Ecuador: Sleep deprivation and unoriginal roosters!

I have never experienced fatigue like I did on my final week of working on the farm. It was the kind of exhaustion where if I blinked longer than necessary I would fall into a deep coma and not awaken until the year 2011 when the world will be governed by the robot – human race mentioned in my previous blog entry. I was dull, listless and mentally retarded. My body ached, lifting my legs felt like trying to wrestle them out of quick sand and it were as though someone had replaced my arms with heavy concrete boulders. Who would have thought that three weeks of sleep deprivation, rationed food, breaking and lifting rocks, carrying bags of sand, weeding full fields by hand and shovelling mounds and mounds of shit would be so hard?

"Help me! I have work to do and I can´t move!"

There were five of us volunteers (unselfish people who deserve your respect) sharing a bedroom in a bamboo structure with gaping holes where in any ordinary place a wall should be, but on the farm “inside is the new outside” it seems. If it wasn’t the cats that climbed in through the gaps to fight in the middle of the bedroom that kept me awake at night, it was the insects, some as large as mice and others with horns trying to bulldoze their way through my mosquito net and if it wasn’t the insects it was the frogs croaking, which sounded more like giants retching or worst of all, it was the roosters.

These little delights would kick off at 3:30am each morning and “Cockadoodle-doo” their asses off well past 5:40am which was when I had to get up to feed the pigs. One rooster in particular was extremely vocal and had a distinctive hoarse voice, that of perhaps a very heavy smoker. He was usually the first to start in the wee small hours with a loud and proud “Cockadoodle-doo,” the” doo” part was croaky and deep and sounded like it should have been followed by the cough up of some phlegm. One second later, another rooster, fainter and further away would respond back with a “Cockadoodle-doo”. The smoker rooster would reply with.....what a surprise “Cockadoodle-doo” and this unoriginal and very loud exchange would go on for hours and hours. “Have they nothing else to say to one another?” I thought as I pressed my ear plugs (which by the way are called “Tampons for the ears” in South America) further and further towards my cortex.

A rooster smoking and also looking homosexual.

As I lay there, my efforts to sleep being over ruled by this broken record of “Cockadoodle-doos,” I imagined a hard of hearing hen standing beside the smoker rooster asking “What did he say?” referring to the neighbouring rooster. The smoker rooster tells her “He said ‘Cockadoodle-doo’”. “Ooooh!” she replies, “Well, what are you going to say back?” “I think I’ll say ‘Cockadoodle-doo’” he tells her as he puffs on a cigar. “Good one,” she replies.

The next morning in the coop, the hens gather around for a gossip. One says to another “Did you hear what that bastard rooster from up the road said last night?” “What?” the hens ask in anticipation. “He said ‘Cockadoodle-doo!’” Gasps of horror and surprise. “He did not!” they exclaim in disbelief. “He did, I tell you” says the hard of hearing hen delighted to be the centre of attention but wheezing from years of passive smoking.

Please roosters, I’ve listened to you “Cockadoodle-doo” for weeks now, try something different, “Cockadoodle-dandy, cockadoodle-don’t”, just branch out, there are other words out there and if you’re intelligent enough to log onto a computer to read this blog, you’re smart enough to expand your vocabulary.

My morning job last week was to feed the pigs and clean out their pens. I would flop out of bed in the black of the morning before breakfast and shuffle still half asleep over to where they live. These pigs are bigger than any I have ever seen before, they’re actually more like pink horses. By mid week they had started to associate me with getting fed and would growl, snarl and grunt when they saw me, standing on their hind legs, drooling with their front trotters placed on the wall whilst they tried to climb over it (fat chance fatties). A more needy or insecure person may have taken their actions as a compliment, but I have to admit that I was scared of them especially as last weekend I watched “The Silence of the Lambs 2”, which includes a horrifying scene where pigs eat a human to death. I fed them their wet oat type meal, which I had to stir with my entire arm (elbow deep) as quickly as possible, trying not to let them sense my fear and shuffled back to bed for a 20 minute nap.

"Good morning Niamh, I want to eat you".

It wasn’t only me who was feeling exhausted during the last week, all the other volunteers were the same. Whenever there wasn’t a shovel in our hands, or large rocks in our arms, we were napping. We would sit around waiting for our orders from the local farm guys, our eyes shut, heads bent forward, not even talking to one another, our energy zapped. Luckily as a group we all got along really well, which made the hard work all the easier as we would all laugh about it. Throughout the three weeks we bonded over tough work and various types of ailments, Julie, Susan and Shad all picked up blood sucking ticks, Shads being located on his rear end, which had to be removed using a tweezers by Dario (man who runs the farm) and Julies which was on her back was removed by me, our friendship reaching new levels as a result. Jutta got stung by something on her foot, which made walking difficult, Henry, Lynn (who kept falling face first into puddles) and Luke all picked up colds, which excited medicine man Dario as he got to practice his home remedies and I got a large splinter wedged in my foot that I am still ignoring. Another special moment we all shared last week was when a dead goat was discovered on the farm and we all pitched in to dig its grave. It was one of those typical “Here I am in Ecuador digging a grave for a goat” moments, you know the type, dime a dozen.

