Apartment Hunting

Carlos and I have spent the past few weeks looking for an apartment. Living with his parents is nice, I think if we had moved out earlier I would have been a bit lonely. In their house there are always visitors, always life. I am forced to practice my Spanish here.

But Carlos feels that it's time to leave the nest. His only experience not living with his parents was our time in Holland. On the other hand, I haven't lived with my parents for almost 10 years (though I do enjoy visiting). I've had five dorm rooms, two apartments, a full year of hostels and tents, one condo, and almost one year with the future in-laws.

Our budget is $200 per month. A typical salary here is $1000 per month. Qualified professionals can make more, working for a mining company one can earn $3500 per month. Minimum wage is $230 per month.

Like everything else in this country, looking for an apartment here is different than in the US. In the states, the visit takes five minutes, you look around the place to get an impression and say to the person showing, "We need to think about it. We'll call tomorrow." You say this if you love it or even if you hate it. Or, if during the visit you make enough eye contact with your partner/roommate(s) to agree that you both/all hate the place, you just say, "Thanks, but it's too big/small."

In Ecuador, the first visit can take an hour. You walk through the apartment. Every room is pointed out, even if it is obvious (i.e., this is the bathroom, this is the kitchen). The walk though takes five minutes, like in the states. But then you discuss. You discuss the apartment, who owns it, and if you know them ("yes, your friend is my cousin"). Then you talk a bit more about the neighborhood, the neighbors ("oh, my friend's parents live on this street") and if the park around the corner is noisy. Then you discuss the parking, the utilities, the price, the contract, and what day of the month rent is due. This is all done even before Carlos and I have discussed with each other if we even want to live there. And usually, as soon as we return to the car, we turn to each other and agree that indeed we don't want to live there.

We have probably seen a dozen apartments, all of which ranged from decent to bad to terrible. One had no windows. It was the right size, two bedrooms, one bathroom, appliances included. But not a single window. Another was spacious and full of light, set in a garden on a hill with amazing views of the city. But it smelled a bit musty and the owner told us that the water marks on the walls were just places where they ran out of the other color of paint. Uh huh, right.

Then there was the apartment where the kitchen was outside. It was downstairs, and next to it was a tiny little room, presumably the pantry. Or was it the dining room? Upstairs was the rest of the apartment. You entered through the bedroom and had to pass it to get to the bathroom and living room. Like that bar in Chicago where you need to walk through the band to get to the bathroom. The whole place was awful and decrepit. For $170. However, if we wanted to live in the house below, which was three times bigger and ten times nicer, it would be $250. Not a bad option, but I didn't trust the owners after seeing that apartment.

Finally, we found one. Actually, Mami found it for us. It is across the street from her sister's apartment, and she saw the "for rent" sign in the window when she was visiting one day. We visited and Carlos immediately fell in love with the place. I liked it too, but it just seemed too big for just two people. It has three bedrooms, one bathroom, smallish kitchen, but sizable dining room and living room. Plus, there is an interior courtyard that is covered, but still open air (for laundry). I would guess that it's about 1300 to 1500 square feet.

Anyway, I had some reservations at first. Besides thinking it was too big (what the hell are we going to do with a third bedroom?), the parking space was too small. Or one can say, our truck is about five feet too long. Actually, it's about three feet too long to fit in the space, but then we wouldn't be able to open the front door.

But both problems have been resolved. We will use one bedroom as a bedroom, another as an office, and the third, the one with the least light, will be only for the TV (since we have lived together I have been on a continuous campaign to rid the TV from the bedroom, I find it distracting and anti-social). Carlos's aunt across the street has a parking space but no car, and out truck fits there. By the way, when I say parking space, I mean a secure one. Here, you can't just leave your car on the street overnight. That's asking for trouble.

We haven't signed the lease yet, but will do so in a few days. We plan on cleaning the place and packing up this weekend, then moving in the next. We plan on bribing his teenage nephews to help us with the move. That's the only thing that I think is the same as in the states...payment for moving is beer and pizza.

A Matter of Trust

I've been looking for jobs lately. It's hard for an expat. None of the rules are the same.

