't the same. Then, she moved to another state, and I had to face reality. My hair and I had to become more trusting ... which would be great practice for the Peace Corps.

I went to Coach and Four in Ann Arbor. They didn't really do a great job, but the atmosphere was great. I don't know if they had seen my quality of afro for thirty years, so I forgave them. Then, I went to a Russian guy, in his basement. He gave me the shortest haircut of my life, and probably the cheapest. Then I left for the Peace Corps — prepared to grow it out for two years if I couldn't find a half-decent barber.

Well, the verdict about my town is that there is no decent, let alone half-decent barbershop.

The other volunteer in town got her hair cut and was unhappy to say the least. Her haircut was so bad that even I noticed. Then, when another volunteer was in town visiting, they both decided to give it a shot. It couldn't be worse than the local butcher.

I'll let the following photo essay describe the experience

1. Not the most pleasant experience of my life



2. I need 350cc of Soul Glo, stat.



3. From this, I then shaved down to a mustache, which has since been eliminated to maintain my good standing in the community.



4. My kitchen floor



5. That is no dead animal in the compost pile



During the actual haircut, the stylists found tons of organic matter (nothing that was moving), which should pan out really well for the compost. It was mostly just twigs and leaves. I told me neighbor that I was adding my hair to his compost and he was totally stoked.

Some of my Peace Corps friends thought I should plant some seeds in there and see what happens. That would be a bit ridiculous and require me to sleep sitting up and spent a lot of time in the sun. I like a ridiculous experience as much as the next guy, but that would have pushed the line.

The next morning, I had to teach in the high school. When I walked into class, some of the students gave me a standing ovation.

AREvista

In this town of 17,000 people, there is no community newsletter.

Well, that was until last week - when a group of twenty high school students decided to do something about that.

With the technical assistance of a two Peace Corps and a municipal employee, the kids put published the first edition of AREvista.

You can find a pdf copy of the newspaper by clicking on the link.

AREvista

If you any comments on what the youth can do better for the December edition, consider this a place where you can pass your message to them - until the paper has its own website.

Procrastination doesn`t translate

There is no word in Spanish for procrastination.

Now there might well be a word for it.

But the people in my town are not aware of it.

I have asked around and explained the idea to several of them. The general response is: that`s the way we do things.

Which is very obvious, now, in the height of the local fiesta season.

A major part of the local fiestas are the big ferias where the people show off what they have been doing all year - or what they whipped up in the last week to show off what they say they have been doing all year.

So people have been rushing together to put their things together. Last week, some farmers wanted me to whip together some organic compost really quickly, some school directors wanted my groups to change the world overnight, and someone who I had never talked to approached me about helping out.

To say the least, this town has a do it at the last minute culture.

Tis the season

October 30th, I was walking down the street when I looked in the window of one of the homes.

They were putting up the Christmas tree.

I looked at my calendar to make sure I wasn´t a month behind.

I wasn´t.

That was an actual Christmas tree (well, a plastic one), with Christmas ornaments adorning a house in my neighborhood.

A couple of days later, another neighbor had their lights going.

I´m excited to see how the holiday season goes in Ecuador, but I wasn´t quite ready for the holiday season in October 30. I mean, you still have Halloween, Dia de Los Muertos, and the town´s fiestas before you even sniff the middle of November.

All of those would seem like logical moments from which you could then move forward into the holiday season. But then again, every day I learn more and more about the culture in which I´m living.

You decide

Two points of view on why there have been turning on and off the power recently.

The first comes from someone at city hall.

Many people base their judgment of whether or not the mayor is doing a good job on whether or not the fiestas go off without a hitch.

To ensure that there will be power at tonight´s Miss Arenillas beauty pageant, he has instituded a program of roving blackouts.

Their logic being that if the mayor can´t even get the lights to work during the party, then he must not know what he is doing. But if he can turn the lights and sound on, then he has things under control and is doing a good job.

The second perspective comes from the Xinhua news agency:

The Ecuadorian government on Thursday announced a plan to ration electricity for two hours a day because the country's major dams have recorded low levels of water due to a prolonged drought.

The Paute-Molino central hydropower station on the Paute River generates about 35 percent of the electricity consumed in Ecuador.

