Field Note #7 — Being Lonely and Shifting Focus

Kichwa word of the day: fakchaman = "cascada" / "waterfall"

Hi, how’s it going?  Day 18 here after a week-long hiatus.  I’ve got the usual setup: sitting at my desk cocooned in my sleeping bag, watching my cup of tea get cold, sheep grazing on the hills outside my window, and of course, having the looming shadow of perpetual loneliness settle in just in time to keep me company for lunchtime once again.  Just your typical Saturday afternoon.

By this point I don’t even try to hide it: I don’t think I’ve ever been this lonely my entire life.

It feels rather contradictory that an Anthropologist should feel lonely in the field, doesn’t it?  It’s like an accountant who goes home at the end of the day and slumps down in their seat and thinks, “Man, I wish I got to see more numbers today 😦 ” or something like that, I mean I don’t actually know what accountants do but this is the first analogy that came to me and we’re gonna run with it.  It’s been hard for me to justify this feeling—it’s our job to be around people all the time, building relationships and becoming intertwined in people’s lives.  How can someone spending hours of their day studying human interaction feel so deprived of human interaction?

But alas, that’s where I am right now, and it’s where I have been for the past two weeks, and probably where I will be for the rest of the field season.  Turns out it was not Malaria or food poisoning that I needed to worry about here; it was the incurable malady of missing home.  It’s not like I haven’t been homesick before.  I get homesick even in Los Angeles, just six hours away from home.  But loneliness?  I can’t remember ever feeling lonely while traveling solo; if I have felt lonely, it obviously wasn’t enough to deter me from wanting to go out there on my own again.

But there’s a big difference between those trips I’ve been on and what I’m doing right now. I’m not a traveler this time—I live and work here.  It’s not so much an adventure as it is everyday life, something that is so easy to navigate when the conditions are right but when they’re not, it’s damn near impossible to adjust to.  While on a backpacking trip you’re practically fueled by the unfamiliarity of it all, eager to find new clever ways to be challenged by novelty, during fieldwork you’re trying to rebuild the familiarity that normally keeps you afloat in daily life, in order to integrate into the community as best you can, while still trying to maintain your perspective as a researcher—as an outsider.

Gosh, what a gloomy way to start a post.  I want to be honest with you about this whole process, but at the same time, being mopey is not what we’re about here on A Grain of Nice.  My tagline is field notes of a hungry optimist, for goodness’ sake; I have a reputation to keep up.  So don’t worry.  I have my moments, but I’m learning to coexist with my loneliness—as in, I’ve accepted that I can’t overcome it, but I’m not going to let it get in the way of me living my life.  And life’s been pretty good here.  This has been a big week in particular. Below are some snapshots of the colorful life in this community, starting with photos from the Fiestas de la cosecha San Pedro, San Pablo, y Santa Isabel. 

Note: This summer festival should not be confused with the Inca tradition of Inti Raymi, or “Sun Festival,” celebrated in Peru.  These communities suffered both the Inca conquest and the Spanish conquest that destroyed their cultures and dispossessed their peoples—so these festivities actually represent the resistance to the empires that tried to take over their land, and celebrate their prehistoric ancestors and Pachamama, or “Mother Earth.”

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A parade lasting the entire day on 7/14/19 celebrated many indigenous communities with their own songs, dance, and clothing.
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A young boy dancing in zamarros de chivo—special pants made of leather and sheep/goat wool.  It’s typically worn by the indigenous cowboys/girls of the Andean haciendas.
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These girls were sitting on the back of a pickup truck covered entirely in beautiful roses, throwing petals into the crowd.  They’re wearing traditional indigenous attire: felt trilbies, white embroidered blouse, and the golden beaded necklace called gualcas.
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And of course, fiesta food.  Fluffy golden llapingachos (fried potato pancakes) and a hearty bed of mote (peeled, boiled corn kernels) topped with crispy, succulent, slow-roasted pork.
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7/17/19 — Papa José took me out for a spontaneous day trip to Cascadas de Peguche, an indigenous ceremonial site nestled in the mountains of Otavalo.
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A quiet prayer in the Socavón de la Purificación, or Cavern of Purification, before washing our faces with the rushing mountain water below these rocks.
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We were going to go through this tunnel behind us, but we both agreed we were too hungry to go on.  We’d been trekking through the mountain for a couple hours by this point.  Despite being in his seventies he definitely had way more energy left than I did.

