As you may already know, we wrote an article for the non-profit website, Change.org. We are petitioning the US government to financially compensate victims of an atrocious medical experiment that took place in Guatemala during the 1940s. With US taxpayer money, the US Public Health Service conducted an experiment, similar to the infamous Tuskeegee study in the 1960s. Believing that Guatemala would be an ideal place to escape scrutiny for such a blatantly unethical medical test, The US Public Health Service purposefully infected male prisoners with syphilis through inhumane and often painful procedures. Additionally, they sent infected prostitutes into the prisons to contaminate the men. All of this was done without the knowledge or consent of the victims.
Furthermore, orphaned children and mental health patients were subjected to testing which never contributed to finding a vaccine for syphilis.
Sign the petition, send the letter to President Obama and if you would like, please tell others about this cause. We cannot and should not stand idly by while our government refuses to rectify such intentional injustice.
We'd really appreciate your support.
If you'd like more information about the Guatemalan syphilis experiment, you can read these articles:
We have discovered the art of cooking. We don't know how it happened or why . . . but it did. We are suddenly, to put it lightly, cooking geniuses; and I have to admit that we have done little to nothing wrong in our culinary attempts over the past few weeks. When we first moved to Ecuador, we easily fell into a rut of tomato and onion based everything. We played it safe with fresh tomato sauce and pasta, veggie sandwiches and countless rice and beans varieties. Not now . . . oh not now. It was time to break free of our pico de gallo ingredients, and we broke past those barriers throwing our inhibitions and tomatoes out the window.
Over the past week we have made: banana pudding, apple-cinnamon rolls, the best pizza on the most delectable pizza crust ever, breakfast burritos with fresh guacamole, enchiladas, carrot cake without a recipe and with cream cheese frosting, apple pancakes with cinnamon-apple syrup and yogurt, strawberry pancakes with strawberry-yogurt syrup, broccoli-green bean-mushroom alfredo sauce, citrus tea, Semi-German Chocolate Cake with coconut icing, and All, might I add, from scratch with no packaged anything.
You may look at that and think, "sugar!" You'd be right. We've overloaded ourselves on sugar, but that doesn't mean we won't go home and eat a piece of carrot cake before bed. Because we will. Oh we will.
We are attempting to eat as local as possible, which for us means all of our produce comes from local vendors who have farms in the mountains nearby Cuenca and all of the dry goods come from somewhere in Ecuador. And if you think eating locally is a struggle, take a second look:
Strawberry Pancakes
Ryan's Birthday Spread
How we feel when we taste the juicy fruits of our newfound talents
Every so often while we’re roaming Quito, a double-long trole bus will rush by, blaring the first and last 14 notes of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It’s an old, homey song in a very new, foreign setting, and one can’t help but put words to the music: Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer / had a very shiny nose / Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer / you’ll go down in history. I sometimes wonder where the rest of the song went, until I remember the music is mostly there to forewarn wayward jaywalking pedestrians, and then the last two lines promptly take on a dark double meaning.
La Navidad in Ecuador’s capital hurtled by as nolens volens as one of those buses; that sacred period from Thanksgiving to Christmas was consumed with our striving toward a vital triumvirate of goals: find teaching jobs, find an apartment, obtain 12-IX visas. As of today, we’ve accomplished two of the three, with our search for an apartment suspended until we get down to Cuenca, where our first jobs are.
Our Christmas Eve was spent at our quaint little hostel with the motherly little hostel owner and manager, Ornelia, who roasted a turkey for us and a dozen others. She brought in a traditional Ecuadorian folk band for the occasion, and they strummed and piped their tunes as we gorged ourselves on the bird and the fruit salad, broccoli, green beans, an Ecuadorian date and rice dish, chocolate cake, and red wine.
It was a feast fit for Baby Jesus himself.