Last week, I brought my resume to a company where a friend of Carlos works. Well, the resume was alright. But it was deemed a bit thin. In the US, you are supposed to limit your resume to one page with just the most important elements and the person hiring can ask for more information if the resume looks promising.

That's not how things work here. You are expected to list every job you've ever had, every project you've ever worked on, every conference you ever attended. You are expected to disclose your race, sex, age, national origin, religion, disability, sexual orientation, and marital status. Well, maybe not all of those, but you are expected to have a photo on your resume.

I was asked to provide my original diplomas so that they could be copied. Not notarized copies. The originals. Most people in the US have their diplomas mounted and nailed to the wall. A diploma is just to look at, not for actual use.

Then, I was told that I would need to get "Certificates of Employment" from my former employers. I'd never heard of that before. That means I needed to contact former bosses and ask for documents stating my dates of employment, projects worked on, cost of said projects, my responsibilities, etc. I mean, are they going to think any different of me when they find out that I used to work on projects that cost half a billion dollars (yes, that is billion with a "b", even though the civil part was a tiny fraction)? They can talk for me for five minutes and find out much more about my experience.

When I first saw Carlos's resume, I laughed at it, because it was a tome. He had the names and dates of every conference that he attended AND copies of the certificates stating that he did indeed attend. Is that really necessary? I mean, just because you have a certificate, it doesn't mean that you learned anything. I was appalled by the behavior some of the guests at the conference I attended last month in Cuenca. People had not only not turned off the ringers on their mobiles, but actually answered them and started chatting in the middle of the conference while speakers were talking. Some eventually left the room, but others didn't. Not only is that incredibly rude, but these people who spent two days chatting on the phone got the same certificate that Carlos and I did. And I should admit that I didn't learn nearly as much as Carlos did since the conference was in Spanish.

But that's how things work here. If it's not signed and sealed and stamped, it is worthless.

I think I will start designing my own stamp.

Camping

When I go to the states, the trip practically pays for itself through my side job : Courier.

Goods are expensive in Ecuador. Well, imported goods and electronics. You can't find an ipod here for less than twice retail in the US. A Nintendo Wii is $600. The cheapest, ugliest, synthetic sweaters cost $10, only a little bit less than what you would pay for post Christmas cashmere. Granted, food and services are cheap. Lunch is $2, which includes soup, meat, rice, juice, and dessert. A haircut is $5.

I digress. When I was last home I brought back, among other things, a tent and an air mattress for Carlos. As I mentioned in a previous post, he goes camping for work. Therefore it is worth investing in a Thermarest since he will be more productive the next day than if he slept on a half inch of foam.

So over the weekend we decided to camp in his parents yard. We wanted to test out his new tent and air mattress (I slept on the half inch of foam). The day was beautiful. We had a nice lunch, some wine, read a bit, napped in the tent, watched the sunset, saw the starts, etc. Beautiful day. Of course, you know what that means...rain.

It rained all night. A little got into our tent. Not much, but it was damp. It was just enough to keep me up all night, trying to protect the books. Carlos slept through it. I guess the air mattress was that good.

Before bed we were talking a bit. I was telling him stories of my trip around the world and how we would sometimes pitch our tent in the middle of nowhere and keep food in out tents and never really worried about animals or strangers (that was dumb, I know that now in hindsight). He was surprised. He said that when he was camping in the Andes for his thesis, one night they heard a puma. They were scared, but he wasn't as worried about animals as he was about people. Especially the small man with a big penis.

Wait a minute. I had thought he would be worried about land owners attacking him for being on their land or getting robbed. But a small man with a big penis? That's a myth, right? Oh! Is he related to the tokoloshe?

Now it was Carlos's turn to be confused. I explained that my parents (and aunt and uncle) had told me and my siblings (just this past year) about mythical African creature that has a penis so long that he throws it over his shoulder. I couldn't remember anything else about him.

Carlos thought he sounded similar, but that night he didn't really explain more about the chuzalongo. I googled him the next day and found that sometimes unwed mothers claim to have become pregnant by him. Carlos then shared some other variations the next day, like he is a hairy creature and his penis is wrapped around his body like a boa.