The water volume in the river is now below its historical minimum, said Electricity and Renewable Energy Minister Esteban Albornoz.

Albornoz said priority would be given to the production sectors and residential zones would have the rationing of two hours daily till the problem was solved.

The drought has affected Colombia, which exports electricity to Ecuador, and has reduced its supply, Albornoz added.

You can decide which solution you want. The mayor better hope that if its option number two, that the power doesn´t go out during the pageant or Wednesday´s dances.

Fruit Ripener

If you go to the market and the fruit isn't quite as ripe as you would hope for, I learned an easy way to speed up the process

Now, it could be that everybody already knows this but I don't really spend much time allowing fruit ripen. I'm of the "Oh, there's fruit and I want to eat it right now" school.

Anyway, I went to the store down the street and asked about what fruit they have in stock. The woman told me that her husband brought some mangos from the farm, but they're not quite ready.

I said that's fine. I can let them sit out to mature or just eat them green

Curious person: You can eat mangos green?
Ian: They're not as good as a well-matured mango but the kids love them. In fact, there are little mango carts that wait outside the high school toward the end of school day. My issue with the cart mango is that they put salt and lime on it, and I think that ruins that glory of the mango flavor.

Then the woman told me that ripening would take several days, which I knew but was willing to be a patient. She told me I could wrap the fruit in newspaper and it would be ready soon.

Then I asked how tightly the fruit needed to be wrapped. She said it depended on how soon you want the fruit to ripen. If you aren't in a rush wrap loosely. If you want the fruit for tomorrow, you're going to want to make sure that thing is nice and tight.

Apparently, this will also work for banana products.

Perhaps you and the whole world already know about this ripening trip and that I have always been privileged to procure with perfect produce. (How about that alliteration)

To update you on the situation:

One day into the ripening process, the fruits are not quite ready to eat. There may end up being some truth to this process, just not overnight results like I wanted.

Halloween Costume

Ecuador doesn`t really do Halloween.

But that shouldn`t stop a Peace Corps Volunteer from enjoying this tradition.

I had my costume all planned out.

I was going to be a Bonice salesman. This is a topic that merits its own blog post, but Bonice salesman are everywhere in Ecuador, selling their freeze pops and flavored yogurts. They sell for 25 cents and are very popular.

The salesman`s uniform had a hilarious polar bear on it. The uniform also includes a fanny pack. Here is an example of what Bonice guy looks like but he wasn`t wearing his full uniform at the top, so you don`t get the full effect.



I asked the Bonice salesman at the local high school if I could borrow his uniform for the night. First, he didn`t understand me and told me that he could get me a job as Bonice salesman if I wanted (if this whole Peace Corps thing falls through, I have a fallback). Then I clarified what I was asking for, and he agreed to meet me at 3 p.m. in from of the high school.

He wasn`t there. And I gave him the full hora ecuatoriana.

Had to start thinking fast. The people were going to come over, the kugel wasn`t made yet, and I hadn`t even though about the mango crisp. Now, I have to get a new Halloween costume. I had settled on the Bonice guy costume my third week in Ecuador. Other costume ideas were so far away from my frame of thought that I was in a bit of a panic.

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG

Costume inventory in my wardrobe: Ridiculous adidas tank top
Costume inventory on my person: facial hair (hair cut happened in the last two weeks that will be recapped soon)

Question: How can I combine these two things to make the most ridiculous costume possible in the time allowed?

Answer: I shaved down to a mustache and went as an adidas ad.



Impossible is nothing.

For 23 years, people doubted my ability to grow a mustache. While it might not be so full, it is there (even with a gap in the middle that my father says never really fills in).

Plus, I`m wearing a tanktop, which I never wear.

But Ian, how did you get this all done and cook at the same time?

Multitasking.

That was direct

So I just came from a community meeting. We are working on starting another community bank.

On my way out of the meeting, we´ll pick up the dialogue.

Little girl: Good evening

Ian: Good evening. How are you?

Little girl: Good. You are ugly.

Ian: Come again.

Little girl: You are ugly.

Ian: Why?

Little girl: You have a lot of hair.

Well, I guess that settles it.

I will be ugly until I can find a reliable barber down here. And judging by the other volunteer who lives nearby´s recent haircut experience, I will be ugly for a little while longer.