Our friend Altaf, whom we met on our CELTA course, came and dined with us, then guided us to midnight mass at a gorgeous colonial cathedral. We are so not used to being up that late, but the spectacle of the thing was enough to keep us awake: the kids’ sparklers illuminating the pews, the intermittent recorded-synthesizer-and-guitar accompaniment, the bizarre informality of the congregating-decongregating-recongregating-etc. congregants.
Christmas was filled with the things that befit a great holiday: the people we love and the food that makes us fat and happy. After waking up late, we made our specialty breakfast as of late: strawberry pancakes with home-mixed strawberry yogurt topping, served with a steaming mug of semi-sweet organic Green and Black’s hot chocolate (simply the best - thanks, Bethanie and Bhadri!). We gorged again, really outdoing ourselves. ¡Qué rico!
We sat down to let it settle for a few moments, then made our way to the new Harry Potter movie in a shopping mall south of our hostel. We blinked a few times before comprehending that Christmas was clearly a normal Saturday in Ecuador; the mall was packed, everyone was eating fast food, hanging out with their novios y novias, paying no apparent mind to the import of the day. The movie was dubbed, even though it clearly said “Subtitles” at the register. We enjoyed it nevertheless, as we gorged ourselves again, this time on saladisimo popcorn.
Of course, Christmas isn’t complete without Christmas dinner, so we spent the rest of the evening brewing a batch of Molly’s mom’s citrus tea and making an enormously rich dinner of garlic mashed potatoes with some delicious gravy (thanks again Beth and Bhadri!), green beans, and Annie’s macaroni and cheese (made with yogurt for a creamy, tangy zip - the dinner would have been nothing without you, B&B!), and proceeding to, of course, fill ourselves to the breaking point. And, on top of that, a no-bake, butter-based apple pie made on the stove with excessive amounts of sugar, cinnamon, and quinoa granola and served with vanilla ice cream. It was a fittingly succulent and exquisite end to the holiday.
We’ve somewhat reluctantly settled into an early-morning schedule of Spanish classes this week, our last in Quito. CELTA was an afternoon schedule and, being the sleep devotees we are, it’s hard to wake up when we have to. From here, it’s off to see some places up here in the north – a New Year's finale in southern Colombia, SA’s largest indigenous market in Otavalo, the kitschy monument at the equator, the highly recommended Quilotoa area – before we head into the Amazon and then down south to Cuenca. It’ll be fun.
But so much hustle can scarcely be as satisfying as a day of strawberry pancakes, salty popcorn, and sated palates.
No one had change, which is not at all an uncommon occurrence. “Disculpame, disculpame!” I apologized to Patricio. He seemed unfazed, even energized, by the situation and asked if we would be at the University for long and told us he could wait if we’d like. As we exited the car, he followed us, led us into the school – leaving his ID with the security guard since we hadn’t brought ours – and demanded that we speak with the person in charge of hiring teachers.
When he found out that we didn’t have any Ecuadorean references he took it upon himself to fix this. The Director of Languages sat at the small cafeteria-like table with Ryan, Patricio and I. We watched her review our CVs as Patricio raved about how well qualified we are, how perfect we would fit into the university, and how we are “excellent” candidates for any teaching positions. We scarcely spoke throughout the interaction, allowing Patricio to explain our thorough qualifications and vast experience, as if he knew what our CVs even said. He met us 30 minutes ago, and yet, during our impromptu interview, Patricio was our oldest friend and professional reference. He secured us another interview on Tuesday and kept saying “it looks good!” when the Director walked away. After days of little to no success, it felt like a win, even though we felt as if we were observing it from somewhere outside the strange situation it was.
He did all of this after picking us up on the side of the road in the rain and attempting to hold a conversation with us in our very broken Spanish.
The interview episode seemed to bump us up to an almost familial relationship in Patricio’s eyes, because he began referring to us as hijo and hija, and took a vested interest in our safety and wellbeing. When he discovered that our hostel was in the Old Historic district of Quito, he flipped out. The district is very dangerous, we shouldn’t be staying there, the hostel is charging us too much, we could be getting a better deal anywhere else, and every other piece of advice he could think of.