Susan (volunteer) catching 40 winks in between shovelling shit.

Luke catching a few quiet moments.

But not everyone on the farm was tired.

So, with very special times shared together we said our sad goodbyes and left the farm last Friday for our various destinations. Armed with a little more knowledge about our planet and alot more hatred for roosters, the very final leg of my trip awaits, Cockadoodle-WHU!!

Ecuador: The Farm, Robots and Swimming in Chemicals....

I crawled slowly through the field on my hands and knees in the Ecudorian rain, pulling up weeds as I went with wet mud seeping through my clothes. Occassionally, I stopped to scratch an itch, hoping not to contract a tick from the surrounding long grass and thought “Why am I doing this again?” I was nearing the end of my first week of working as a volunteer on an organic farm in Ecuador and was definitely finding the physical work exhausting and in sharp contrast to the ethos I have been strictly following thus far on my trip of “Do nothing”. For eight months I have not had to follow any kind of routine, have done whatever I’ve wanted to with no need to act responsible or be accountable to anyone (not even Jesus). Therefore, having to get up at 5:40am each day to commence work, waiting for a bell to ring to announce when my meals are ready and only leaving the confinement of the farm at weekends has been both difficult and totally crazy.



Me and the other volunteers, I am the good-looking one at the front.


At first, I also struggled with the diet served on the farm, breakfast consists of fruit and lunch and dinner primarily equals rice and beans. The food is all organic, and apart from the occasional suicidal bug is all vegetarian too. Now, I’m no doctor, so let me draw upon facts, bare meagre facts verified by books and figures of which there can be no doubt. Based on this diet of mainly rice and beans, devoid of any chemicals, a team of doctors conducting mass physicals on the farm might find us all dead within a month. “It appears this one died of a rice overdose”, Dr. Hardbody might exclaim whilst examining my limp lifeless hand which in Da Vinci Code style is pointing at a bowl of rice. He looks at Julie, “This one in the orange rain coat appears to have consumed too many beans. What a mess!”

After week two on the farm however, I think I am adapting. My muscles had less spasms this week and the fantasy I regularly engaged in during week one of happily immersing myself and doing the backstroke in a large vat of chemicals has been drawn upon less. Perhaps the ethos of Dario, the small moustached Ecuadorian man who runs the farm and talks about “his vision” is rubbing off on me, or perhaps I have been brainwashed? Who cares either way? Yawn. Dario, is a mild mannered pleasant man who chooses to dress from head to foot in white (even his wellington boots are white), which is a highly impractical fashion choice for shovelling shit and feeding pigs although it leaves him ready for competing in Wimbledon all year round.


The farm, is located about 8 hours by bus from Quito (the capital) and has been in operation since the 1970’s. In terms of respecting the environment, it is a pretty unique albeit extreme place. We eat off plates made from fruit, which are disinfected in grapefruit juice, the toilet paper and all cleaning products are biodegradable, electricity is solar powered, there is no hot water, animals are given priority over humans and are even played classical music in the mornings to “relax them” and chemicals of any kind are never ever used. Now, when I am on my knees pulling up weeds in the rain or being told to take my time and make sure I plant the crops with “positive energy”, a yearning to use chemicals either on the plants or indeed myself fills me and my mind wanders. Chemicals make things grow faster, bigger and makes things more aesthetically pleasing, so why not combine the use of chemicals with robotics and create a whole new race, I wonder? The result could would be an altogether more attractive and interesting new breed of people, imagine the possibilities! We could have humans with unbelievably pert bums and inbuilt ice machines or men with perfectly chiseled jawlines who can also pick up a wi-fi connection and reach to the bar using their extra long extendable arms! Perhaps I should mention my vision to Dario this week?



Eating with the natural humans.



I would much rather be having breakfast with this guy!

There are eight of us volunteers in total consisting of five girls and three boys from the US, Germany and Sweden, I fall into the “girl” category. As we work together weeding or breaking rocks up during the week and eat our rationed food, we wonder if we are in some kind of prison, rehab or whether it’s fat camp? At weekends we are released into the local town invariably to spend the weekend consuming as much toxin filled crap as possible. I bit into a burger on Friday night and a kind of wild feeling came over me. Meat had never tasted so good and the chemical treated vegetables made my mouth water.



Mutant vegetables? Yes please!