I will give her some credit for her manners, though. She did address me in the ´´usted´´ form, instead of the informal ´tu.´

My first rodeo

When I received my site assiginment, someone said the coast was kind of like the wild west.

I didn’t really understand why.

Last week, the next town over was celebrating its annual fiestas, and part of the order of events included a rodeo.

I had never been to a rodeo before, so I really didn’t need any further motivation to get me out there.

Well, the rodeo ring was dug into a valley with rows for seats carved into the hillside in the middle of the country. There was no electricity into this site. They spent forty minutes trying to start a generator to power the one-speaker sound system.




There were plenty of horses (I never realized how many horses are involved in rodeos), a few bulls, a few cowboys, a beer tent, and some vendors.

Let’s focus on the vendors.

The first guy who came past was selling bags of raisins. Ten cents a bag. Three for twenty-five cents.

This was the first time that I have ever seen a raisin vendor at any event. I did see him make one sale, so he obviously knows what the people want (or at least one person).

There was also the bread salesman, scaling mountains to sell his variety of salty and sweet breads.



You also have Bonice guy. Bonice is a popular popsicle brand in Ecuador that sells for ten cents a piece. There are kind of like freeze pops. The Bonice vendors are everywhere in Ecuador, easily recognized by the hilarious carton polar bear on their pants, along with their matching polar bear fanny pack and shirt. Obviously, Bonice guy was at the rodeo, too.




When the stadium is in the wilderness, carved into the hill, it is easy to take picture that make it look like the person is really in the middle of nowhere.

And, like any Ecuadorian event, you have the beer tent.

Now, the question is, after consuming all of those raisins, loafs of bread, freeze pops, and bottles of beer, where does one go to relieve themselves?

Up the hill of course. What is this gravity you speak of?



The action in the ring was fun. They never did a full-fledged bull-riding thing. I guess they weren’t equipped. So they did a half-fledged bucking-bronco thing, which was very fun.

They also had the rodeo clowns, whose pants kept falling down. The fans thought that was the funniest thing ever.

It was a lot of fun.

Seeing as cowboys and rodeos aren’t typical of the Ecuadorian coast, I still don’t understand why someone would describe this region as the Old West.

Crazy Cows

With my town being in fiesta mode last week, there are a few activities that are required to be officially classified as a “fiesta.”

First, you have to have the beauty pageant.

Second, during said pageant, you have to thank the mayor sixty-four times for his attendance.

Third, you need some sort of procession or parade.

Fourth, you need to have the pyrotechnic cow.

Fifth, and I would say most importantly, you must dress a child up in a pyrotechnic cow costume, light the pyrotechnics, and then have him run through a crowd of people.

This activity is called vaca loca.





The people here know that it is a very dangerous activity. I would actually like to know how many vaca loca-related casualties there have been. But because it’s such an integral part of the fiestas here, it will be difficult to get rid of it.

After they elect the queen, they light the cow costume on fire. The kid then runs through the large crowd of people that came out to watch the pageant. He starts running, the pyrotechnics start twirling, sparks start shooting, kids shout, some cry, everybody scrams, and then the cow runs after the fleeing people to start the cycle over again.

Now, I know what you are thinking?

A pyrotechnic cow costumer, this would be a great idea for next year’s Franklin Labor Day Parade.

Hmmmmmm...

My town was celebrating fiestas last week.

I went to the central square to watch the kids' night program, when I was approached by a youngster from the community. I’ll let the dialogue do all the talking and explaining.

Ten-year old: You are from the United States?

Ian: Yes.

Ten-year old: Is it true that people do not sleep in your country?

Ian: Come again.

Ten-year old: In your country, do people sleep?

Ian: Yes. (Almost speechless)

What is the most difficult thing I have ever done?

Well, it’s a tough question to answer.

Mostly because it’s difficult to think of everything that I have done in my life.

Difficult might not be the word I’m looking for here.

I think nerve-racking fits better.

I never quite understood the value of having someone to talk to during an important sports game until tonight.

Tigers-Twins Tiebreaker.

OK, well, I thought I could do it on my own.

I was wrong.

It also doesn’t really help that this is just the second Tigers game I have watched this year.

