Category: Trips

Travel Prep 2018

March is here again, and with it come plane tickets and a host of technological projects.

First, my ancient iPhone 4s finally gave out. It has a hardware error stemming from an issue with the WiFi antenna. I cannot connect to WiFi at all, which means I cannot disconnect the phone from Find My iPhone, which means I cannot even reset it to factory defaults. Maybe I will get around to finding a SIM card with a data connection so I can fix at least some of these issues, but for the moment, it is simply out of commission. Enter, “new” iPhone.

My iPhone 4s was the first iPhone I ever purchased, and I purchased it Factory Unlocked (which was not a common, nor inexpensive thing back then) and it was with me through three US cell carriers until I finally switched back to Verizon and CDMA service, and a new iPhone 5s. The 4s then permanently became my Ecuadorian phone, replacing a refurbished 3GS I had purchased in the meantime, and I would just keep my Ecuadorian SIM card in it and add a few dollars to my prepaid account every time I was in the country. And the 4s outlasted not just that old 3GS, but the 5s as well. That phone’s battery exploded when I was in California in 2016 and I upgraded to a then-band new iPhone 7. So it has been the Ecuadorian 4s and the North American 7 until today, when my refurbished iPhone 6 arrived.

One of the things I have learned with all these generations of phones is that SIM cards keep getting smaller. At one time, I had what we referred to as the Nokia “Brick” phone (those indestructible candybar phones that we still give to our Youth World interns in 2018 because the cockroaches will be calling each other on them after the nuclear war). That phone had what most people would call a full-size SIM card in it (although that’s technically a “Mini” SIM). I purchased a SIM card cutter way back in the day to slice it down to fit in my 4s, which required a Micro SIM. And that card just got sliced down again with a new cutter into a Nano SIM  for the iPhone 6.

Restored from the 4s Ecuaphone backup, it will be all ready to use when I step off the plane. Or at least it would be if I ever managed to have any saldo left when I finish hosting a team. Hopefully I’ll remember to turn off my cellular data instead of blowing through all my saldo before the team even arrives, which I may have done… two years in a row. My Quito Quest pareja, Caroline, gets a little frustrated with this phenomenon when all outgoing phone calls and texts have to be on her phone until we remember to send someone to the Farmacia to recharge my saldo. I could solve all of this by just using one of the Nokia phones. But what can I say? I am spoiled.

The other tech project has been updating my website. I generally renew my hosting and domain registration in February, so that has been done for a couple of weeks, but parts of the site have been broken for a long time. The DNS records were a little wonky, probably since I switched hosting providers years ago, or possibly since I added Google Apps. At any rate, if you got here by putting a “www” in front of my domain name, then my update worked.

The site was also running a WordPress theme that was at bare minimum 5 years old, and had survived heavy coding updates I did to it throughout that time. The bulk of those coding edits were to incorporate a head image randomizer, the thing that makes the top image change every time you visit the site, click “Refresh,” or go to another page within the site. This option is now something that’s built into the WordPress software. I was just doing it before it was cool, thanks to some PHP script found and then reworked by Mike Turner. The result of all this was that as the underlying software has changed and modernized, my theme would not even display my blog posts on the front page anymore. Obviously, you’re reading this, so I’ve corrected that error. For the moment, I have done this mainly by changing to a less archaic WordPress theme. It will probably change again as I get annoyed at searching for post dates off to the side. But at the moment, I am simply happy that there is no quest required to access my content, or even my site anymore.

Spring Adventures

All through February, it seems that all I’ve worked on has been Beach Retreat. It’s our district’s annual youth retreat, and I’ve been going since 2001, first as a student, then as a volunteer, then as a youth director, and now as the District Youth Coordinator. Which is super weird. And a TON of work. It was a fantastic weekend, but when I got back to town on Sunday afternoon I slept. From 4:30pm until 8:30am Monday. And that does not remotely discourage me from doing this again next year.