Other workers on the farm consist of some native Ecuadorians whom I will sometimes chat with whilst we are machetting crops, making barbed wire fences or breaking rocks, light work, that kind of thing. Ecuadorians who get married young, practically whilst still in the uterus, seem to have a short list of questions they want to ask and I have lost count at how many conversations I have had with them that have gone like this...

Ecuadorian man: What is your name?

Me: Niamh.

Ecuadorian man: Niff.

Me: Niamh

Ecuadorian man: Niff, Niff.

Me: More or less.

Ecuadorian man: Do you like to dance?

Me: Sometimes.

Ecuadorian man: Do you like music?

Me: Yes.

Ecuadorian man: Are you married?

Me: No.

Ecuadorian man: How old are you?

Me: Thirty.

Ecuadorian man: (Gasps in horror and shakes head) Thirty and not married?

Conversation ends.

A local woman sat beside Julie on a bus and had that very same conversation with her only hers ended like this.

Local woman: It’s too late for you.


In other ways, Ecuadorians appear quite reserved and somewhat shy. At fiestas for example the dance floor will typically remain clear for a long time with people just staring at one another as they sit on the sidelines, no one wants to make the first move. When they do eventually dance with one another they look anywhere but directly at the person they are dancing with, over their shoulders or at their feet, but never in the eyes, which is apparently considered a come on.



Good job you can’t see my eyes, you’d be helpless.

So, although it is hard work, I am enjoying life on the farm and will enjoy life off the farm all the more when I eventually leave it. I will be happy when the end of next week comes and I can get back on the road. Colombia awaits and I hear they have chemicals there! Working on the farm has definately been a good and eye opening experience and I ask myself if I will take any lessons from my time there, perhaps change the way I live when I get home, eat an all organic diet, grow my own vegetables? The answer is "no". Although I will be more aware of how farming works and have more questions about it now, the ways of the farm are idealistic and work well in Ecuador in that particular site, but it would be next to impossible to live like that at home. However, it has been an experience I will not forget, or maybe I will with the use of chemicals. What was I talking about again?

Ecuador: Boobies, festivals and volunteering!

“Do you know what the word “Boobie” means in English?” I asked Tito, our tour guide. “Yes”, he smiled back. “It’s a ‘pecho’ (breast),” I told him, feeling the need to explain it anyways. There was a reason for this outburst, although I do like just asking random questions unrelated to anything now and again and may ask that very same question to our next bus driver. On this occasion however, I was on an island off the coast of Ecuador called “Isla del Plata”, which is nicknamed the “Poor mans Galápagos” i.e. a place for people to go who don’t have the extra 2-3k that a trip to the “Rich mans Galápagos” would set you back. The island has a lot of these unusual birds called “Boobies”, unusual by name and by look, grey birds with big bright blue feet. I eyed one up and not being a bird lover thought, “I’d like to shoot one”. “I’d like to shoot one” I told Tito as I closed one eye and pointed a pretend pistol at the bird (the pistol was a long, old fashioned gun, the type that you might expect a flag with “Bang!” written on it to pop out when the trigger is pulled). Tito laughed and I laughed back but once again thought “I’d like to shoot one”.



Blue Boobies. Wouldn´t you like to shoot one?


The trip to the island was part of a full day tour that Julie, me and her orange raincoat were on. The main attraction of the day was whale watching, or so we thought. Really, the main attraction of the day was me and Julie. We were the only non Ecuadorians on the tour, which was made up of about ten people. We boarded our small boat in the morning, I looked out at the sea searching for whales, whilst the Ecuadorians sitting opposite me stared at us, took pictures of us, talked about us, pointed at us, especially at my freckles which they could not get their head around and gawped at with such an expression of confusion that they looked like they were constantly trying to remember a locker combination.

One of the girls, probably no more than eighteen turned to her friend, said something, they both erupted in laughter and then photographed us. “What the hell?!” I asked Julie, “Am I imagining this?” “No, it’s hilarious!” she answered, which of course it was. It pretty much continued like this for the rest of the day, I’d photograph a bird and the Ecuadorians would photograph me. I could hear them talking about me, they knew my name and dropped it regularly into conversations that they were having amongst themselves “Blah blah blah Niamh (they pronounced Niff)” laughter “Blah blah Niff,” laughter, followed by photo of Niff. They were good humored people and there is no room for paranoia if you are a white backpacker in South America, so I was happy to let them have their fun, even if it was at my expense. One of them ran up behind Julie when we were walking up a hill and said “Sing, Julie”, surprisingly Julie declined the order to burst into song then and there with a group of Ecuadorians and me staring at her.

Example of Niff "fitting in" in Ecuador.