I got a little help from my landlord during the first six innings. But béisbol isn’t really a game that Ecuadorians get behind. I spent most of that time explaining the rules. For example, when I wanted to break down Leyland's or Gardenhire’s strategy, what could I do? Who could I talk to? I tried my landlord’s wife during the first couple of innings. I would put that adventure on its own on the list of difficult things I’ve attempted (and not suceeded at).

I lost both of them at about the seventh inning, which is probably when I needed them most.

I don’t really need to tell you how many heart-wrenching or exciting situations there were to break down.

• You start with Porcello getting into trouble in the third.
• You get men on the corners in the ninth with no outs. And then Randy Marsh calls, what I would argue, a really, really, really obvious ball on one of the best contact hitters in baseball. I would have preferred Stan's father. "This is America, isn't it?"
• You have ESPN Deportes announcers who are in love with Orlando Cabrera and appear to be rooting against the Tigers.
• You have Miguel Cabrera getting things going with a double and a home run to give Porcello a little help early on.
• You include the Tigers’ bullpen.
• You have Cabrera swinging at the first pitch in the 10th and grounding out.
• You include the Tigers getting the go-ahead run.
• You have Brandon Inge, coming up big with the leather and the bat.
• You have Ryan Rayburn’s dramatic turn-around from allowing the game-tying run to initiating the game-extending double play.
• You have the ground ball up the middle with one out in the 10th that looked like it could have been a game-ending double play.
• You have Gerald Laird being awesome, but only once.
• [Who knew that Aubrey Huff was even on the Tigers?]
• Then Miguel Cabrera draws a walk in the 12th, and Don Kelly singles to left. Cabrera lumbers to third (I reserve use of “lumber” for very few players. Cecil would be another.). Then Inge appears to get hit by a pitch.
• Maybe Gerald Laird can be awesome again? I would say he is about due for a hit … and then he strikes out. What kind of momentum can the Twins carry from that?
• How many innings can Rodney go?

In every single one of these instances, there was a comment I needed to make to the other person who ordinarily would have been in the room. Luckily, I stayed in contact with one of the other volunteers throughout the game. He’s a Padres fan, but more than that, he is a sports fan and understands how someone must feel, watching the most important game of the season and not having anybody to talk to.

Would it have been better if I had just read about the game on the Internet?

Hell no!

This is part of having being a real fan and following your team any way you can.

Today, this meant bumming cable from your landlord in southern Ecuador while the mangos ripen outside and the tamale salesman is hawking his product just around the corner (when what you really want is an humita salesman) and you're nearly starving but cannot get off the sofa for 4 1/2 hours. Why? Because My Tigers!

The Spirit of Huaqillas

Huaquillas is the border town about 20 minutes away from my site.

Like any Latin American border town, it is pretty shady, contains an exciting street market where you can find anything you can think of, and is full of border town services.

There include a thriving contraband trade, merchants trying to smuggle good through customs, pick-pockets who escape to the other side of the border (no need to pass through customs, you just have to cross a bridge over Huaquillas’/Aguas Verdes’ version of the Los Angeles River, and you are in Peru), and money changers.

Your standard Huaqillas money changer sits on a plastic chair near the main taxi stand. He wears a pastel colored, button-down, short-sleeve shirt. Hair is normally slicked back or combed over, depending on hair line status. He may or may not have a pen in his ear. On his lap, he place a plain black or brown brief case, partially opened. In one hand, he has a calculator, in the other a wad of cash.

There isn’t just one or two of these guys, more like a batallion — lined up along the street to exchange your bills.

Now, I have not needed to support this sector of the economy because I can’t leave the country. But I can’t stroll through the market without noticing their presence.

So two days ago, I was looking for muffin tins in the market’s backstalls a block from the money changers — that is where they keep the cooking supplies (bootleg DVDs, stolen appliances, knock-off Armani, and three-dollar polo shirts are in the front stalls). Then I saw something that I thought was a mirage.

In front of me was this …



The Cambista Statue

What I like about this statue is its accuracy. If you look on the guy’s forearm, you will see what appears to be a tattoo. So as cartoonish as the guy may look, the uniform, build, and tattoo artwork is dead-on.