Does anyone know of more "small men with big penis" myths?

Resurrection

This event took place about a month ago in Chicago. I feel that it is time to write about it in order to explain the next story. But first, some more background...

I was born and raised in the United States, along with both my siblings. My parents were born and raised in South Africa and moved to the US over 30 years ago and now have lived there over half their lives. I now live in Ecuador.

A friend of my parents once described Ecuador as "Mexico 30 years ago." But I think he was wrong. I think Ecuador is really South Africa 30 years ago. I returned to what my parents left. It's not just the climate, or the flora, or the lifestyle (i.e., coming home for lunch everyday, walled and gated houses, having indigenous maids, spending half the weekend with your entire extended family, etc.) that is similar. The mythology too.

A disclaimer. I am Jewish. My fiance is Catholic. The six characters in this episode have five (and a half) Bachelor's degrees, speak four (and a half) languages, and have earned three (and a half) Master's degrees. We are a PBS-watching, NPR-listening, National Geographic-reading bunch.

So, last month I was home. The whole family was home. We were eating dinner. We started talking about Easter and Jesus and the resurrection. And just like any good Jewish family during Passover, some of us were confused. Particularly, if he was resurrected, where did he go? Mom knew the answer. She always knows the answer, she's a teacher. Anyway, Mom said with an absolute straight face, that after he was resurrected, "Jesus went to Japan."

At this point my sister, brother, and I are laughing so hard that we are gasping for air. Japan? Really? You've got to be kidding me. But Dad, who also always seems to know the answer to everything, set the record straight. "Irene," he said in a how can you think something so absurd kind of voice, like what you would use to tell a child that there are still no monsters under the bed because we just checked for the millionth time, "Jesus did not go Japan. He went to India."

Now we aren't just gasping for air, we are almost crying, hyperventilating, in need of medical attention. It was like a David Sedaris story. We eventually catch our breath and my brother does something interesting. He takes out his Blackberry, makes a call, and just says into his phone, "Did Jesus go to Japan?". Who did he call? What was he doing?

He had called a service that answers questions. It's free. Apparently you call and leave a voicemail with your question. They send back your question in the form of a text message to make sure it is correct. Then a few minutes later, send a text with the answer.

We wait. The text arrives. It says that it is possible that Jesus went to Japan, however it cannot be confirmed because that was 2000 years ago. Case closed.

That evening I talk to Carlos, who is in Ecuador. I tell him what happened at dinner, trying to give him an honest idea of what he will be marrying into. His response? How ridiculous. How could you even think that Jesus went to Japan or India. That's absurd.

Jesus went to Mexico.

Or at least there were rumors that he visited. Ruins were found with drawings of a man with a beard. But the Aztecs and Mayans didn't have beards.

So, the first instance of my parents having more in common with my fiance than with me: They all believe that Jesus was a backpacker.

Bite Me

So, there is an insect here in Ecuador that is tiny, maybe the size of a period. It's black. It seems to occasionally bite my ankles, one bit me on Sunday. I had been bitten before and this was the first time I actually saw the insect. If you had asked me before what it looked like I wouldn't have been able to tell you. Now I know it's small and black.

The bites are extremely painful. Well, the bite itself just itches, but over the course of the next few days there is a dull ache. But that's not the worst part. It starts swelling and itching when you walk. That's where the pain comes in. Fortunately, this time I only got one bite. When my parents visited in December I had six, three on each ankle. And we went hiking (I thought that hiking boots would support my ankles, but that was a bad idea). I complained the whole time.

But the bite is slowly healing and I can walk again.

Home Again

More tales from the front...

Quality Time

One lovely Saturday morning Dad and I went to the city to visit my apartment. There was an association meeting and he wanted to see how our tenants were doing. They were fine. On the way home we discussed lunch, then I called home, took the order, called the restaurant to place the order, when Dad, who was driving, suddenly declared in an urgent voice, "I need to speak with Mom." Uh oh. What did I do? Am I in trouble? Was it because I ordered the pork and the shrimp?