And now, the moment you probably weren’t waiting for, but should have known was coming because this is my research diary—we have a research update:

During the several days that I didn’t write, I was at a low point of going to bed every night feeling like I shouldn’t be here. In addition to wishing I were back home, I was grappling with impostor syndrome and a tremendous amount of self-imposed pressure about being productive—literally, having some sort of product at the end of the day to prove I did something worthwhile.  I was making zero progress, felt like I was a failure, and basically doubted if I could really do this. 

If you’ve ever talked to me in real life—even for just five minutes—you’d know that my entire conception of who I am is based on what I study.  For the past three years, it’s the one thing about me that has remained constant, reliable, absolute.  But it’s risky to build your identity around just one thing, because what happens when it suddenly isn’t enough to hold you up?  Who are you then?  What do you have left? 

So I was in a funk for a while.  And not the groovy Isley Brothers kind.

But then there was one night where I gathered enough energy to not stay curled up in bed on the phone with mom, telling her I want to go home.  I give credit to my friend Rayce, who told me to “get the ball rolling” instead of just feeling sorry for myself, and my fellow cohort members who reminded me in a Zoom call that it’s okay to change directions, and more importantly, it’s okay to let yourself have fun.  I found myself ravenously brainstorming all the ways I could make this better for myself and filled up three pages of my notebook, most of which turned out to be illegible.  I had to accept that things weren’t working with my current topic, a hard pill to swallow when 20% of my data collection period has already gone by—but when I took a step back and reevaluated what I’ve been seeing here every day, the answer was clear.

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The cohort (actually just half because of our scattered ass timezones).  There are thirteen of us in the program and we’re stuck with each other for two years, and I couldn’t have asked for a better family to go through this with.  On the very first day we met, our TA said, “You can’t operate in a vacuum.  You need to figure out who your neighbors are.”  He was absolutely right.  You just can’t do this shit alone.  And what defines neighbors?  If I can be up at 11:00 PM in Ecuador talking face-to-face with friends in Texas, Malawi, Armenia, Peru, Tijuana, San Diego, and the most exotic of them all, Arizona—then they are my neighbors, no matter where they are. (Photo credit to Callie)

I realized the only thing I wanted to do was to study people and their food.  That’s what I had wanted from the start, but I let the idea go thinking it would be hard to gather interactional data on it.  But after spending some time here, it turned out to be the only kind of data that I’ve been able to write about.  

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Sharing my notes taps into a new level of vulnerability that I’m not very comfortable with, but we’re gonna give it a try.

That’s right.  I couldn’t seem to find any data that fit my focus—but it was actually the focus that didn’t fit the data all along.  Sometimes the one who’s meant for you is the one who’s been standing right in front of you this whole time.  I just had to open myself up to it and give it the chance it deserved.  I’m keeping my original project, exploring themes like modernity and tradition, urban and rural, girlhood and womanhood—but with food as my lens to look into these aspects of everyday life.  I’ve been testing it out for a few days now and I’m the happiest I’ve been this whole trip.  Being busy with work is a great distraction from loneliness, and now that I finally feel like I know what I’m doing, I’m excited about being here again.

Plus, I’ve got a little side project going: asago yachay hulspa parlashun Kichwa (Learning to speak Kichwa little by little).  75% of what my host dad says to me is in Kichwa now because he’s quite confident that if I hear him speaking it enough I’ll eventually be able to understand him completely.  So far I can ask to buy seven eggs (kanchis lulun) or compliment someone’s cooking (kamba yanushka mishki mishki) or let people know that it’s raining outside (tamyahun) and honestly, I think that pretty much covers all I would ever need to function in this society.  (The spelling is probably way off, sorry about that.)

But check this out.  There’s this little discovery I made that got me super excited, and maybe it’ll excite you too, if you’re one fellow Linguistics nerd out there lurking about:

When José was teaching me the aforementioned phrase, I was able to figure out what he was trying to say before he translated it into Spanish.  Did I just instantly develop fluency in Kichwa?  No, but I recognized that the Kichwa verb “parlashun” sounds an awful lot like the French verb “parler,” meaning “to speak.”  You guessed it, they’re false cognates—similar in sound and meaning, even though the two languages belong to different etymological families.  I can tell you’re begging to know, how could this happen?  It stumped me as well.  Could it just be mere coincidence?  Perhaps.  But I did some excavating (See that? Little Archaeology humor there, not that I’m an Archaeologist, no no) and it’s possible that the French word got brought into Ecuador during the French Geodesic Mission of the 18th century, when French and Spanish scientists passed through this particular region to figure out the shape of the earth.  And think about it—for a word as ubiquitous as “speak,” for a bunch of white dudes trying to communicate with indigenous people in a foreign land, it’s very likely that the word was passed around and eventually adopted by the people here, right?  But if anyone has any other theories on this, let’s discuss! I’m desperate for human interaction, remember!!!?