Instead of escaping its place as a border town that thrives on the border economy, Huaquillas has embraced it. The only issue with this statue is that it’s one block off the main strip so few people know it exists.

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I haven’t been in Huaqillas during futbol season yet, but I imagine that when Comerical Huaqillas or Huaqillas F.C. makes it to the championship game that the Spirit of Huaqillas proudly sports the hometown colors.

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I am hoping that this post will be the first in a series about Ecuador’s outstanding statues — a calendar, perhaps…..

Which holiday were we celebrating?

Yom Kippur, sukkot, Tu B’Shevat and Purim: All in One

I didn’t have, what you would call, your typical Yom Kippur.

(Yom Kippur means “Day of Atonement.” It is considered the holiest day of the Jewish year, and one traditionally spends all day in synagogue or watching the Jazz Singer. This was my first Yom Kippur away from home.)

It started with an Ian-led Kol Nidre services. Although we put together just ten percent of a minyan, the shul surpassed its all-time attendance record. The entire local Jewish community was thrilled.

There are several downsides to not being able to spend the holiday with a community. But let me tell you one bonus, services don’t take very long.

You see, without the necessary ten people to have a full prayer service, it is my understanding that about an hour and a half of each servies can’t be performed. (I’m no expert in halakhah, but without a minyan you don’t do a repitition of the Amidah, thereby chopping more than four hours of Yom Kippur services.)

So I breezed through services, although it was obvious that the chazzan had no really practiced most of the prayers since last Yom Kippur. My Kol Nidre might have been a bit off rhythm, I didn’t have an inspirational sermon to share with myself, and the dress code might have been a bit lax (hey, you try doing services without A/C), but I did what I could.

In the morning, I couldn’t get right to services because I had promised my time to the high school across the street from my house. We split the class into groups. With some of the students we planted fruit trees in a mini nursery we started at the high school.

With the other group we harvested cilantro and lettuce from the garden. The students then decided to sell it to their fellow students to generate funds to support the garden. Cilantro went for ten cents per bunch, and the lettuce for fifteen cents per bunch. Overall, the girls made $3.90. Everyone was happy.

Some of the girls also planted pineapple, which is really easy. All you do is stick the leafy end of the pineapple plant in the ground. Then, after eighteen months, you have fruit. In the meantime, you get a really cool-looking plant that need minimal watering. We planted the pineapples around the path to the garden in the school.

After teaching at the high school and watering the garden at the nursery, I got back home just in time for the start of shaharit (the morning service). Although we were pushing on 11:00, the chazzan was patient and waited for himself to arrive before beginning.

Well, I stormed through shaharit and mussaf and was out of shul by 1:00. I went to go water the community garden with the kids from the neighborhood, attended a youth group meeting, and then went home for the study session.

Unfortunately, I didn’t put anything together for myself to study, and I didn’t have a copy of the Jazz Singer. So, in this season of pennant races, I thought it was only right that I would watch Major League.

After the movie, it was time for minchah (the afternoon service).

Then I went down the street for the parade.

Parade?

Yes, parade.

You see, my town is in a state of fiesta right now. And all week long, they are celebrating. The party kicked off with a parade, organized by the municipality, on Monday afternoon. All of my coworkers were walking at the front of the parade.

They encouraged me to join them, but I was beginning to feel the effects of the fast. So I just watched.

There were drum corps, youth on stilts, indigenous dance troupes, motor-taxi parades, and candidates for the Queen of the Fiestas Patronales. Everyone was happy.


Then I went home, did neilah, and broke my fast with some bread, babaco, sweet potato, cold rice, and boiled bananas.

Definitely a Yom Kippur to remember.

Room for Improvement

Tuesday afternoon, the gym teacher at one of the high schools in town asked me if I would referee a soccer match.

The high school is in the middle of athletic competitions between the different grades. Each grade has a girls’ basketball and a male soccer team. They play against the other grades.

The school makes a big deal about this. Every team gets their own jerseys, and there is a special schedule (some schools cancel classes for the week)

I can only imagine how this would have gone over at my high school.

What is this rosh chodesh? It’s like it happens every month.

Considering how much people care about these games, I was kind of surprised when the gym teacher asked me to referee an actual game of consequence.

I mean, why would I be a suitable candidate to referee this game?

