I can’t even remember where my last blog left off but wow, life in Sydney is certainly anything but dull. Last weekend, I decided to sign up for Surf Camp – a two-day surfing adventure at the Seven Mile Beach National Park. ‘Twas an adventure, to be sure. Being the often lazy person that I am, I didn’t fully understand what Surf Camp entailed. For those of you who are contemplating paying $250 to stay in cabins and go in the ocean in 50 degree weather, I would suggest doing more research than I did. I have never wanted sweatpants so bad in my entire life – and I always want sweatpants.

The bus ride to Seven Mile Beach was a breezy two hours. You could tell everyone was jittery and felt smug about surfing in Australia, a quintessential Oz experience. Upon arriving at the small town Genowa at around 9 p.m. and stepping off the “luxury” bus, I heard people gasping, “Look at the stars!” I craned my neck and heard myself utter a similar gasp: thousands of miles above me, hundreds of stars were blinking and shining. I had never seen anything like it, even back in my hometown.

The juxtaposition of the accompanying trailer park, however, was startling. Here lay a few hundred small houses (“houses” is a nice word) lining the edge of the beach, only a few of which were lit up. The other residents obviously have other homes that they live in during the winter. We were led through a dark maze to a group of multi-colored cabins surrounding a series of benches, a grill and kitchen counters. I immediately experienced terrible deja vu, traveling back to the last time my dad took me camping and I had a panic attack. Surf Camp was, indeed, camp. For some reason, I had expected something more luxurious – I almost didn’t bring shampoo because I thought they would provide us with some. Nope. This was the definition of roughin’ it, minus the cabins and beds. So I’ll rephrase: this was my definition of roughin’ it and my definition of hell.

These were my initial thoughts. But then I snapped back to reality. I’m in Australia. There is no reason to complain, even if the musty, seemingly bed bug infested bedsheets and military-like style isn’t exactly my thing. So the next morning when my roommates and I were roused awake by the infuriating Nokia alarm tone, I tried my best not to complain. Even when I was pulling on the freezing cold wetsuit, I didn’t groan (too much). Before I knew it I was out in the ocean, feeling weirdly at home.

I hadn’t been to the ocean in years. I used to go with my family to North Carolina in the summers but that tradition died out. And Ocean City, M.D. isn’t a desirable location in my book. So swimming in the Pacific Ocean for the first time brought me back to those carefree days when catching a wave bodysurf-style was my only worry. I instinctively kept looking for my dad, who never failed to swim with me on those vacations. (My mom was usually sunbathing on the sand, unnaturally afraid of the “cold” water temperature.) It was a truly liberating moment after two semesters of hell.

More later…

Day 1 (a couple of days late!)

I have been traveling for almost 12 hours. For someone who is used to taking one-hour flights from Baltimore to Boston (or vice versa), 12 hours is arduous. Especially with the knowledge that there is still a 14-hour flight separating me from the shower that I so desperately need already.

I am participating in the Travel Writing in Australia program with BU, so I’ll be living in Sydney for two months and going on a semi-cross-country trip to interview locals and get a feel for more of the rural Australian towns. While I’m beyond excited to live across the world until July 20th, I am currently basking in my misery at LAX. Although I did see a semi-famous person within five minutes of departing my plane – Eric Stoltz, look him up – I do feel slightly out of place amidst the colorful fashions and general summer attire. I am dressed in all black down to my sunglasses, repping the east coast all the way.

There is a possibility that this half-day flight could be doable, however, if there is an electrical socket in/near my seat. If there isn’t, I am doomed to die the slowest death imaginable and will arrive in Sydney a hardened corpse. But I am praying to the Airline Gods that they understand flights from Los Angeles to Sydney are in the top five most horrendous travel experiences imaginable (I assume) and will be merciful enough to hook a sister and her fellow sisters and brothers up. If not for the simple fact that I bought two seasons of “Mad Men” and season one of “The Wire.”

At this point, I truly have no idea of what to expect. I have to admit that as much as I am excited, I am exponentially more nervous. I am not one for icebreakers and I am certainly not one for awkward conversations – I’m the type to reveal something about myself that ends up completely shocking the other person, in an attempt to demolish the ice in one fell swoop. Adjusting to life at BU in that first week was difficult and as I sit in this terminal waiting to take a shuttle, surrounded by what I know to be other program attendees, I am experiencing déjà vu.