My adventures tend to be that way. People say “how was your trip/visit/vacation/retreat?” and I have to quickly think of another adjective besides “exhausting.” And sometimes I have to stop and think which “trip” they’re even talking about. Partially because I’m always going somewhere. And partially because once it’s over, I’ve already moved on to the next thing. This afternoon I was working at First UMC and our music director walked in the building, and immediately asked my about my trip. That was all the context she gave me, and it seems reasonable to assume that since I haven’t seen her since before I went to the beach, I’d know that’s what she meant. But honestly, now that I’m unpacked, I’ve mentally moved right along to my next adventure, which is heading to Ecuador in March.

And that adventure is going to basically be a month long. I’ll have a week to get everyone prepared to do music, presenter software, Sunday School, UMYF, High School Bible Study, La Casa, and my job at the music store in my absence. And then I leave the country for what most people around me assume will be some kind of vacation. On paper, I guess that’s what I’m doing. I’m taking my vacation days. But I’m going to go work my butt off with a team. Don’t get me wrong, it’s gonna be great. I’m excited to see all of the people on the team who I know, the ones I’m going to meet, and the staff for the team which will be made up of lots and lots of people that I love. But then I get to tote blocks up five flights of stairs, and mix concrete, and translate directions and orientations and services and conversations, and keep track of money and food and schedules and safety and questions for/from 20 people. The restful vacation people assume I’m getting will happen when I get back to the rhythm of weekly youth activities in April.

At least my blog is working again so I can keep track of it all.

Communication

This weekend the Quito Quest staff went to Riobamba, Ecuador, partly to participate at ministry sites in the area and partially as a scouting mission for some short-term teams we will be taking there during the spring and summer. It was an absolute blast that the whole of QQ got to go. We absolutely have the best department in Youth World. Not always the most serious, amicable, or reverent, especially when ill-rested, but still the best.

We actually mainly just slept and occasionally ate in Riobamba proper, because the ministry sites which we visited were all pretty far removed from the city. This meant driving usually over an hour up and down crazy mountainsides with sheer cliffs to the side and rocks, ditches, dogs, and sleeping women in the path of our bus. On the way to a second ministry site on Friday, a makeshift bridge actually broke under the driver’s side front wheel and we spent the next significant portion of the afternoon attempting (and finally succeeding) in removing our only realistically conceivable mode of transportation from the ditch in which its entire front had become lodged. I might add that we did this with only rocks, a long but rather flimsy-looking log, and elbow grease. We were also all incredibly thankful that the wheel, tire, axel, and surrounding body were undamaged, especially considering we had exactly zero spare tires.

At the ministry sites themselves, it was one surprise after another. We had been told to expect a colder-climate style culture than what we are used to in Quito or on the coast or in the jungle. What stood out to me after two days was the difference between each ministry site and each of the others in terms of how people reacted to our presence and our activities there. At our first stop, with only twenty people or so, those who came sang with us, responded to questions, and jumped into our ridiculous games. Even the older adults were enthusiastic about running around during a fantastic gato y raton game that I’m going to have to take back with me for North American youth activities. Our second ministry site was much the same in enthusiasm, probably more so here, however, because of the huge number of children present. But Saturday morning, we went to another mountain community and felt like we were pulling teeth to even get “yes” or “no” answers or hands raised to simple questions.

Part of this, I’m sure, had to do with language. Certainly not all, which I’ll get to in a moment, but part of it, at least, had to do with language. While pretty much everyone did speak Spanish, it is a second language for a significant portion of all of the communities which we visited. These were very much indigenous communities, and most of the people there, particularly the older ones, grew up speaking Quichua. We actually got some Quichua lessons over breakfast, and I now know the phrases for “What is your name?”, “How are you?”, “Yes,” “No,” and “Flower,” in Quichua. We practiced the first four over and over again during breakfast, and “Flower” happens to be the only word of somewhere around 4o million that one of the pastors’ sons taught me on a bus ride Saturday morning. I won’t attempt to spell any of them here in Quichua, but I can say them.