Field Note #6 — Making the Unfamiliar Familiar

Kichwa word of the day: mishki = rico / delicious! I use this one a lot.

To start today’s post I am sharing with you this photo of my Papa José.  At first I was just taking photos of the adorable guaguas de pan, shaped like little babies and horses and usually shared on Día de los Difuntos in November.  But then he came over and wanted me to photograph him cradling the guaguas (Kichwa for “baby” or “child”), and how could I refuse such a sweet moment?

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Sometimes you can just see the kindness in someone’s eyes.

OK, Day 9, let’s catch up.

I had a couple rough nights in my first week.  I had what I would diagnose as a magnitude 4.6 breakdown recently where I crawled into bed after a long day and opened up my messages and felt the tears getting ready for takeoff as I began writing to my mom.  I wish I could say it was because of the tremendous ethical pressure of ethnographic research or the fatigue from jet lag and corn harvesting but really, it was just that I missed home and the realization that I was going to be 6,000 km away for the next two months crashed down on me all at once as I asked myself,

Do I really want to pursue a profession where I have to leave everything to work alone in an unfamiliar environment for long periods at a time?

I’ve asked myself this question a million times, never to reach a solid answer.  On any given day, rain or shine, I’m likely oscillating between wanting to trek through every crevice of the earth on my own or spend the rest of my life at home as my mom’s personal chauffeur even though I’m not even that good at driving. 

But we’ll get into this topic some other time.

I’m somewhat back on my feet now.  I received some good love & support from friends without whose kind words I would have booked a flight home set for next Tuesday; I got over the sickness after getting cleaned by an egg; I became friends with a girl who works at the picante; I even decided I should go out and run for the first time since the high school mile test even though I am in no shape to handle the altitude or any other aspect of this form of exercise.  It was absolutely excruciating.  I felt my body shutting down as my lungs forgot the mechanics of respiration, and I had to walk most of it because the wheezing made me think I was actually not going to make it home.  But I liked the view so much that I ended up being out for a full hour, and a big chunk of that I spent meditating on a small mound between the quiet, deep ridges.  So I’ll probably go running again, maybe, who knows.

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Perdóname for the phone quality but you get the idea.

Yesterday, I helped my host mom and sister cook dinner.  By that I mean I chopped green plátanos (plantains) and carrots and turned a bowl upside down to make things fall into a soup pot.  I like to think of myself as the extra set of hands that is not necessary but is still there so they might as well put it to work.  But my usefulness was definitely put to the test last night.

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Enough soup for seven people?  Barely.  After we all got seconds there was almost nothing left in the pot.

Now I’d like to think my knife handling skills are pretty alright.  I’ve done my fair share of julienning in my previous life back when I was nineteen and pulled out of university because I believed it was my destiny to become a professional chef (ten points to whoever can guess how that turned out!).  But the one thing I stay away from is cutting things not with a cutting board but with my hand.  That has never made sense to me, I don’t care if your grandma who’s the best cook in the world does it, my grandma does it and I’m still not a fan.  The only time I found an actual legitimate reason for cutting by hand was when I worked at Subway and got quite good at slicing up avocados in the palm of my left hand, but that was only because they’re paying 75 cents extra for that shit and they deserve a little show.  Other than that, if we have a board meant for cutting, is it not our moral duty to use it as it was intended?  So when I saw Mama Rosita and Mary slicing away at the plátanos in the air, I thought, that’s cool, but I’m gonna go ahead and use this kitchen counter over here.  The end result, after all, is the same.  We’ll both end up with diced plátano verde, everybody wins.  This is a rare case where it is about the destination, and not about the journey.

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Is there anything more badass than a lady in the kitchen?  In the back is Mary slamming her hand down on the butt of a knife to remove corn kernels from the cob, and Mama Rosita is risking her entire left dexterity to do the same.  Gnarly.