But then I looked at him, and he was pretty exhausted. Plus, he looked like he wanted to laugh a bit. That is where I come in.

As a North American, I don’t really know too much about what the responsibilities and standard practice is for a soccer referee. Franklin Baseball umping didn´t prepare me for this. Where am I supposed to stand? Do I blow the whistle every time is goes out of bounds? How do we decide who starts with the ball?

I know that it is commonplace in club soccer for the ref to wrapped up in some kind of match-fixing scandal. Is someone going to offer me a bag of mangos to call it in their favor?

I also don’t really know if I’m supposed to call a foul every time I see a kid flopping on the ground, or if I should let them play a bit. Well, as you may know, I am kind of bitter about all the flopping that occurs in soccer. So you might guess that I was a bit lax when it comes to blowing the whistle. One might even wonder whether or not I had actually swallowed the whistle. If it’s bleeding, that means you fell on the ground. If it’s black and blue or I can see bone, then there might have possibly been a foul.



I probably should have explained this policy to them before the game, because they were flopping all over the place. And, well, I didn’t see the need to blow the whistle.

So after about eight minutes on mute, the gym teacher was fed up with the silence and decided he should take over.

He called to the bullpen and finished the game for me. He said that I will get another chance. Thursday, they have basketball games. I will be sure to explain my “let the players decide the game, not the refs” policy.

Eight minutes wasn’t bad for the first time. We’ll improve next time (Can I make a “that’s what she said” joke? I noticed this when reading over the blog again, so I didn’t write it in real time

Liberated

When I finish reading a book, I typically add it to the “Reading List” on the right column and leave it unmentioned in other places on this blog.

That is enough for most books. But sometimes there is a story behind the story.

I would put my most recent conquest in the literary world in that category of book-reading experiences that deserve more than the title on the sidebar.

I have just finished reading “Liberators,” a history book by a former Parliament member about seven men most influential in the liberation of Latin America.

Last summer, I decided that if I was going to be backpacking through South America, that I might as well learn about the history of the countries I’m visiting. So I went to Borders on Liberty St. and bought what I thought would be a fascinating, can’t-stop-once-you-start book about South America’s liberation.

Before I give you a month-by-month timelime of my progress through the book, I have to tell you that the story of Latin American independence is one of the most remarkable I have read. The tactics and charisma of the Libertadores made for a worthwhile read.

Especially for someone living in Latin America for two years, it is pretty useful to know about the national history. Imagine living in the United States and not knowing about the Founding Fathers’ impact on the nation’s formation.

And now the timeline.

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For the first eight weeks of my journey, I spent bus rides marveling at the countryside or moving through “One Hundred Years of Solitude.” Then, on the bus ride between Sao Paolo and Parati, I finally finished.

That means I finished fifty percent of my reading material for the summer (If I were to have read fifty percent of the assigned reading in my time at Michigan, well that would have been a significant improvement upon what I actually did. )

The only book standing in my way: Liberators.

It is full of detail, which makes processing all of the information quite difficult. I started reading the book on at rainy day at Ilha Grande. I told one of the other hostel guests that he could read the book when I finished (I wonder if he still wants it). So I got off to a strong start — maybe sixty pages in the first day.

Then the sun came out. Then I left the island and headed to Rio. For some reason, I found Brazilians much more interesting than Francisco de Miranda’s failed attempts at liberating Venezuela.

Then I got to Rio and brought the book with me to the beach almost every day. But every time I went to the beach, I found a nice group of Brazilians who was willing to help me with my Portuguese. Progress stalled. In fact the bookmark that I have been using for over a year is the map I got from the Rio tourist information booth when I was looking for places to learn samba or capoeira.



So I managed to get about 100 pages done before the end of my summer and returned home with a resolve to finish the book.

Then came covering Michigan football for the Daily. Then came school.

Combined progress over those four months: 8-11 pages.

So I graduated and took the book with me on my roadtrip through the South. Obvious opportunity to knock out a good chuck of the book.

Wrong. I read three paragraphs over the 3,000-mile ride and didn’t sleep once. (I did manage to drive us off the road in Paoli, Indiana, though.)

Between the end of the roadtrip and my departure for the Peace Corps I had a couple of weeks. Plenty of time to knock out a good portion of the book. I should be extra motivated to learn about South America if I am going to spend the next two years there, right?