So I get out the phone (again), call home (again), get Mom on the line (again), hand the phone to Dad, and he explains, "Irene! I need a manicure!" That was when I started laughing. "Judes, you need anything?" he asks. "I'll take a pedicure," I respond.

Some families go to the movies, apparently mine gets our nails done...

Keyless Entry

Mom has a Toyota Camry Hybrid. She's had it for about a year, maybe a bit less. It's a cool car, but it drives differently than a normal car. You need lots more distance to brake, otherwise you get whiplash. It took me a little while to get used to. However, I never was able to get used to the key. Or lack thereof. There is no key. You have a fob that you put in your pocket or purse, (I think it needs to be within 10 or 15 ft of the car) and when you approach the car the doors automatically unlock for you (or lock as you walk away). Then you get in the driver's seat and push a button and the car turns on. But that's not the part that I found odd. I can deal with that. The part I never got used to is turning the car off. I was always looking for a key to remove from the ignition. None. Just push the power button again and the car will congratulate you for how fuel efficient you were. I would sit there and fumble for a few seconds, every time I drove it, then would suddenly realize, no key. In Cuenca I have five keys just for the house and thee for the car. In Chicago I carried zero.

Gigi's

For my high school graduation there were no caps and gowns. I had to wear a floor length, formal, white dress, but it couldn't be strapless. The tradition still carries on today. Why is this relevant?

While in Chicago I bought my wedding gown. I bought it at a boutique that has all sorts of formal dresses. When getting measured (after I had chosen the dress) the women says to me, “That dress will be lovely for your graduation.” WTF? “Actually, that's my wedding gown,” I reply. “But you're too young to be getting married!” she exclaims, trying to reinforce her view to those around, “Isn't she?” “Um, I'm 29.”

Maybe I look young. Or maybe she thought I was young because I was there with my mom. But did she seriously think I was 18?

Adventures in Babysitting

I made it back safely to Ecuador without having to argue with immigration again or pay anymore fines. I had a really nice time at home, and will share some stories from there...

Part I

I have a nephew Nicholas, who now is about two months old, but was just five weeks old when I met him. My sister Ruth came from Indy for a week with him, her husband Vince was only able to come for the weekend. I babysat him about half a dozen times (like when Ruth was drying her hair), but for no more than 10 minutes each time because whenever I was watching him, Mom would swoop in and take him away. Granted, usually he was screaming at me (babies just don't seem to like me), but Mom has turned into a fervent grandma. Apparently, when my sister was born my mom had never held a baby in her life and her mom flew in from South Africa to help out. Many of my mother's friends told me that same story. I guess this is part of grandparenting. Anyway, here is Nicholas...

Part II

On part of being home that I didn't miss was the daily round of "Wake the Kid." The Kid is my 23-year-old brother, David. He has some problems waking up and getting to work in the morning. He usually makes it there just in time, or within 5 minutes. But four mornings a week someone needs to wake him up with a combination of requests, orders, threats, and the occasional tearing the sheets off the bed.

I don't know how my parents manage. It's like playing a game in which you know that even if you win, you loose. And the most ironic fact is that once he is out of bed, if you have a conversation with him, he will acknowledge that he needs the help getting up and wouldn't be able to live on his own right now and appreciates what my parents do. But you wouldn't know that 20 minutes before he needs to leave the house, with one alarm clock playing hava nagila, the other, Clocky, spinning around the room, plus his blackberry buzzing, and him grumbling in front of a well stocked closet, "I have nothing to wear."

Part III

Connie (my former roommate) and Greg (former coworker) also have a baby, six month old Keira. Basically my vacation was a crash course in babies. While Nicholas still spends the majority of his day sleeping and is still figuring out how to lift his head, Keira is a playful baby who likes sucking on fingers (hers and other peoples) and toes (just her own). She also likes museums, so Connie and I took her to the Field Museum and the Art Institute where she got lots of compliments for being so cute and well behaved. Granted, she slept through the Monets and cried when she saw the stuffed buffalo. But Sue didn't seem to even faze her (Sue is a T. Rex, for those of you who haven't seen her yet).

Judith Maria

Back in Cuenca. Have been here since Sunday, but that was a busy day. And yesterday I napped, still adjusting to the altitude.