That said, there were a few stumbles, especially among gringos and Quiteños attempting Quichua, and depending on whether Spanish or Quichua was the first language of each individual indigenous person, but overall that aspect went well. The epic fail was our humor. By Saturday afternoon we had learned how not to make to much of fools of ourselves, but up until that point, there were a lot of times when someone would make a joke (in Spanish), and everyone from Youth World (Ecuadorianas included) would laugh and everyone from the community would just stare at us. The one time they were sure to laugh, however, was when one of us would ask how to say something in Quichua, someone else would tell them, and then we would proceed to butcher it. We’ll take what we can get, though.

Aside from some awkward moments where the kids and even the adults would hardly talk to us, we actually got to plug into what was going on at these sites, and I am looking forward to the possibility of going back with some of this Quito Quest crew to these sites this summer.

Not Atypically Not Ready

Miguel and I were talking recently about hanging out on a weekend once he is finished with classes after this week. What I hadn’t realized up until even more recently is that today, I’m completing my penultimate weekend before I head home for Christmas. I’m on day 104 right now, which is over a third longer than the longest I’ve been here previously. It doesn’t feel like it at all.

This week is going to be psychotically busy. I’m not even 100% sure yet which days I’m sleeping at which house, and I have people to see and projects to complete and shopping to get done and parties to attend in addition to my normal work week of teaching and writing and meetings.

Although I know I’m going to be busy, I’m trying to be “all here” right now, as we say at YW.1 I keep thinking about August 2008 when I came home from Quito Quest. Much as I tried to hide it, I had a bad attitude, and a difficult readjustment to life in the States because of it. And a good chunk of that was (lack of) preparation. When anyone from Youth World asked me if I was ready to go home, I simply said “no.” I caught myself leaning in that direction last week, realizing while I wasn’t grumpy about it, my response was not excited either.

I think that part of that is that I know there are certain things about life and ministry here that simply cannot be understood from the safety of your pew in North America, and I’m bracing for it a little bit. And part of it is that there are a lot of things I am leaving behind this time: more connections, ministry sites and projects to plug back into when I return, knowing that this is my last week of living with Lourdes and her family. What I’m trying to be conscious of and intentional about is things I have to look forward to and be excited about at home.2

Almost a year ago I reminded a friend that wherever she goes, God is preparing her for it and He is there already waiting for her. This week while the craziness of life plus preparing for holidays and travel surrounds me, I’m reminding myself the same thing. Much as there are special people and memories here in Quito

I’m really stoked to see my family and people at church, as well as friends who will be in/around Elizabeth City for Christmas. And not that this is in the same class at all, but I’m also really excited about Mexican food.3 I

1I had this big internal debate whether to use the expression from El Refugio or to quote the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn (“Keep your concentration here and now, where it belongs.”) I decided that the former was more appropriate, but the latter deserved an honorable mention.

2I hope Cameron doesn’t read this. I misused four prepositions in the same manner in one sentence.

3Contrary to popular belief, the staple foods here are things like rice. Not. Tacos.

Preparations? What are those?

Jerry asked me tonight if I was nervous about heading out heading out to Ecuador so soon. As it turns out, I don’t even know how to describe what I am feeling right now. Having been to Ecuador twice before, and knowing a ton of the people I’ll be working with at Youth World, it just feels like I’m taking a short ride to spend some time doing something I love with people I love. I’m not sure when it will really sink in, or if I’ll just keep thinking that this is a normal part of my life (because at this point, it is a pretty normal part of my life).

Maybe it’s just because I’m a procrastinator, or maybe it’s because of that same lack of appreciation for embarking on a totally different chapter of life, but in some ways I don’t feel remotely prepared. For instance my suitcase. Still empty and in the closet of the guest room. And I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Why Do People Have Accents Anymore?

I’ve had quite a tour of this half of the United States so far this summer, as far east as the Outer Banks of North Carolina as far west as Elgin, Illinois, as far south as Atlanta and as far north as Holland, Michigan. What blows me away, even more so than my own travel skills (I’ve taken more public transportation in the last month than I knew existed in this country) is the difference in the way people talk.