“Oh Molly, no. Oh no, Molly. Oh Molly, no.” This lasted on and off for the rest of the ride.
He pulled up to his friend’s hostel, told us to come in, demanded that we see one of the rooms and attempted to further convince us that we needed to move.
About two hours after we had hailed his services, we were still sitting in the back of his car, swerving and lurching our way through Quito, trying to comprehend his endless advice and information. As a gift, he reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a notebook with pictures of “La Gasolita” and “El Gasito,” the cartoon climate change characters of South America, on the front and police propaganda pamphlets and a paper ruler inside. Patricio said we should use it to keep track of all of our contacts – I guess he noticed our stack of random pieces of paper and envelopes with phone numbers and addresses on them.
My mind was fried by his relentless onslaught of Spanish by the time we reached our hostel, but Patricio wasn’t going to let us go without imparting a dozen more nuggets of wisdom and offering to help us with whatever we needed, whenever we needed it, day or night, just call him. He had a friend in the Ministry of External Somethings, and he could escort us on Monday and ensure we get our visas. Call him anytime. He’s happy to help. He borrowed a pen from a merchant next to our hostel, wrote down his phone number for us, insisted we call him several more times, and gave us our change for his services. He charged us eight dollars for two and a half hours of his time, probably just enough for his gas. We thanked him profusely and said goodbye.
Another day in Ecuador, and another friend made with next to no effort whatsoever. Hospitality, indeed.
The rain was pouring down as we tiredly attempted to hail a taxi. Every taxi in Quito was full. Rain increases the demand exponentially. So we stood on the side of the road, watching every car full of dry, comfortable people pass us by. We could have braved the weather and walked to another destination, but our Quito navigation skills are elementary at best right now.
We had been out all day. Early in the morning we got picked up by our favorite Dutchman and headed out to the Ministry of External Somethings and attempted to navigate our way through the bureaucracy of disinterested yet power hungry immigration officers. After a short recess in our quaint hostel room that overlooks the old, historic center of Quito, we continued our never-ending search for work. We left hopeful; we had four addresses of four schools that might need teachers. After three failed attempts to find three apparently non-existent schools, the skies opened and the sad, cold rain dampened the city and our hopes. We had been out for hours and nothing to prove for it except several wet and blotchy resumes.
When a white, unmarked car with a homemade "TAXI" sign written in marker on the front window waved us toward his car, we hesitated. Hundreds of horror stories filled my mind. Taxis can be dangerous. Be very careful. You might get robbed. But then again . . . it was raining . . . and there we no other unoccupied taxis left in the entire country . . . and I can usually trust my intuition . . . and I am tired . . . and wet. Ok, let's do it.
We scrambled into the "taxi" and were greeted by Patricio. I gave him the address to the university we needed to visit and no other words were exchanged. Then, three consecutive motorcades about 2 minutes apart passed us on our left consisting of several CHIPS, heavily tinted SUVs and even ambulances. I asked Patricio who those "special people" in those "special cars" were. My Spanish is limited. He said that it was the President. Also, every Vice President of every nation in Central and South America. They were having some meeting about climate change.
Patricio introduced himself and started asking us questions about ourselves. We are English teachers and we are looking for work but we haven't found any yet. Oh really? Let me tell you everything I know about teaching, schools, languages and travel. The drive to la Universidad de Pacifico took us around 30 minutes, the entire drive filled with information about how we should find work, what part of the city we should live in and even where to get free newspapers on Saturday mornings.
We arrived at the University after what seemed like hours of driving up and down hills and through neighborhoods and down highways. We had run out of small bills and could only give him a 10 for a $2 ride. He didn't have the change - very common. So we pulled away from the University and weaved through the neighborhood asking little tiendas if they had any change. Nothing.
We're now on the other side of the hump in our CELTA course: three weeks and five assessed lessons down, two weeks and three lessons to go. It's hard work, but by no means backbreaking; save for a few stressful afternoons where we've had to rearrange lesson plans in a couple frantic hours before giving them, we've been ok.