Unpacked everything. Put most of it away. Washed, dried, and folded four loads of laundry (apparently Carlos didn't wash anything in the two and a half weeks I was gone). Put most of it away. Washed some dishes. Didn't put any away (left them in the drying rack).

Freakonomics - Why There’s Only One Economist

This article from Freakonomics sums up my thoughts exactly.

Refusenik

I am currently in Chicago. I was supposed to be here last Saturday. But I arrived on Wednesday. Not by choice of course. Finally arriving in Chicago can only been described as a series of unexpected, though not completely unfortunate events.

On Friday night Carlos and I set of from Cuenca to Guayaquil. Not only did he want to accompany me to the airport to say goodbye, but he also had to work near Guayaquil over the weekend. We slept well and Carlos dropped be off at the airport at 8AM (for a 10:30AM flight), we said our goodbyes and I waited in line. And waited. And waited. After almost an hour the departures board changed from “On Time” to “Delayed”. I waited some more. I made some friends in line, sharing the bilingual gossip. The flight had been canceled. A replacement part needed to be flown in from the states. The agents were rebooking everyone on the Delta flight at 11PM.

After three hours in line I reached the desk. I was rebooked on the evening Delta flight and given a hotel voucher and told to wait for the hotel van. Waiting with me were two Canadians. We started chatting and I asked them to watch my bags for a moment while I got a coffee. It was almost lunch time and I hadn't had breakfast, so I was starving. When I got in line a century ago I had assumed that it would be quick. But at that point I needed to eat. Anyway, after returning with the mocha, the Canadians told me that the hotel where we were supposed to go was almost filled and that they were going to go to another hotel and would I like to join them. Hmm, sure.

The Canadians were in Ecuador on business, working on a gold mine in Machala. One was Colombian and a lawyer, the other a mining engineer, both based out of Quebec. Between the three of us we could communicate in mainly English, some Spanish, and even a touch of French. We went to the hotel, all called home to give updates on the flights, then went out for lunch. During lunch I asked lots of questions about mining (since the January 2009 issue of National Geographic was on gold mining) and about the politics here and base metal prices and everything else that I learned from The Economist. Then I told them a bit about me, my background, some stories about the middle of nowhere Zambia.

That's when they expressed a bit of surprise. The lawyer then told me that at the airport they had seen me looking a bit frazzled and felt sort of sorry for me. They had assumed that this had been my first trip out of the country and I had been a nervous and confused and wanted to help me. They felt sorry for me!?! I'll admit that I was frazzled, but that's just because I was hungry.

Long side note - When I say I was hungry, it wasn't just a bit of stomach rumbling. Because of the steroids that I'm currently on for my thyroid, I am always famished. Every few hours I whine to Carlos that I'm hungry. His mom is astonished that I am actually saying yes when she asks me if I want more to eat. I crave meat (steak sandwich for breakfast) and sugar (a liter of Gatorade at a time and two servings of ice cream a day).

Anyway, I spent the rest of the afternoon with the Canadians and by the time we returned to the airport they had almost offered me a job. The whole day was actually an interview. They told me that they needed a civil engineer, especially one with experience in water. I actually got my first job through a friend of my parents who met my former boss on a plane. So, I'll see how that turns out.

Back in the airport, I finally got in contact with Carlos again and he was a bit shocked to hear that I hadn't left yet and he joined me there for a short while. He had had a long day in a forest on the coast. After an hour together in the airport we said goodbye (again) and I went through immigration.

And that's where the problems began. I got to the desk and the man behind it said that I couldn't leave. WTF? He didn't speak any English. I told him that I knew that I may have to pay a fine, but he said that that wasn't possible. Censo, censo. I need a censo. What the hell is a censo? I asked to speak to his boss, but no. Just no (it was about 10PM at this point). He told me just to leave. I wasn't crying yet, so was able to ask him if I could call my boyfriend to translate. I just thought this was a language issue. I mean, I consider myself almost fluent. So I called Carlos and he spoke to the immigration officer and after a few minutes it was clear that I was not leaving. Carlos said he would come back to the airport to meet me.