They quickly caught on that I was taking my time laying down neat little planks to cut into smaller pieces.  “No no, like this,” Mary said as she held the plátano vertically with one hand and began to swiftly slice into it with the other, creating a tic-tac-toe grid on the surface of the fruit.  She tilted the plátano toward the bowl and gently pushed her knife through horizontally.  I watched as perfect cubes elegantly slid off her knife.

“Ohhhh,” I sang with an exaggerated nod, pretending I was doing it wrong because I just hadn’t seen her do it, and not because I was actively trying to avoid amputating my hand today.  But now I felt her eyes watching me—I had to give it a try.  I gulped and made my first incision.  As it turns out, the firm and bulky plátano verde is all talk and no walk—it’s rather elastic and flimsy under pressure.  When I tried to get my knife through it, it just kept following the knife downward, the blade inching its way very close to my fingers, so close that eventually the plátano would likely split in half and so too my thumb.  Holding my breath I slowly sawed my way down, millimeters at a time, before I heard Mary laughing beside me: “You said you’re Japanese, right?  I thought Japanese people were good with knives.”  

There was no way to recover from that.  Good thing I let go of my dream of becoming a professional chef a while ago.  Despite getting roasted I had a wonderful dinner with my family, as always.

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Sopita con picuda (barracuda), maíz, yucca, plátano verde, zanahoria

Now, onto big news!  As you may know, a week had gone by in the field site without me collecting a single piece of data from my primary participant, but now we actually have a project!!!!!!!  Samara and I still have not met up in person yet but we have a blossoming online relationship where we discuss research matters, and she has been absolutely wonderful throughout this entire process.  Just yesterday I transcribed, translated, and coded her first audio diary entry!  The diary, in which she records herself talking freely about a prompt that I give her or about any topic of her choosing, is one of my favorite methods I’m using in my ethnography because it’s an intimate yet minimally obtrusive way to look at micro-scale details like word choice, sentence structure, and manner of speaking, as well as macro-level thematic content such as what’s going on in her life, what she’s feeling, what types of things she finds worth talking about, etc., all to illustrate what everyday life looks like for this one girl.

I’m just glad research is starting.  I think I needed this tangible proof that I’m headed somewhere. Granted, we’re facing several more weeks of data collection so hopefully from this point on we see more productivity—not that I don’t absolutely love just sitting on the floor talking to Mama Rosita or going to the nearby city to go shopping with Mary or learning Kichwa from Papa José.  Those are the moments I value most.

As for the question I posed earlier in this post, I’m probably not going to figure it out any time soon.  But if there’s one thing I’ve started to understand since entering my field site, it’s this: Maybe the environment eventually stops being unfamiliar. You find a new family, you build friendships, you rely on the support of those waiting for you at home—and somewhere along the process you realize you’re not working alone at all, that you’re not that far from “home” after all.

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Field Note #5 — Lost in Translation (Sketchbook)

Some Linguistics humor to wrap up my day…

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(Puta means “whore” in Spanish.  While in English the /b/ sound is more firmly voiced and held longer, in Japanese it’s a softer, more “staccato” consonantal sound that’s very close to the Spanish bilabial stop /p/ —so the two come out sounding dangerously similar.)

Field Note #4 — Being Sick in the Field

Kichwa word of the day: sumak kawsay = buen vivir / good living

Okay Karma, you got me good.  In my previous post I bragged about how I managed to escape the wrath of altitude sickness, and it’s almost as if as soon as I hit “Publish,” my body decided it’s time—bring on the headache, the fatigue, the light-headedness; take away her usually insatiable appetite, and for the love of god, do not let her get any sleep. 

You win this round.  Since getting sick my diet has consisted solely of Airborne tablets, hierba luisa (lemongrass) tea, and sopitas made by my host mom and sisters.  

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Sopita de borrego (lamb).  Homecooked meals have a healing property in them, you can fight me on this.

Today, I was supposed to go to Otavalo with my host family for a wedding ceremony; I had been looking forward to it since I got here. But this morning at 5:45 AM I crawled out of bed, tired and frail and snot dripping from my hose, to tell my host mom I was too sick to go with them.