Well, Tony Soprano got in the way. I watched the entire series; no book progress made.

I read a couple pages of the book the night before leaving for the Peace Corps with all intentions of bringing the book with me. Well, somehow, it got knocked under the bed the next morning, and I kind of left it behind.

Five months later, my brothers came down to visit me and brought the book with them. I was in the middle of another book at the time, but put Liberators next in the queue.

When I finished the other book, I picked up from where I left off in “Liberators” and realized that I have no idea what is going on. I decided to start from the beginning and re-read the first 146 pages.

Between rides to and from Machala, the town where I’m working on the community bank, and sixteen hours on the bus last weekend, I can confidently say that I am free of this burden.

The battle lasted more than 15 months. Sometimes, it appeared the two sides were at a stalemate. Even when I was reading the book, it was so dense with information that I couldn’t go more than 15 pages without falling asleep.

But I marched on — kind of like how Bolivar marched across the supposedly unpassable Andes to surprise the Royalist forces.

This book had no idea who it was dealing with – much like how the Spanish navy in Lima had no idea that Lord Cochrane attacked with such a small force.

And then, tonight, I can declare myself free from the oppression of this book — much like Dom Pedro’s Cry of Yrapringa.

Frank “el Tanque”

If “Old School” were made in Ecaudor, I’m pretty sure I have found my Will Ferrell.

He lives down there street.

And, let me clarify my previous statement (actually two statements ago, but who’s counting). I have not actually met him.

His legend has travelled through the neighborhood.

---

Now, I spent a shade under half a decade at college.

And while I didn’t actually drink, I witnessed my share of drunken exploits and heard of countless others.

[Here is where I would put the list, but I’m not going to embarrass you like that. Just know that I started to write said list, but deleted it because, well, 'tis the season of reflection and I try to be a nice guy...]

So I thought I was prepared in being able to listen to a drunken escapade story without rolling over laughing and peeing my pants.

---

I’ll set the scene.

Sunday night.

I am shooting the shit with my landlord.

We are talking about some of our neighbors when the subject changes to someone in town who I don’t know yet.

Then my landlord’s wife chimes in.

Landlord’s wife: Remember that time when he rode around naked on his donkey.

Landlord: Yeah, that was pretty funny.

Ian: Wait. Did I understand that correctly? Naked donkey riding?

Landlord: Yeah, he was a little over-served and started riding his donkey through town.

Ian: Just in the neighborhood?

Landlord: No all over town. It took a lot of us to contain him.

Ian: A lot of us? You had to stop the naked man riding his donkey?

Landlord: Yeah, he hasn’t been able to live that one down.

---

Now, before going on, reflect on the story you just read.

---

Well, if he ever lives that one down, I want someone to give me a detailed account of what he exactly he did to live that down (preferably in video form so he can become a YouTube legend).

---

Continue reflecting.

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"Estamos desnudos y montando el burro. Woooooo. Vamos al parque central. Y despues vamos al gimnasio. Todos estan viniendo en sus burros."

Shana Tova

First off, I would like to wish each and every one of you a shana tova u’metukah (A happy and sweet New Year).

This is my first Rosh Hashanah away from home. Even though I wasn’t with my family, I spent the holiday with 20 of my closest friends in this hemisphere.

Last week, I had a Reconnect meeting with some of the other volunteers in my training group. Then, we all decided to go to Riobamba for the weekend to catch up with most of the rest of my training group.

I wasn’t with my actual family, but with my Peace Corps family.

In the words of the immortal Buzz McCallister: OK. Enough of this gooey show of emotion. All right, everyone. Let´s dig in.

Riobamba is a town in the Sierra. It has a reputation for being very cold and being very high (in altitude). It is surrounded by four volcanoes. One of the volcanoes, Chimborazo, is the closest place to the sun of anywhere on Earth. The city has a pretty colonial center, although not nearly as big as Cuenca or Quito. It is famous for the Nariz del Diablo train that leaves from a station in downtown Riobamba, although it is frequently out of order or out of season.

During my South American adventure last summer, I spent the night in Riobamba as I traveled from Baños to Cuenca. I didn’t actually see daylight in Riobamba that time because our bus got in at 10:00 PM and left at 5:00 AM.