I had to leave back through the door that I entered, past the ticket checkers. A women that I had met in line that morning came chasing after me and asked if she could do anything to help. She was great, an Ecuadorian American travelling with her mother, almost six feet tall and very, um, sturdy. Not bit or fat, but solid. She had a look on her face like she would beat the guy up for me. Unfortunately, she couldn't help me. Everyone was so nice (except for the immigration officer) and I really was able to appreciate the kindness of strangers.

Anyway, when I got to the ticket checkers I was in tears. I wasn't going home. It took three months and I had paid over a thousand dollars to my work visa, to be able to stay in the country and now they wouldn't let me leave! The lawyers never told us anything about this censo. Censo, censo, what's a censo? Well, the censo is a stamp on my visa saying that it has been registered. Why would we ever even think that we need to register my visa? Isn't the visa registration itself? And at 10PM on a Saturday night there was nothing that could be done until Monday. Come on.

I made my way back to the check in desk and explained the situation to one of the agents. He went back to immigration to double check, but no, I couldn't leave. Well, actually I could leave, but if I did my work visa would be invalid, which means that I would have to return on a tourist visa and the time and money spent on the visa would have been worth nothing. That was worth knowing. That was the information, the reason, that I had been waiting for. So I wasn't going home. We had to follow the back alleys of the airport to pick up the bags. And leave.

I was depressed. And of course, because of the steroids, I couldn't drink. We went out to a bar with friends, but I was no fun. Still in shock. I called my parents and they were just as surprised as me, but made me feel better by telling me that I was lucky that I had Carlos which me (which is so true) and everything can be probably be fixed with a little time and money. If I need to wait a few days to come home so be it, everything will still be there. Just get things done and get home as soon as you can. Just make it home for passover.

I have very wise parents.

Carlos was supposed to go back to the coast on Sunday and I would hang out for the day while he worked. But that didn't happen. Nothing in Ecuador ever seems to go according to plan. The day before he had gotten a few bug bites. When I say a few I actually mean a few hundred. His body was covered and he was itching and swelling and in general, not good. His coworker was the same. So we returned to Cuenca, before going to the pharmacy. We went to the doctor and Carlos got a cortisone shot and spent the rest of the day passed out in bed. The family voted for me to visit the immigration office the next day.

First thing Monday morning we went to the immigration office. Then we found out that we were at the wrong immigration office and were sent to the other one. At the other office there weren't many people, which was good, but the officers were having some technical difficulties. Like they couldn't log onto their computers because the guys with the password was on vacation. So they had to call Quito. After half an hour they got onto the computer, but they couldn't do anything about my case on the computer. So they called Quito again. The guy wasn't there. We waited. Then they called again and again and again. Finally, they told us to come back after lunch, that they were open until 6PM. After a bit of negotiation they told us that if we return at 3PM they will help us as soon as we arrive.

That was a lie. At 3PM we got there and were told to wait. And wait. And they called Quito. At around 4PM we got the word that we had to pay a $200 fine. Fine, we said, we'll be back right away. No they replied, can't you see we're busy? Please, I asked, my flight leaves Wednesday. Yeah, was the response, everyone leaves tomorrow.

We were gone for 20 minutes and when we returned the full room was empty, except for one other person. We waited almost an hour, chatting with an American family who had lived there for two years and needed something renewed. These guys had so much to say about the bureaucracy here. The guy said that he would probably get kicked out if they recognized him there. The last time in the office he let out such a string of curses that the officer there said (in Spanish), “Sir, I do not speak English, but I know that 'that' is not a respectful word.”

But were finally served. I got another stamp in my passport and a really cheap looking ID card. And that was it. I can leave the country? I asked. Yes, they replied. And can I come back? They had no idea.

Back at home I called the Ecuadorian Embassy in D.C. And told them my story. They guy said that I had everything that I needed. He even gave me his phone number and told me to call him if I had problems again in immigration. Now that's good service.

Tuesday afternoon I went back to Guayaquil and spent the night there. Wednesday morning I arrived at the airport by 7AM and made it to the gate buy 7:20AM. Four hours to Miami. Two and a half hour layover, another three hours to Chicago.

And then I was home.