Word spread fast; soon the entire family was standing around me.  Qué te duele?  It was my clogged nose, my stuffy chest, my tired eyes, but mostly my head.  My host sister nodded, handed me a dollar coin, and pointed to my host dad José.  “Give this to him.  He is going to clean you.”  Clean me?  Clean me how?  Clean me where?  I followed José up to the roof; it was still dark out, and I shivered in the thin night air as I stuffed my hands into my pockets and sat myself down on a plastic crate.  I looked up at him.  In his hands were an egg and a lit cigarette.  Closing his eyes, he inhaled—chest heaving in the air—and puffed out a big cloud of smoke onto the egg.

I could describe in vivid detail what happened next, but there’s a sacredness to this ritual that I wouldn’t be able to do justice through my writing.  I don’t feel right writing about it—not so much because it might be a secret performance, which it very well may be, but more so because any attempt to explain it and make sense of it would be futile.  I’m starting to learn that not everything has to be written into my own language, to be analyzed or shared, even though as a researcher it’s tempting to use every experience as data.  But I can tell you that by the end of this cleaning ritual, my headache was gone.

So it looks like today is going to be spent mostly in my bed, and my only task is to just get over this damn illness—delaying the start of my research even more.  It’s hard to find the balance between self-care and productivity.  I know I’m doing what’s best for myself—but still, I’d be lying if I said I felt good about taking the day off.  Prioritizing my wellbeing in the field doesn’t feel good the way a kale smoothie or an hour of cycling does at home; it just feels kind of pathetic, like I’ve come all this way just to lie in bed and go through an entire roll of toilet paper blowing my nose.  

But it was a good few days before the sickness really took over.  The other day my host family taught me how to harvest corn.  

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My adorable host family!  We spent a few hours out here, gathering three full bags of corn to be turned into the fermented corn drink chicha.
How to harvest corn:
  1. Create a puncture in the husks from the top, then slice through all the way down.
  2. Pull apart the husks to reveal kernels inside.
  3. Gently twist the ear a couple times to detach.

I had an absolute blast tearing these bad boys open.  Opening up the layers and layers of dry husk to find beautifully packed rows of golden kernels is what I imagine delivering a baby is like.  You don’t know what it’s going to look like but you can feel it in there, waiting for you, and the moment it reveals its face the whole world stops for a minute to watch and you just want to cradle the precious thing in your arms forever.

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Qué precioso! Organic native corn, untouched by Monsanto’s grimy corporate hands.

And the scenery, holy moly. Each time I looked up from the stalks towering over me, I was captivated by the sheer beauty of the Andes.  We were tucked deep in the Arias Pamba, surrounded by lakes and farms and the volcán Imbabura.  Nearby was the Parque Cóndor, home to Ecuador’s endangered national bird (today happens to be National Condor Day!). 

Climbing on the back of the pickup truck, Cesar, my host cuñado (brother-in-law), closed his eyes and faced the wind: “The air is so pure here.”  We all took in a big whiff of the mountain breeze and nodded.  Coming from some of the most urban areas in the world (Tokyo, Los Angeles), it is impossible to not be taken aback by how delightful the air tastes and feels when the atmosphere is free of human influence.  

After our morning harvest we visited a brother in Otavalo for more breakfast (this is a family of nine siblings so there’s a lot of family to meet).  He brought out sugary black coffee with beautifully dense croissants and slices of cheese.  He also prepared hard-boiled eggs for us, but I was feeling quite full so I politely declined, only to be peer-pressured by everyone at the table raving about how good these farm fresh eggs were—so of course, eventually I had to take one.  And it was a marvelous egg.  As my advisor Dr. Loyd once told me: say “yes” to everything.  On this day I said “yes” to this hard-boiled egg, and I’m glad I did.

Oh, and remember how I said I was going to make dinner for everyone?  It turned out to not be Taco Night because I couldn’t find tortillas with the right masa and size for tacos at the grocery store—but instead we had Quesadilla Night!  I had a lot of fun running around the kitchen like a madman trying to serve up enough quesadillas for seven people.  They’d never had quesadillas either so they were mesmerized by me laying down the tortilla onto the butter-coated flat iron skillet and piling on handfuls of shredded mozzarella.  I stuffed the quesadillas with chicken and a beef sauté made by my host sister, paired with pico de gallo, sliced avocado, and of course, ají.  I think it was a hit!

As for an update of my research . . . It is Day Five at my field site and I have not yet met up with Samara, my primary participant, because she was out of town and now I am sick.  Still not much progress made.  But if any of my advisors see this, don’t worry, don’t drop me! I set up my data collection timeline for eight weeks, even though I’m here for ten, meaning I have up to two weeks of leeway.  See?  Turns out I do know how to plan in advance.