Of course, I have nothing to complain about – I’m going to Sydney! I suppose it’s just natural to have these initial fears, none of which involve the plane crashing into the Pacific Ocean, surprisingly. I could be having the problems some of my fellow students are having, which is that their travel agents (in connection with BU) CANCELLED THEIR TICKETS by mistake. I’m actually watching a guy hyperventilate. At least I know I’m getting to Sydney and am only worried about the actual arrival.

So cheers, mates, and I’ll report back after settling in!

Sunday March 13. I’m undergoing a minor existential crisis as I sit cross-legged on my bed, continuously looking from my laptop screen to my open cell phone. The first claims that it’s 1:21 p.m. while the other insists that it’s actually 12:21. Yesterday they were in full agreement. The Equator isn’t supposed to disrupt the time-space continuum, is it?

Turns out my American computer has reverted to daylight savings time while my phone, though of American origin, has decided to go native and stick to Ecuadorian time. My belongings are dividing themselves along nationality lines. This could be dangerous. I’ve got a million pages of One Hundred Years of Solitude to read and a paper about human rights abuses under the Argentine dictatorship to write; I really don’t have time to mediate any sort of warfare, especially not for nationality-confused pieces of plastic.

But it doesn’t stop here.

Today, as I chatted with a friend online, I responded to a funny anecdote with the following incestuous monster: “haja”. You see, proper to my background, I normally express digital laughter with the Anglophone “hahaha” instead of the Hispanic “jajaja”, which still makes me picture a miniature Bob Marley prancing around my screen.

Latin-ness is slowly creeping up on me, kidnapping my phone and infiltrating my very writing.

Yet a significant number of people whom I’ve had the chance to converse with here insist that American and Ecuadorian culture are essentially at odds.

Two nights ago, a few friends and I gathered in “Strawberry Fields,” a Beatles-themed bar in which black and white Paul McCartneys and John Lennons freely stare you down from their framed perches on the wall as you engage in whatever drunken debauchery you choose.

Within seconds, a group of skinny-jean and multi-color-scarf-toting Ecuadorian hipsters (oh yes, they’re here too) sat down beside us and asked us the inevitable question: “Who’s your favorite Beatle?” The debate began and quickly progressed to the faults and merits of “Across the Universe,” Animal Collective and as these things tend to go lately, Ecuador versus the U.S.

I can’t help but smile when a cigarette-brandishing Ecua-hipster who essentially borrows his identity from U.S. culture proceeds to call it “the trash of the world” – the aforementioned phrase said as he enjoys a smoke and a drink in a Beatles-themed bar.

A similar instance occurred last Carnaval weekend, which I spent at the beach at the kind invitation of an Ecuadorian acquaintance. One of the 16 Ecuadorians with whom we shared our quarters insisted that Americans are sheltered and ignorant of the world’s poverty – all the while he and his Hollister-clad friends tossed a football by their privately-owned home in one of the most luxurious resorts of the region.

I am continually amazed that upper-middle-class Ecuadorians who benefit from their status as members the 12 percent elite of the country accuse Americans of being blind to the world’s reality. Certainly, they live amid the poverty that accompanies a “developing” country; however, they are able to comfortably watch it from behind the screens of their luxurious automobiles.

Boston University students, like most college students in the U.S., may not cross dozens of trinket-selling children on their way to class every day, but you’ll be hard-pressed to find one who doesn’t work a part-time job or have some sort of summer employment to help finance his or her tuition.

On the other hand, the vast majority of Ecuadorian students with whom I attend school will hold their very first employed position only once they’ve graduated university. My attention to this particular detail is not meant as criticism of my classmates, but merely as a way of pointing out a significantly different financial reality.

Without hesitation, so many pelucones here launch into virulent attacks on our country of origin the second they find out our group of BU exchange students hails from the U.S., without any qualms about potentially offending us (as evidenced by their subsequent requests for our phone numbers).

I must add that this does not represent the majority – I am still struck by the kindness and hospitality of so many Ecuadorians I have met in my two and a half months here. But I find it quite sad that those who do contend that all Americans are ignorant, dumb, “the trash of the world,” [insert equally degrading qualification here], can’t find a way to recognize that such generalizations point to their own ignorance, and not that of their Northern neighbors.

