When I decided to study abroad in Ecuador, I had no idea that what would begin as an opportunity to learn Spanish, study at an Ecuadorian university, volunteer at a local elementary school and became a dance on Ecuadorian tabletops would end tragically in an Ecuadorian emergency room. Many gastroenterologists had advised me against studying abroad in Ecuador, as it would leave me vulnerable to many uninvited and unwanted parasitic visitors. But I heeded none of their warnings, and up until my final days in the ER, I learned more about myself and our complicated world of cultural differences in a Third World where Coca-Cola is available in locations that have no potable water.
My pampered and privileged gut was no match for the army of amoebas that so stealthily invaded my unsuspecting intestines. Although I do not know precisely where I acquired these one-celled invaders, I imagine it had something to do with the elementary school where I volunteered. The majority of the children there lived in homes that had neither running water nor electricity. Dressed in donated, ragged and stained T-shirts, these kids showed up smiling every morning. I was continuously bombarded with wet, sloppy kisses and little hands that wanted to play with my curls and examine every feature of my foreign face. (practicetestgeeks.com) However, most days our tiny elementary school had no running water. One day I voiced my concern that their inability to wash their hands might lead to parasitic infections to a fellow teacher, who laughed and answered, “Oh sweetheart, here we all have parasites.”
One week later (and 13 pounds lighter) I found myself in the emergency room. Because I have Crohn’s disease, an auto-immune disease of the GI tract, I already had a history of acute Crohn’s attacks landing me in the hospital-but this experience was like none other. I will spare you the gruesome details of how those 13 pounds left my body. Thanks to my Ecuadorian friend Pablo and his mother, I was taken to the ER and received immediate medical attention. Yet there was one more final setback. Somehow in my feverish stupor I had misplaced my ATM card. This parasite-filled gringa had no money.
Pablo’s mother let me use her phone to call home. Through feverish tears I explained to my mother my predicament, and she promptly went to Western Union to send me money. When I arrived at the Western Union in the hospital to pick it up, however, the situation only became more complex.
“Sorry, we can’t give you your money,” the nice lady behind the counter informed me. I twisted my face in pain and confusion, and she smiled. “Sweetheart, you need to call this number in the U.S.” She gave me a number to call, but in my sickness I could not comprehend the situation.
Pablo’s mother footed the ER bill and took me home to her house-a small farm thats landscape was dotted with numerous fruit trees. My parents decided that because the parasites had incited a rather extensive Crohn’s attack (and I had no money) it would be better for me to return home to the U.S. to receive medical attention.
Curiously enough, when my mother returned to the Western Union she was made to call a governmental number. After a very informative conversation, she learned that my name was on a list and she could not send me money in a foreign country. Coincidentally, the next day I read an article in the Washington Post that explained the government would be “cracking down” on university “peace activists” by reading their e-mails and impeding monetary transactions through Western Union.
When I think that the government must have a file on me I want to laugh; I am a curly-haired vegan who wears roller-skates to peace protests and volunteers her time doing GED tutoring in prisons. But having just returned from a foreign country where “Bush is a terrorist” and “No more Yankee Imperialism” were written on every wall, I found the whole predicament sickening.
My intestines and I had personally felt the impacts of a global capitalism headed by America that affords some individuals electricity, an inordinate amount of food and DVD players while denying millions clean, parasite-free water. 80 percent of the Ecuadorian population lives below the poverty line, despite the fact that Texaco makes billions of dollars from drilling Ecuadorian oil. One fourth of the bananas that Americans consume come from Ecuador-or rather banana plantations run by Dole and other American corporations that Human Rights Watch has censured for employing child labor and paying slave wages.
What are we doing to eradicate terrorism at its roots? We aren’t preventing American corporations from exploiting Third World communities from which starved, disease-stricken children are trained to hate those who passively perpetuate their brutal poverty. Coca-Cola has its virtues, but it’s no substitute for clean water.
Mary Nagle is a junior in the College. She loves children, but not the organisms they transmit.