Within fifteen minutes of meeting people during training in Illinois, and getting ever worse the more time I spent with my Michiganian friends, I was pronouncing my “O”s the long way, as in the way someone from Minnesota says “Minnesota” (on a semi-related note, if you ever want a laugh, get a Minnesotan to say “diaper bag). It’s like the pronunciation is contagious, and I incorporate it so fast and so strongly that as late as this Thursday evening, ten days after I’d left Holland, Lydia told me to “stop saying [my] ‘o”s like that,” without me even so much as mentioning that I’d noticed myself doing it.

Another experience with a Michigander (yes, that’s also another correct demonym) brought local accents and phrases to my attention, but this time the other way around. Sarah W.1 made fun of my for saying “y’all.” Of course, I made fun of her right back for being unable to pronounce it. Being a typical northerner she said it closer to “yoll,” which is quite a difference: the apostrophe is both necessary and distinguishable to anyone on this side of the Mason-Dixon.

In many countries, certain areas are totally isolated, whether simply from each other or from everywhere. In the United States, where we functionally have one language (though we do not and should not have an “official” language), it seems strange that that single language can change so much from place to place. Not so strange, you might say, with the size and diversity of the United States. But everyone watches the same T.V.

That’s really what boggles my mind. While it’s understandable that most non-natives wouldn’t guess the proper pronunciation of Moyock2, because there’s not much reason to hear the word. But it’s mind-boggling that nobody in Wisconsin can actually say “Wisconsin.” Of course, they’d say nobody outside Wisconsin can say “Wisconsin,” but I say the majority rules. (I’m joking, but you get the point).

Once in a while I’ll catch myself saying a long “I” in true southern fashion. I don’t mind it so much (or here in North Carolina, “I don’t miiiiiind,” or in Mississippi, “I don’t maaaaaand,”) when I’m here, but I try to force myself to say it correctly so I don’t sound like a redneck when I’m outside of my redneck hometown (despite giving a tutorial a fortnight ago about the usage of “you, y’all and all y’all”). I would think, though, that since you don’t hear national newscasters saying “Tonaaaaaght’s top story…” that everyone would catch themselves after a while and slowly morph their language into a more accent-neutral English.

Language, though, tends to be a jealously-defended personal aspect that we tie to our own personalities. For instance, I’ve grown up in the south, and look how I defended my own use of the contraction “y’all,” (wow, that turned into a great example- it’s almost like I thought of it beforehand). I wanted to say to Sarah “Don’t you listen to rap?”, knowing that she was thinking “People really say “y’all” in real life?”, which just goes to further both points, that we hang on to our local language idiosyncrasies (“we” meaning east coast rappers in this example, and thus not necessarily being inclusive of me), but also that technology, specifically mass media, ought to neutralize that, though it only does it to the extent that you can point to it in defense. Despite the connotations of southern accents, hip-hop slang, and mid-westerners’ inability to speak at all3 regional accents persist, and both boggle my mind (or bottle it) and entertain.

 

1As opposed to other Sara(h)s that are a part of my life: A., B., C., C., D., F., G., H., M., M., M., O., T. or mom.
2It’s mo?j?k, if you were wondering, or MO-yock if you can’t read IPA symbols or your computer isn’t displaying these.
3Just kidding.4
4And then, not really.

First Day in Elgin

Today has been the official first day of my training with International Teams. I got up early this morning (3:30am Eastern, which was 2:30am here in Illinois) to drive to Richmond, VA and flew from there to Chicago. My flight itself was uneventful, and when I rolled off and walked downstairs, my luggage came around the turn on the baggage claim belt just as I arrived. I didn’t even have to stop moving to pick it up and keep walking. I did get stuck in an elevator, but that slight trauma was over quickly, and a few phone calls later I was on a bus to Elgin, where I was met by Stacy who drove me back to the office, a.k.a. IT’s Elgin Ministry Center.

I got a brief tour and discovered I was the first one of the MITs to arrive (that never happens). It was nice, though, to get settled in here before other people started showing up, especially with my total lack of sleep up to that point. The EMC serves as IT’s office as well as its training facility and residences for missionaries headed to the field. Upstairs are (really nice) apartments, each with a living/dining area, kitchen, laundry room, three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a porch/balcony. I’ll be living this week with two other guys, one of whom is here already and who will be doing the same training module as me.

