I'm Female. Get Over It.

Last semester the university came up with this ingenius program called Primos (Cousins). Each of the local students studying English is paired up with one of the GAIAS students, with the objective of making connections within the community and improving our respective foreign languages. Our assignment is to meet once a week for an hour and chat about whatever we want. Roberto, my primo, is around 45 years old and owns an inn with his wife. Sunday morning, he and a two of his friends took me and a couple others out on his boat to go fishing for the day. After arriving near a small rock called Five Fingers with a signal light perched on top, we set up the pole and began trolling, using flocks of seabirds with the occasional lobo mixed in as guides to the fishes’ location. A sharp jerk on the line soon informed us of a tuna on the other end. As we began reeling it in, however, the lobo in the vicinity decided to take advantage of the free meal sitting in front of its face. And so, a tug-or-war ensued until we realized that this particular lobo had inherited the stupid gene. Normally, when a lobo robs a line of fish, it’s smart enough to eat everything but the head. This lobo, however, had eaten the entire fish and was now swimming in circles around the boat with the lure caught in the side of her mouth. Horrified, I watched as we cut the line free and the lobo swam off– hopefully to come up on one of San Cristóbal’s beaches for the night and be found by a ranger, who would be able to cut the lure out of its mouth. So, without a lure, we proceeded to return to Isla Lobo and León Dormido and then make our way to a couple of white, sandy beaches punctuated by groves of mangroves, with rocky outcroppings populated by cactii, lava gulls, pelicans, boobies, night herons, crabs, and lobos sprawled anywhere available to escape the afternoon heat.

Thursday we hung over the rail next to the beach after dinner, watching hundreds of lobos sprawled across the sand for the night. As we watched machos fighting each other we noticed our lobo from Sunday morning waddling up the beach, fishing lure still caught in the top of its mouth. The back end of the lure had managed to catch in the flesh of its chest, preventing it from being able to open its mouth or extend its neck to sleep. So, we went and found some rangers, who told us that if they tried to do anything they would lose their job, and furthermore, everyone was currently preoccupied with preparations for Carnival. We returned to the lobo, who had now attracted a crowd of gringos and a few locals, one of whom worked for INGALA, the local government. After some harassment by our dear Mexican native David, he pulled out a cell phone and put a call into animal control. And then we waited. Why, in a town that takes ten minutes to get from one side to the other, it should take almost an hour for a few guys to arrive in a pickup with a net, a 2x4 and a couple sets of pliers and wirecutters is beyond me. (But hey, we’re in Ecuador. It was probably a rapid response time.) Anyway, we had to give them props for knowing what they were doing. After netting the lobo three men pounced to hold it down, using the 2x4 as an aid to keep its head still while the fourth member of the group took all of a minute and a half to rid the lobo of the lure. After the first attempt to free lobo from the net failed, knives came out, the net was cut, and the lobo scrambled down the beach, swing his neck round and around, enjoying his newfound freedom. We then to dropped into the bar next door to check out a few of our local friends’ band, Arkabuz (World’s Worst Wireless prevents me from checking out their website, Arkabuz.com, but pull it up if you’re interested). The next couple hours were spent dancing to Galapaguean rock and pop before I cut out early to walk home around 1:00 am and begin work on a powerpoint due the next morning on kleptoparasitism in frigatebirds.

On another note, I feel itemized. I have a friend who spent a semester in Cairo a couple years ago. Until I set myself down in the middle of Latin America, I never really quite understood what whe meant when she talked about the absurd number of cat calls she received, and the shamelessly brash manner in which she was treated by egyptian men on the street. They told us it would be intense in Quito, where I found myself the recipient of a few wolf whistles and lacking the ability to dance without a male partner at a club for more than 20 seconds. When I turned someone down, they wanted to know why I was mad. I’m not mad, dude, I just don’t want to dance with you. But that’s not an acceptable answer, because 20-year-old girls from the EEUU are easy, enjoying their freedom, surrounded by ripped latin-american guys, and by all means, why on earth would we not want to make out with every guy who we encounter in a club in the middle of the night in a foreign country well known for pickpockets, theft, drugs, and rapes? San Cristóbal, however, is what I like to refer to as a “special place.” I don’t know why, but for some reason I expected there to be less of the whole, “Hey chica, wanna go have sex?” But no. Quite the contrary. So, here’s a shout out to my 18-50 year old companions for the upcoming 2.5 months:

Dear male citizens of San Cristóbal,

Seriously, haven’t you noticed that ceaseless cat calls, hissing, and wolf whistles get you absolutely nowhere? I will hit low. Don’t believe me? Ask the guy who did his best to chat me up as I walked home at three in the morning and kissed me full on when we parted directions. You, there. You are an old man who does not appear to have showered in a week. No, I will not dance with you. Hey, ripped 30-year-old. You’re fun to hang out with, when you’re not drunk. Thanks for the tequila shots, but I’m not going home with you. Hey, bizarre 31-year-old who hangs out on the beach a lot. We call you Vagisil because we can’t pronounce your name. No, I am not your angel. Weren’t you supposed to go back to Guayaquil last week? Pancho: I’ve said hi to you an entire three times, during two of which you asked quite persistently to go home with me and offer companionship in my house. During one of which you interrupted the climax of a discussion about hauling dead people out of the woods (not that you had any idea, but still). I’m not stupid; you can ask to take a photo with me and a blonde friend “to remember,” but we’re well aware by the way you’re yanking us into your body that you just want a shot with a couple chicks from the EEUU. Pass the message along to your friend, too. Por favor. And Friend of Some Friends from last night: just because you passed around an unnamed plant in a roll of paper and followed me around like a duckling for the last hour does not mean I am going to make out with you. No matter how gently and nicely you insist. No, Lo siento, No quiero, Chao, Adios, Goodbye, Keep walking.

However. A small proportion of San Cristóbal's men still give me faith that the male half of our species can be helpful, funny, chill, welcoming, and uninvasive of my bubble. The island is beautiful, I swim with sea lions and turtles every day, I've worn pants once since I arrived, I'm legal, and I have afternoons off for the rest of the semester.