. . . But if I don’t recover from this illness soon I’m going to lose my mind.

 

Field Note #3 — Finding a Sense of Family Abroad

Kichwa word of the day: Kayakaman = see you tomorrow!

We made it to the Andes!  It’s my second night at the field site, and aside from the distant barking of stray dogs and the muffled hum of motorcycle engines rushing through these narrow streets, the entire parish is quiet.  “Everyone’s asleep by now,” my host sister told me at about 8:00 PM today as she served me a generous mound of fried potatoes.  “But our family, we don’t sleep.”  

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My window view of the neighborhood at daytime.  To the right is the bull ring where they host the annual Fiesta de Toros, mid-July.

I’m adjusting to life here pretty well.  I sleep burrito’d up in a sleeping bag inside my bed with wool blankets because I’m a weenie in the chilly night air, and I have set up a nice little study desk where I get to write for several hours a day and call it “work.”  Luckily I haven’t been stricken with altitude sickness despite being 10k feet up in elevation here, but I did try to go on a walk around the neighborhood this morning and had to come back after just thirty minutes because I couldn’t breathe sufficiently enough to even make it to a panadería and buy an empanada.  Defeated, I settled for eating the banana chips I got on the plane for breakfast.

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My study desk.  The sunlight keeps this room so bright and warm, it’s the absolute best place to sit and write and drink instant coffee out of a metal cup.

It’s been a slow start, to be honest.  I thought entering the field would have more flare and drama, that I’d be overwhelmed with that we’re not in Kansas anymore type of feeling.  I imagined my inner Mead would awaken as soon as I set foot in this community and I’d be running around the parish asking all these questions and have two hours of recorded footage to edit by now. 

But instead of being a researcher, it just feels like I’ve been adopted into this Ecuadorian family (they actually use the term hija adoptiva) that sees me as the clueless chinita who’s just trying to navigate her new world, learning how to wash dishes their way and trying to keep up with their banter.  My first two days of being here have consisted of watching telenovelas with my host sisters, crossing the street to buy household necessities like dish soap and 3-in-1 men’s shampoo, and eating lunch and dinner with the family and joining in on their mealtime conversations.

An example from today’s dinner:
Fernandito: Where does your boyfriend live?
Me: I don’t have one.
Fer: You don’t have one?! ((all eyes around the table turn to me; it’s normal for kids here to marry in their teens))
Mary: She’s looking for an Ecuadorian one. ((everyone laughs.  I shrug and laugh along, afraid to contest))
Fer: ((talking about the two sisters and me)) You three are the only ones in the family without a boyfriend.

These family meals are my favorite part of the day.  See, I live upstairs of a small restaurant (called a picante here) run by my host mom and sisters, so these ladies know how to cook.   Food here is simple but so rich and flavorful, consisting of rice and potatoes paired with fresh salad and some type of protein like tilapia or chicken, always seasoned just the right amount. Tonight’s dinner was rice and french fries with tuna-cucumber-tomato salad and ají, the dankest hot sauce known to man.  There’s just something about eating with this family that fills up both my stomach and my heart with pure, unfiltered, 100% organic goodness, so I try my best to be a part of these mealtime interactions.  I’ve taken up the role of washing dishes after each meal—at first they would say, “Just leave it in the sink,” but after insisting enough times I think I’ve finally secured my position as the family dishwasher—and never forget that washing dishes is where Anthony Bourdain started. And when I’m done with the dishes, they tell me siéntate and I join them for more conversation until someone decides it’s time for bed.  No matter how tired I am or how much writing I have left to do, I’ve made a commitment to never lock myself away in my room and miss out on family time.

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I took this photo a year ago, not knowing whose kitchen it was.  Now I live upstairs.

Tomorrow, it’s my turn to make dinner for the whole family.  I was telling one of my sisters about Mexico and how I only ate tacos on my trip, and she told me they don’t have tacos around here—so tomorrow’s gonna be Taco Night baby!!!!  I’ve also promised to make them Japanese food, but those ingredients are going to be a little harder to find.  My mom told me to bring Japanese condiments, and I should have listened, you were right ma.

Aside from bonding with the family, I did one research-related thing today! I started learning how to use a stabilizer.