The whale watching unfortunately was more like “whale glimpsing”, we literally only saw them for a few seconds, but what we did see was pretty amazing. Three massive whales flapped their tails beside us, but then disappeared as fast as they had appeared. We got back into Puerto Lopez that evening just in time for a whale fiesta (party), which happens once a year. It’s all about the fiesta’s in South America and it’s all about the whales in Puerto Lopez, a small, slow paced fishing village, littered with palm trees, hammocks and blue fishing boats along a stretch of the beach. The shores of Puerto Lopez are home to masses of Pelicans, which surprisingly I liked and didn’t want to shoot.

We gathered in the main street for the fiesta. Grandparents, parents, children and the occasional backpacker. We all stood on the unpaved, sandy road beside the beach, which makes up the “high street” in Puerto Lopez. Everyone looked pretty excited about the small parade which was making its way slowly towards us, very slowly. First to pass us were a group of men playing instruments such as trumpets, drums, symbols, all was going well, they didn’t sound too bad, but they finished their set, stopped playing and all just looked at one another, scratching their heads, confused and wondering what to do next. Then they shuffled out of the way as there were some monstrosities making their way up the street. I squinted to make out whether what I was looking at was a paper mache whale, shark or giant slug, the thing, which was on wheels was about to fall off its perch and crush the children in the crowd that were staring at it, was so badly made that it was almost unidentifiable as an animal. It had holes everywhere that looked like welts, enough to give the kids nightmares, good. After this passed us, two men dressed as giant blue footed Boobies made their way slowly down the street after the gigantic slug, they waddled from side to side as the crowd got overly excited and began a type of stampede towards them, the police had to usher everyone back and tell them to calm down. I suppose if you are the type of person that gets all worked up over seeing two tall, white backpackers then seeing two men dressed as birds is definitely more than you can take!




Paper mache, something? What is it?


We left the excitement and glitz of Puerto Lopez and headed for Quito (the capital) where we spent a pretty uneventful couple of nights (lies) and then got a night bus from there to yet another coastal town called Canoa. At 4am the driver stopped the bus and announced “I’ll be back at 6:30!” got off and locked us all inside. All the windows were locked too and it was hot hot hot not to mention unusual. True to his word, he reappeared at 6.30am and off we continued to our destination. Our arrival in Canoa also coinsided with a fiesta, all this fiesta action has been accidental, we can´t and don’t plan anything, ever, because we are shit.

We found a very basic hostel in Canoa and got a room with two beds adorned with Sponge Bob Square Pants sheets. “Isn’t this some sponge head guy?” Julie asked me pointing at her bed. “God, you really don’t know any celebrities, do you?” I asked her. The hostel was being run by a heavily pregnant woman whom we gave a shed load of our clothes to hand wash. We went out for dinner and when we came back were told that the woman had gone into labor. “I hope she finished our laundry first” I thought.



Sponge Bob, Julie and the orange raincoat.

We actually almost missed the fiesta in Canoa, somehow we didn’t see or hear the six hundred plus people that were gathered on the main street. I had just been complaining to Julie about how quiet the place was when two local men approached us and asked if we wanted to go to a party, “Okay, we’ll go for a look” we told them. Whilst following them down a dark street and once they were out of ear shot I said to Julie, “I can see the headlines now, ‘Two Irish backpackers TAKEN by South American men’”. “No”, she disagreed, “it’s much more like ‘Two Irish backpackers WENT with South American men.” Anyways, they were harmless and brought us to the fiesta which was only three blocks away.

The streets were divided by locals dressed all in white with white flags and others dressed in black with black flags, apparently to represent their mixed race culture, though I really don’t see evidence of much of a mix in terms of colour. The crowd was made up of people of all ages, sharing drinks and food, there was also a stage with music and of course lots and lots of dancing. Now and again there would be a chorus of locals shouting “Up the blacks!” which was shortly followed by “Up the whites!” from the other side. We quickly managed to ditch the two guys who had brought us to the fiesta and found a couple of free seats on the street in front of a semi bar type place where we sat and drank the local whiskey we’d bought off a man with no teeth. Not knowing that one beer bottle full of this stuff is meant for about five people, Julie and I got one each and knocked them back.

On the way home we stopped off at a street stall and sat down beside a large group of Ecuadorian policemen and ate dinner with them, of course following a brief dance with a few of them. One of the cops was being mean to us, he’d speak Spanish very quickly so we couldn’t understand and then all the other cops would laugh. “I understand everything you know!” I said to him, lying.

So, our time for fiestas has come to an end as we get ready to go to the organic farm for “volunteering", a word which indicates hard work, suffering and self sacrifice. It´s a word I never thought would be used in relation to me, ever. “Hello, I am a volunteer!” I will say all the time, people will think I am a wonderful, generous, well balanced person who gives up her free time to help others. But my follow up question of, “Do you know what the word “Boobie” means in English?” may however ruin that preconception.