Dinner was (roughly) at 5:30 and it was the first time we all got together and got to meet everyone. There is a total of one married couple here without their kids, three married couples with at least one kid, two single girls and two single guys. Most everyone else will be serving long-term, though both of the other single interns are headed to Ecuador as well (John Andrew to Guayaquil and Kelsey to Quito as well). I’m really looking forward to continuing to get to know everyone, and excited to know that there are a couple of people who I will get to see again in August.

The rest of the night was a more in-depth tour of the EMC facilities, some introductory things, and just hanging out getting to know the rest of the staff and MITs. After dinner and our tour, we were officially finished for the night and headed back upstairs. It was about 8 and still light and really nice outside, so John Andrew and I decided to go find the bike/walking path and scope it out. That gave us a chance to hang out and talk some more and get to know each other, and it was really cool sharing our passion for missions and how we ended up here and where we’re going. As an aside, I wish Elizabeth City would hire Elgin’s park planner. Really sweet public bike path that goes down under the road and back around by the creek and the river.

I didn’t realize until I came back and sat down on our couch how exhausted I was, mostly just from travel. Really good thing I flew. Overall, I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone else through classes, hanging out, and cooking, excited about what God will do through our training and worship this week, and ahorita, sleep.

Strange sense of Home

My friends all talk about “coming home” to Elizabeth City between semesters or to see their parents and friends. And in conversation I’ll do the same thing. But in reality, I have half a dozen places that I refer to as “home” and several more that, though it would seem strange to say out loud, feel quite the same way.

Moving around as a kid certainly had a lot to do with that. I remember my private form of rebellion at moving to Clarksdale, Mississippi in junior high was making a point (in my head at least, if not out loud) of using the phrase “going to our house“, as I just didn’t want to think of anywhere in Clarksdale as “home.” Going to Atlanta for a visit was always what meant “home.” For those two long, character-building (so my dad says) years, going home was seeing Derek Martin, Kelsey Page, and Allison Dennard at Berkmar UMC. It was having Thanksgiving at Aunt Sue’s house and quiet afternoon at Grandma Kay and Grandpa Bill’s in Dunwoody.

When our family moved to Elizabeth City, home became the tan house on the corner, even though that sentimental part of me missed the homes that Oakhurst Junior High and St. Paul’s UMC had been (a feeling that came from the people there, if not the places themselves). But despite the way my mom made sure I had familiar photographs and wallpaper, it was the fact that she and Dad and Colin were right there with me that made E.C. home.

By that time I’d already figured out that “home” didn’t mean the place where my mail was addressed. It was where I was comfortable and loved and where I loved to be. And more than just the house in Winfield, the NHS band room and James and Mike and Billy and Megan’s houses came to mean those things as well. People-oriented Ecuadorian culture has become home for me more recently. Amongst Ecuadorians at church in Shandia or Babahoyo, or squeezed onto couches with too many other gringos at a missionary’s house in Quito, that feeling that you belong just follows you around.

So it’s been no surprise to me the past few days here in Dunwoody again that I’ve just felt at home. As Monsignor Lopez said this morning at the funeral, the house on Summerford Court has been a home to him (just as it’s been to the rest of us), not because it’s simply a familiar place, but because of the love of my grandparents. Even without Grandpa Bill there this week, it’s full of memories, good times, and (lately at least) more family members than I knew I had.

In fact, with all the Pecks, Thums, Brocks, Joyces and Jeffersons around for the last five days, it took until the reception at St. Jude’s this morning for me to realize that there’s really nobody my age around. My cousin Guy is younger even than my little brother, who’s not around himself, and Amanda has just seemed infinitely older than even the 3.5 years she’s got on me since she started doing things like getting married and having kids. But it took me five days to realize this because I’ve been at home, even surrounded by people who are all more than twice my age (and who are sure to make snide remarks about this paragraph when they get around to reading my blog). Around family, I just fit in.