Now you might be thinking, shouldn’t you know how to use your equipment before you show up at your field site?  Fair point.  This thing is pesado as fuck and took up 1/4 of my suitcase space.  I’ve never had luggage only 1 kg short of being too heavy to check-in; you should have seen the look on the guy’s face at the COPA counter when I tried to haul this suitcase onto the scale.  To bring such a big, heavy, expensive piece of equipment without even knowing if I’d actually be able to maneuver it was pretty dang risky.

But listen.  I’m more of a learn-as-I-go kind of gal.  I figured it wouldn’t be that hard to learn, and I’d get acquainted with it just by using it.  I watched a couple of YouTube videos back home and these guys made it seem pretty straightforward.  It’s like a tripod, but you move it around and stuff.  No biggie.

But oh.  Ohhhh no.  This is one ugly mean tripod.  This is like using a tripod that has a dumbbell glued to one end and you’re trying to stabilize it while you’re sitting on one of those pirate ship rides at amusement parks that go back and forth and upside down.  It’s designed so cleverly that it’s stupidly hard to use.  Stabilizers are serious business and I wasn’t prepared for it.

It’s not so much the physics of it that’s giving me a hard time.  If you set it up right—which, for me, currently takes about fifteen minutes—the stabilizer will, you know, stabilize.  But my biggest problem is that the whole rig is just so gosh darn heavy that I can’t film longer than twenty seconds at a time.  My right arm has to hold up and steer this bulky metal rod and the DSLR perched on top of it, while my left hand just gently holds it in place, and from an anatomical standpoint this distribution of weight and muscle labor just does not make sense.  By the time I’m about to hit the button to stop recording, my right forearm is quivering and the footage itself looks like a scene from Cloverfield.  At this point, I’m thinking I’d be better off without it.

But I want those steady shots.  I just have this very particular vision for my ethnographic film and I’m too stubborn to give up because I know these shots could be perfect.  All of the YouTube tutorialists insist that this is a slow process that relies on building muscle memory, and I’m working muscles I’ve never had to use before, so it makes sense that it would take time.  But after about an hour of practice today, I ended up a cramp in my neck, my right shoulder, and my right forearm, so it’s going to be a painful process.  Who knows.  Maybe I’ll get the hang of it and come home super jacked (on my right arm only) at the end of the summer, or maybe I’ll have no luck with it after all.  

 

Field Note #2 — Packing for Fieldwork (Sketchbook)

My flight to Quito is less than a week away what the f

… And I have not yet figured out what to bring to the field.  As per usual it looks like I am leaving my packing to the eleventh hour.  I’m convinced I don’t know how to do it any other way.

But this time, I can’t get away with just stuffing a couple of (hopefully clean) shirts and shorts into a backpack a few hours before take-off.  I need to be prepared.  I gotta anticipate for stuff.  I have to plan in advance. 

But planning in advance?  Not really my style.

In fact, over the past seven months of writing my proposal and drafting a “data collection timeline,” I have been contradicting myself with a voice in my head preaching that nothing is going to go according to plan.  After hearing it from my advisors so many times, I’ve come to understand that that’s pretty much the mantra of anthropological research: things just won’t go the way you think they will. 

You have no idea how much comfort this brings me.  I’ve talked to members of my cohort about this and the lack of control over how our projects will play out seems to make them anxious—but for me, it’s relieving to not have the pressure of having it all figured out and instead have freedom over where our projects will take us. I’m a total sucker for this romantic idea of stumbling upon data serendipitously, much like bumping into a potential love interest at the grocery store and dropping an apple and having them pick it up for you and say, “I believe this is for you.” 

But this is a risky game to play in research.  Maybe this approach works for finding a partner (unconfirmed) but the IRB needs a little more structure than that, and sometimes you have to play by the rules.  So I guess that means it’s time to get packing even though it’s super early—four whole days before departure!

But not today.  Today, I am avoiding the crippling sense of panic creeping up on me about how unprepared I am for the field—for all of this—and decided to just doodle about it instead.

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Field Note #1 — Navigating the Researcher-Participant Friendship

Five weeks left until fieldwork begins. Holy moly guacamole my dudes

Things are getting real now: my flight to Quito has been booked, the IRB has approved my proposal, and I’ve started purchasing equipment—but the most exciting update is that my focal participant and I talk every day now via Messenger.  This is the girl whose life I will be documenting for two months in my ethnography of everyday life in the Ecuadorian Andes—we’re going to call her “Samara,” which is the pseudonym she picked out for herself.  Through our daily interactions online, I’ve become a part of Samara’s everyday life.  My influence as the researcher has already started, and we’re not even in the same hemisphere yet.

