Homesickness

Would you believe me if I said I'd never been homesick before Ecuador? I've always longed for the things that could have been but weren't, or the things that had been but had since gone away. Never before have I longed for the things that are.

I always thought of homesickness as just sadness: curable by a good laugh or time spent with friends. But that isn't how it is. It's a sort of desperation, feeling entirely and completely out of your comfort zone and out of your mind for thinking this would be great. It's a kind of deep, lingering ache that doesn't go away with a laugh or a smile. It can be forgotten, but generally comes crashing down at the absolute worst times. It's a physical headache, a physical stomachache, and a physical downed immune system. It's a weight on the chest. It's the ever-present knowledge that I'm such a stranger here -- a fish completely and totally out of water.

That feeling won't go away while I'm here. It's only just begun to sink in that I am here, not there, not on vacation, not dreaming, but here, now. And I won't be able to say, "I'm home!" for another 5 1/2 weeks. That didn't seem very long while I was home, packing and waiting for Ecuador to be real. Now, it stretches before me interminably, vast and unending. And I want to go home so badly. I know perfectly well that I can't, but that doesn't stop the ache. 

When I get home, there will be aching too. Only this time it'll be aching that I missed so much. First teeth fell out and first teeth came in, a tenth birthday came and went, babies learned to walk and babies learned to talk, babies were born and "big" sibling couldn't proudly display them to me. I'll ache that I missed the day-to-day chatter and hustle and bustle. That I wasn't there for little -- and not-so-little -- people when they needed me.

And it hurts. I told God as much, this afternoon, staring out at the world as people who live here went about their daily lives, perfectly at home.

Lessons and Longings

I've been in Cuenca nearly two weeks now, and in Ecuador for three. It seems like so much longer. Imagine that every day was made up of 48 hours instead of 24. I'd have been gone from home for six weeks instead of three. That's how long it seems.

Every day I ache for home, for my church, for my mom's hug. Every day I long for the feeling of driving a car again, the feeling of the lovely embrace of heat produced by my furnace and not by the sun, the feeling of running around the house barefoot if I like. Every day I look at the delectable soups and main courses my host mom makes and I long for the taste of my mom's simple cooking.

I miss being able to cook my own food. I miss being able to whisper about my day with my sister at night. I miss having a pitch-black room to sleep in. I miss having sound-reducing insulation around my window. I miss pinto beans (they're not here; the only beans here are huge and white or purple). I miss the feeling of a one-year-old settled comfortably on my hip, and the feeling of a three-year-old's hand confidingly placed in mine. I miss going on the so-called "grand adventures" I used to go on with that one-year-old and three-year-old, consisting entirely of going down one set of stairs, through the basement and up another flight of stairs before completing the circuit another twenty times.

There is so much that I miss by not being home. However, there is much I would have missed had I decided to stay home.

I would have missed fulfilling a lifelong dream of visiting the Ecuadorian jungle. Smelling the color green in all its various shades. Visiting some of the oldest cathedrals in Quito and Cuenca. The Equator. The friendships I'm developing with my group. Driving through the mountains with a driver who bus-races (I don't get it, either). Seeing all the places I've only seen in pictures. Haggling in the markets. Swimming in a waterfall's pool in the Amazonian jungle. Seeing ants an inch long. Flying over the Panama Canal, lit up in the setting sun. Going to a Catholic mass for the first time in my life. Walking to school through old and new Cuenca. Touring one of the older houses in Cuenca. Telling scary stories in the jungle.

I would have missed having a dysfunctional water tube on the Napo River. Being subjected to a wonderful hail storm at 14000 feet above sea level. Falling over while trying to walk on the Equator. Waiting at a street crossing with a guy carrying three machetes. Seeing a random banana vendor washing his hands without soap in a rain puddle on a busy street. Hearing an old gringo yelling into his cell phone about how "let's get together" (and rolling our eyes at how loud "those Americans" are). Climbing 50 uneven steps on my way to school. Taking the bus and getting off too soon. Being drenched in a sudden jungle rain storm.

There are many lessons I've learned.

I've learned that they do sell peanut butter in one place in Cuenca. That it's not advisable to order trout at the Cafe Austria because you'll get the entire fish, head and all. That political parades can go by at any time of day or night. That it takes 45 minutes to get to school walking fast. That you have to watch out for deep holes in weird places. That you have to be on the lookout for cars when crossing traffic circles. That they don't sell pocket folders in Cuenca. That "empapado" can mean either "soaked" (like rain) or "drunk." That fireworks can go off at any time.

At the Equator, I learned what it means that you can't try to walk the line between obedience and disobedience. Either there is the one or the other, but not both. Like trying to serve God and something else, it's impossible.

In the jungle, I learned that, as Proverbs 24:16 says, it doesn't matter how many times you fall, as long as you get back up right away. (I fell far more times than seven.)

On my way to school, I learned that two are truly better than one, since it's so much harder to walk alone than with a friend.

And I'm still learning. After all, that's why I'm here, not at home.

Of Beanstalks and Eavesdropping

Have you ever felt like you were a mere inch high, staring up at a redoubtable giant reminiscent of Jack and the beanstalk? (Fee, fie, foe, fum, etc.) Not at all like the friendly giant below.

Because that's how I feel at the moment: small, insignificant, about to be crushed by a sneering mound of bureaucratic red tape. There is so much to do. I congratulate the individuals who have completed it and not died from it yet.

On that note, I wasn't exactly dropping eaves, but I couldn't help but overhear someone else crying about having the same difficulties in the library a few days ago. Before you say that I'm a horrible person for not helping her, she had a support group with her. They were trying to figure out how she could fly home for Christmas if she sent off her birth certificate and old passport in order to get her new one. And her state ID was expired.

And I realized that I'm not so badly off. My plane ticket is paid for. I have my passport at home. I have an ID card that guarantees repatriation of remains or medical evacuation. I have my malaria pills, and all my vaccines are up to date. I have my forms turned in, including the one that says if I do illegal drugs I'll have to leave.

It doesn't matter how prepared I am. I'm still scared, and ultimately unprepared. It's the first time ever I've been out of the country, and I won't be able to connect with the people I love back home. The internet will be somewhat erratic. My posts on this blog will be sporadic at best, and random to boot (like this one). So you'll just have to understand that I'm overwhelmed, and scared, and busy.