And the people are great. Our trainers are brilliant, capable, adventurous, inspiring people with an obvious, deeply felt passion for their work. Their enthusiasm is contagious. We have colleagues from all over the world, Hawaii and Philadelphia, Holland and New Zealand. One of our favorites is George, a Dutch former diplomat who moved to Quito, Ecuador with his wife, who is a diplomat from Spain and serves in the consulate here. English is his second (of five) languages, so teaching the language presents unique obstacles for him, with the occasional "L1 interference" leading to constructions like "How do you call this man?", as in "What is this man's job?" I suppose this experience provides him a unique empathy with his learners and makes jokes based on the difference between exciting and excited, for instance, especially hilarious to him.
And thus, he introduces himself into many a conversation with his favorite faux pas: "I'm so exciting!"
As for Molly and me, we're very exciting ourselves to be two weeks from done with this hard work and eager to settle into something a bit more permanent, not to mention something a little more mountainous, profitable, and dry. More updates soon!
We're sitting now in our beach cabana in Playa Kamala, Ecuador, listening to the Pacific waves crash onto the beach and waiting for our first fresh-from-the-sea meal of comida tipico (local food). We'll be here for the next five weeks, honing our teaching skills and memorizing the names of all the vowel sounds (there's like a billion) in an intensive training course. But for tonight, we're taking it very easy.
Since landing as scheduled on Monday evening (hallelujah!), we've been nothing if not impressed, heartened, and comforted by this country and its ever-so-kind people. The first person we talked to, on the plane right after we landed, was a young woman named Ximena, who, after asking us if it was our first time in Ecuador and learning our plans, offered her phone number if we needed anything while we were in Cuenca, and whose sister - in a bizarro-world coincidence - happened to have founded the school where we want to teach. If we thought her openness was unique, we were quickly proven wrong.
After a night in Guayaquil, the giant coastal metropolis, we took a bus up a winding road through the Andes to Cuenca, which we had heard was the most beautiful city in the country. It did not disappoint. The streets are paved in cobblestones, the colonial architecture is ancient and ornate, the red brick bell towers and shimmering blue domes of the massive New Cathedral (which took 90 years to complete and opened in 1975) dominate the skyline, and the city just barely creeps up the sides of the towering mountains that encircle it. The weather is absurdly perfect: upper sixties during the day, light sweater weather, and a little chillier at night, the 8400 foot elevation and equatorial latitude combining for a uniquely ideal and unchanging climate.
Though it's a city of about 500,000, it feels a fraction of the size due to the compactness of its city center and the warmth of its residents. Thursday, while crossing a street with my camera slung around my neck, a man of about 30 years approached me and asked if I speak Spanish. I said only a little, not knowing what he was getting at; we hadn't been hassled once since arriving, not by a street vendor, not by a pushy salesman, not even an ugly look from a passerby. (The closest we got to feeling unwelcome, really, was a man shouting out of his truck as he sped by, in a very Cheech-like voice: "How you dooooing?") Molly said she did, they talked for a moment, and he invited us up to his roof to take pictures of the city from there.
The view was absolutely breathtaking, the sky impossibly clear, the colors impossibly vivid. What motivated that man to approach us in the middle of the street (literally), knowing we were foreigners and suspecting we didn't even speak Spanish (correctly, in my case), and open his home to us, we have no idea. But we got a strong feeling that if it hadn't been him, it could have just as easily been someone else, anyone else, in the city.
We reluctantly left yesterday at noon, descending back to the generally icky Guayaquil to catch the shuttle to the beach. Perhaps the one saving grace of the city was the little corner place we found last night, Pica Rica, where we had amazing bowls of ceviche con camarones, made fresh in front of us, by the kind and motherly cook/restaurateur. We hope to return to Cuenca to teach after our time is done here, but it seems as though the city isn't exactly Ecuador's best kept secret; thousands of American expats like ourselves clearly find the city as charming as we do. But given the warmth of the people we've met so far, we have nary a worry about where we might land.