This recent development has brought up something for me to think about.

It is part of the anthropologist’s training to develop heightened sensitivity toward the effect she can have on someone’s life.  From a methodological standpoint, it seems perfectly reasonable to care this much, until you compare it to the interactions you have in your everyday life, as a human being and not as a researcher, and then it becomes a little absurd.  Think about it—we give very little thought to the hidden implications of our interactions with others on a day-to-day basis, or the roles we may play in someone’s life trajectory.  How exhausting would that be, if we had to constantly assess every possible way we could be affecting someone’s day, someone’s life, someone’s entire perception of their identity?

But come fieldwork season, this is my reality, 24/7.  When the circumstances of your involvement with someone is based off of a researcher-participant relationship, you have to be mindful of how you are situated and perceived by the other person at all times.  As if interpersonal relationships weren’t complicated enough already, there’s an added layer of metacognitive awareness to make you overthink and over-sweat about everything you do and say as an anthropologist.  It is the inescapable fate of ethnographic research that by merely existing in their physical or mental space, you inevitably have some sort of impact on their experience of the world. You can do very little to control the impact; you can only hope to cause as little harm as possible.

I’m writing this after a really sad realization today, about myself. 

This morning, in response to the string of messages we’ve been exchanging lately, Samara sent me a paragraph sharing details about what she likes to do on the weekends.  She’s learning how to play violin, she goes on walks in the neighborhood, she likes watching movies with her cousin—she was giving me all these vivid descriptions about what her life looks like, adding more detail to my developing image of her colorful world.  And you know what my first thought was?

“This is great data.”

And then I took a step back, and suddenly it hit me.

Here is someone genuinely interested in becoming friends with me, giving me her time of day to write a thoughtful response so that I can get to know her better—and my immediate reaction was not about how I’m getting closer to this person, or how her life compares to my own, but solely how useful her message was to my research.  When did I become the type of person who fixates on what she can get out of every interaction with someone? Since when have I had the mindset of whittling down the value of someone’s livelihood to just its relevance as data for my own selfish research interests?

This was one of those wake-up moments that hit especially hard, because I’ve spent all this time believing I was doing good, that I was better than those old bearded white guys who described people as primitive and savage—only to find that I’m still just as problematic in my own special snowflake way.  I let my academic ambitions get in the way of being able to recognize and appreciate what is supposed to just be a raw, honest, and genuine connection between this eighteen-year-old Ecuadorian girl and me, despite growing up in two separate worlds, 3,500 miles apart.  That’s a wonderful, crazy thing, and my research allows me to experience it firsthand.  And at the end of the day, human connection is the only thing I’m really interested in.  How could I have gotten so caught up on trying to be a successful researcher so as to lose sight of just being a decent human being?

With only a month remaining before data collection begins, this was not the turning point in my research that I was hoping for.  But this is where I am.  There’s guilt and there’s disappointment and it feels horrible, but it’s a necessary process.  In any relationship—be it with your research participant, your mother, your partner, or your dog—there’s nothing worse than realizing that you are turning exactly into the kind of person you promised you would never be.  But you can’t fix your behavior and make things right until you face the hard truth about yourself and come to terms with the fact that you are flawed, that you might have questionable motives, and that you’re susceptible to being a not-so-great person at times.  

I owe Samara an apology for letting myself value her contribution to my research over her friendship.  I feel as though I’ve wronged her, as though I have tainted the wholesome nature of our relationship.  She’s not just an anonymous subject out of my sample size of 100—after a year of knowing her, I am invested in my personal relationship with her, and she is more than a research participant to me.  Our lives are entangled, and I get to go through the slow, messy, and beautiful process of getting to know Samara, becoming friends with her, and navigating her world alongside her.  This bond transcends any research objective I could write about or any method I could learn from books; it is up to her and me how we choose to craft our friendship—and ultimately, our own identities as a result of our friendship.  And that’s the other half of ethnographic research I didn’t mention earlier.  Not only will you influence the community you’re studying with your anthropologist presence, but your own ways of feeling, thinking, seeing, hearing, understanding, and being, too, will be shaped by the people and places you become involved with.  Just as much as I am a part of Samara’s life, Samara is every bit a part of my life. And I can’t take that for granted.