Lost in Translation

“Please hand me the carpet,” he said, directing the request to me with an open palm, during the routine English Area meeting. We were sitting at a desk surrounded by hardwood floors, no fiber-covered floor in sight. 

Now, some people speak English as a foreign language as if it doesn’t fit in their mouth. It’s too big and their cheeks puff out like kids who became overly excited and shoved too much birthday cake in there. Or their lower jaw just doesn’t stretch the way English sounds require. Or like it tastes bad and they have the constant urge to spit it out, sometimes spraying the listener with a mixture of words and saliva. 

But this particular teacher has better than average pronunciation and this statement was as clear as a freshly cleaned fishbowl, which is what tends to make mistakes all the more uncomfortable. For me. 

My mind and hands scramble around trying to locate anything that looks like a rug or a carpet on the desk, anything that resembles protection for a floor from feet, failing miserably. 

The teacher becomes distracted by someone else and turns his head away but his hand remains open, waiting, silently pleading for this mysterious, magic carpet. As usual, I am fighting the internal good fight between correcting/questioning people and encouraging them to practice speaking their second language, all the while, staring at his empty, expectant hand. This particular teacher also has a bit of an ego, rarely speaks to me in English, and highly dislikes public correction. I can’t possibly blurt out a “what are you talking about?!” so instead, I’m searching, when suddenly the small, Spanish-speaking side of my brain clicks! “Carpeta” in Spanish = Folder in English.

Oh.

I hand him the unassuming, green folder and mumble under my breath “ohthefolder youwanted… the folder” but he doesn’t hear me. I silently write it down on my list of “common errors” to bring up anonymously during our next tutoring session. I sigh as everyone returns to arguing in Spanish about decorations for the upcoming Open House, and I think “Yes, I will attempt to fix that another day” … again.

Day of My Death

On Thursday, October 31^st, 2013, I woke up to the sound of screaming bunnies. Do you know why they were screaming? Because they were trapped in a bag, awaiting death, while listening to the demise of their furry little friends. You probably don’t know what screaming bunnies sound like (because neither did I before this day), picture cute squeaking, but filled with terror. It’s basically a PETA member’s worst nightmare. 

And then I remembered it was Halloween and bunny murder seemed fitting. But this also reminded me that it was the last day of the month. I’ve had a strange little superstition ever since I was a little kid about the beginning and end of the month. I can’t remember where I heard it- a TV show or a movie or a friend or teacher, but the idea is that the first thing you say when you wake up on the first day of a new month should be “bunny bunny” and the last thing you say on the night of the last day of the month is “rabbit rabbit” and this should give you good luck for the entire month. It’s sort of like a new beginning ritual, I guess. I always try to do it and I can never remember. As soon as I say “Buenos dias” in the morning of the 1^st, I give myself a mental palm to the forehead. Anyway, bunnies dying on the last day of the month made me think next month might not be so lucky. We’ll see.

I said that the event reminded me that it was Halloween because I almost forgot. It is prohibited in the country of Ecuador to celebrate this spookiest of holidays because it is considered an American tradition, NOT Ecuadorian. So you know what I did?! Broke that law! Like a BAMF. In my high school classes, we played a trick or treat game and in my kids class we played “Pin the Face on the Jack O’Lantern” and Concentration with Halloween vocabulary. Arrest me. ‘Merica! (JK my co-teachers wanted to do it and the students were really interested, cultural interchange is one of the basic goals of the Peace Corps.)

Then, the 1^st of November was the start of the Finados celebrations. Also known as Dia de los Muertos, Dia de los Difuntos, or Day of the Dead. All the classes at the high school made the traditional Colada Morada and Gua Guas de Pan. Colada Morada= Purple Drank. My favorite translation. It’s a warm drink made of blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, pineapple, and spices and it represents the blood of the dead people. Gua gua is the Kichwa word for baby. They make little bread loaves in the shape of babies with a lil babyface and all and it represents the body of the dead people. Because each class made their own version, I was expected to try at least 10 of the 23 courses. I had 4 cups of blood and 2 babies and felt like I was going to explode. (Said the zombie.) 

That night, my host family was also making Colada Morada and bringing big pots of it to share with our neighbors. I helped pass out the drink to neighbors and then attended Mass with the family and then we went out to dinner to eat Guatitas (cow’s intestines in a creamy sauce, really yummy actually). I hadn’t eaten lunch because I was so full from all the zombie food at school so I had gone about 7 hours without eating and then ate a lot at dinner. So when I got home, I figured my stomach ache was normal, I just sat in bed for a few hours because laying down made me nauseous. I fell asleep sitting up but woke up around 2am with cold sweats, chills, and achiness in my whole body. I was in and out of the bathroom every ten minutes and then started vomiting around 5am. I actually got really lucky because we had run out of water for most of the night but it was pumped back into town before the vomiting started. (No water means no working toilet, you do the math.) I’m sorry, this is disgusting, but I had to live it. You only have to read about it. 

So I spent the weekend lying in bed, reading, drinking salt water and tea and Gatorade. My host mother insists that this is my fault for drinking too much colada morada. It was a pointless battle to explain that food poisoning is generally 24 hours later, my reaction was about 20 hours later, and that the traditional drink is full of fresh fruits which are hard to wash, and that if it were overeating, I would have been sick immediately, not the next morning. So I gave up. I did not give up, however, when she tried to get me to eat rabbit on an empty, queasy stomach. 

I almost died on my first Day of the Dead. You can’t make this stuff up.