Latin and U.S. culture do not have to be considered opposite extremes – in fact, the constant exchange between the two makes this particular concept a ridiculous falsehood. As nations the world over become progressively more intertwined, we ought to leave behind petty prejudices and reap the richness of greater interconnectedness. I’m Franco-American, grew up in Belgium and currently reside in Ecuador. Who the hell am I to single-mindedly condemn any one of those three continents?

So I’ve adjusted my laptop to Ecuadorian time and may even begin to write “jaja” to express digital amusement. I’m an American in Ecuador, and I don’t find that to be an offensive anomaly.

- Meaghan Beatley, DFP Staff

I’m sitting in my Boom Latinoaméricano class, half listening to a presentation about yet another story featuring an execution via crucifixion/forbidden incestuous love/violent photographs come to life/insert equally morbid scenario (Latino literature is amazingly cheery).  What’s really captivated my attention, however, is a rose bud right outside the window that separates me from the outside world.  It appears to be dancing, quietly swaying left and right in the breeze that accompanies a light rainfall (the rain season has prematurely begun on the Equator), taunting me by reminding me that I’m incarcerated inside this classroom for the next hour and a half when just two weekends ago, I rode a Chiva through the rainforest.

As it softly rumbled over the pebbles of a seldom-used road in the Amazon, my fellow travelers and I hung our heads out of the vehicle, silently capturing the green expanse of our surroundings.  Trees and vines the height of typical buildings around Government Center surrounded us and a roaring melody of insect songs filled our ears.

In what appeared to be the middle of jungle-nowhere, our Chiva slowed to a stop and six uniform-clad boys ranging from approximately seven to 14 years of age clambered on and sat themselves on the empty benches that remained.  And on we went.  At intermittent periods of time, one by one they whistled to the driver to stop the vehicle, hopped off and slunk into the rain-forest.  Within seconds, their blue uniformed sweaters became lost in the thicket as nature engulfed their figures.  Where were they going?  How far off the marked path were their homes?  Weren’t their parents afraid they’d be carried away by a giant, Amazonian, man-eating fly?

The product of a society in which civilization is almost entirely distinct from nature, I’m amazed by this apparent symbiosis of man and the elements.

Though we mildly integrated ourselves into the jungle’s ecosystem during the three days we spent at the Tiputini Biodiversity Station (a research center developed by the University San Francisco de Quito in collaboration with Boston University, located in an area with the greatest species concentration on Earth), I’m afraid our clown-like pants prevented us from fully assimilating (see picture below).

Led by Mayer, our infinitely-wise and inexhaustible guide, we marched through the rainforest like a legion of acidly-colored aliens (I’m still amazed we didn’t chase away all of the jungle’s non-color blind residents) or a slightly more pacific and futuristic version of the Iberian conquistadors of old.  Unlike Pizarro’s men however, we had Mayer at our side.  Having lived all of his life in the Amazonian region, he knows the medicinal properties of virtually every plant in the forest and the risk factor associated with touching any one of them.  He never went to school beyond the sixth grade, but his knowledge of the jungle could fill volumes upon volumes.  When I suggested he put some of it to writing, he meekly responded that he’d rather teach college students such as ourselves in person.

Thanks to his amazingly keen eye, we were able to watch spider and howler monkeys leap through the trees and do whatever it is monkeys do.  “Aqui!” he’d whisper before swiftly launching through the forest in pursuit of a quadruped up ahead, as the rest of us hobbled behind him.  And as a special jungle treat, he had us taste hormigas de limón, lemon-tasting ants which even the vegetarians of the group enjoyed. 

My experiences are colored by the people I meet, and thus my Amazonian odyssey was primarily shaded by Mayer’s kind and thoughtful presence.  Up in the canopy, he confided that ever since his wife of over 50 years passed away last September, the jungle had become a necessary distraction to cope with his loss.  When I answered that I could only imagine how he felt, he smiled and responded that thankfully, I could not.

So two weeks later, I sit in class watching that pesky flower swing to and fro, thinking back to Tiputini and Mayer as I overhear exclamations such as “death!” and “madness!” from the classroom’s front.  Like many others, I may never be “one with nature” as some people amazingly are – those school boys who shared our Chiva and Mayer come to mind – but I believe I’m grounded to this earth by the small attachments I forge with individuals I meet.   We reap so much from our relationships with people – as temporary and transient as they may be – and through them we are linked to something infinitely larger than ourselves.

- Meaghan Beatley, DFP Staff