I brought my mahzor with me and did my own thing in the hotel while the rest of my friends recovered from a night out. Then in the afternoon, I went to a river in town for tashlikh and invited whoever wanted to share in the experience to join (Tashlikh is ceremony that you do by a flowing body of water. You throw some piece of food into the water, traditionally bread crumbs, as part of the process of repentance).

After musaf (I'll ask for new chazzan next year), I spent the rest of the morning procuring apples and honey. This took me to an organic farmer’s market and then to a store that specializes in supporting small farmers (the size of the farm, not the people).

I had Chinese food for lunch. Nothing says Rosh Hashanah like Vegetable Lo Mein. I hadn’t had chifa ("Chinese food") since getting to Ecuador.

After resting for a bit, we went down to the river. The thing about Riobamba is that there isn't a big river that runs through town. The woman at our hostel said there was a small river about a kilometer away. If that didn’t work out, we would have to settle for the man-made paddleboat pond in the children’s park or, if we really wanted flowing water, the shower.

We set off for the river. We asked some people for directions. Before showing us the way, they gave us the “I have no idea why you would want to go to the river. It’s kind of dirty” look. Following the standard rule of asking five people for directions before actually arriving, we were able to find the river.

From afar it looks pretty pleasant.



Right on the outskirts of town, surrounded by mountains, trees, and some farmland. Well, if you want to keep that image of the river, don’t click on the image to see it in full size. It´s not exactly the mighty Huron or the mightier Franklin branch of the Rouge River.

Either way, it’s a flowing body of water.

I explained to my friends that throwing the breadcrumbs in the river doesn’t actually cleanse your sin palette. It is a personal event, part of the process of repentance. That you are thinking about your actions from the previous year and how you can improve in the upcoming one.



Hooray, floating bread crumbs.

Then I broke out the apples and honey.



You might not be able to see it in this picture, but a certain overly-excited Ian did manage to get honey all over his shirt and pants.



Hemispheres might change, but some things don’t.

There are no pineapples in Piñas

Even though my town has a reputation for its fertile soil, it doesn’t really grow a variety of vegetables here. I like to joke that you can grow anything but apples down here.

It’s just that nobody really takes advantage of these possibilities.

It is mostly banana, cocoa, corn, or fruit trees. Hence, there isn’t much demand for the vegetable seeds in the agriculture stores.

So Saturday afternoon, I got back from visiting a farm and didn’t really have any plans for the rest of the day. My friend saw me on the street and asked me if I wanted to go to Piñas, which is about two hours from here, where the stores carry a large selection of vegetable seeds.

The town is located at about 1,500 meters above sea level and is situated on a mountainside. It is at the altitude of a cloud forest, which means that nearly every day is foggy.

Also, the city is much more developed than my town. It is pretty common in Ecuador that the towns that are more in the sierra (mountains) are more developed and better organized. So Piñas, being in the transitional zone between coast and sierra, could also be described as being in the transitional zone in terms of development, as well.

It was a great change of pace.

At first, we searched for the seed store. Relying on my friends who had been there before, I just went along for the ride. Our search was fruitless. All of the seed stores were closed. Although the search could also be described as fruitful, I guess, because the seed stores are located near the produce market. Either way, disheartened, we continued with our day.

We spent the afternoon climbing the up the stairs of the hilly pueblo. The town is full of staircases, which always make for fun wandering through cities. We passed by an orchid garden that was Peace Corps volunteer’s project in 2003. Only a few of the flowers were in blossom, but it was very cool to see the impact that a Peace Corps volunteer has left behind.

Then we went to a restaurant in town that is apparently a community institution. They had really good humitas (mashed up corn in log form) and coffee (Actual coffee. I don’t really like coffee, but this was pretty good.). We stuck around to eat another humita, which turned out to be the best decision we made all day.

As we were leaving the restaurant, my friend recognized the owner of one of the seed stores. We went with him to his shop, and I had a field day.

Then, as we were leaving the seed store, I received a text message that said Michigan beat Notre Dame, and everyone was happy. (Obviously, I wore my Michigan jersey yesterday.)

Overall, a pretty outstanding trip, and I will definitely be making my way back toward Piñas.