Everyone has been saying good-byes this afternoon. And as I’ve gotten handshakes and hugs, my aunts and uncles and cousins have asked me “When are you and your dad going home?” And though I smile and say something like, “Well, we’re driving back on Friday,” I can’t imagine being much more home than this.

Driving

I pull out of my driveway and crank up my iPod. Even before I’m out of Elizabeth City I’m in road-trip mode, observing, relaxing, enjoying the ride. Each mile, each road sign means something to me, a face or a memory, or a point in life.

The bumpy bridge in Edenton makes me thankful that it’s shorter than the rocky trip from Quito to Babahoyo, the only significant time I’ve ever in my life been car sick. This one other particular bridge just outside of Hertford means there’s a speed limit drop ahead, the one I first noticed when I was heading this same way to see Lydia at governor’s school almost two years ago. I left home a couple hours late for that trip too. I had a better excuse then, though.

Williamston. There’s a Subway on the left where James, Jerry and I ate at the beginning of our Florida road trip in April of 2006. We hadn’t even managed to make it out of North Carolina before we stopped. Not even more than an hour before a food break. That’s when I knew it was going to be a looong spring break that year.

17 South turns into 64 West. I pass the exit for Conetoe, and I remember Leigh Denny teaching me how to pronounce the obscure North Carolina town’s name. There’s a very large, very destroyed tire that reminds me of that one we blew on the band bus on the way to a jazz festival one year. Possibly even the jazz festival in Chapel Hill, though I can’t really remember anymore. Whether it was the Chapel Hill trip we blew the tire on or not, I think about that first time I was on UNC’s campus, another fateful Subway meal with Mike, and standing above Cosmic Cantina, having no idea what it was or how many times the two of us would be in the same exact spot.

Now I’m on a real highway. Not sure exactly when that happened, but 64 has widened up; there are more lanes. Somebody has hit a dog, one not much bigger than that fox I hit out in Weeksville on the way to Julia’s several Christmases back. It was really cold that weekend. I hope it’s not that cold when we run on Saturday. And I hope I don’t hit any animals. I’ll still hear my dad’s voice if any stray dogs run in front of my car “…don’t swerve, just hit it… you’re more important than the dog.”

Oh yeah. And running. Why haven’t I been running more? At least I’m a little bit back in shape (time warp: little do I know).

There’s some more debris on the asphalt, off to the side where it’s blown or pushed out of the lanes. Like the random shiny road debris I looked at from dad’s Nissan pickup in Atlanta. I got sick one morning before school. I was about nine, and for some reason Mom wasn’t home. Dad took me to work with him at Southlake that morning, and rather than being my usual chatterbox self, I stared out the window at the early morning Atlanta skyline, the street lights, and the coins, bits of rubbish, car components, various highway fragments just off the side of the right lane. I distinctly remember looking out the left side of the car, although that’s ridiculous since I would have been on the passenger’s side of the truck.

That was a cool trip. Even though I was throwing up at six am, I was eating Skittles in my dad’s office by eleven. Skittles… should I stop somewhere before I get there? Dang! I’m on 40 already. When did that happen? Pretty soon I’ll be on 440… like that time I accidentally drove around the whole thing twice, was late getting back to work at Goody’s (why I came back from that road trip the same day, knowing I was scheduled to work at 5:00 I can’t possibly figure out now), and ended up being thankful Ada was the manager on duty and didn’t care that I’d be in (just barely) at six, so long as I was around to mop the floor at nine, since none of the girls would.

I pass the exit for Rock Quarry Road. Jerry and I stared at that sign off and on for 3 hours once. We were on the way to Chapel Hill, and then on to Greensboro to see Cameron and Roberto. I was planning to spend the summer in Ecuador. Jerry had no idea as he sat in my car that he’d be coming along for that adventure as well. Neither of us even thought we’d get around the wreck that shut down the entire Beltline that night. It finally forced us to backtrack, cut through Cary, and take 540 on the directions of a liquor stand clerk, a buzzed guy in line, and two cops at the only grocery store that was open, and after they gave us three sets of directions that took us back to where 440 was stopped.

And suddenly I’m in Chapel Hill. Why do people think 195 miles is so far away? And why is my butt asleep?