7 Spa Day

Now let's tell the story of how I came to massage women's feet in an Ecuadorian village. (Spoiler alert: this is not a metaphor.) 

This group of amazing church people conduct a spa day for the women who have spent the week cooking for us. They set up four chairs in one of the tiny classrooms, pulled out a bunch of donated candles, oils and lotions and invited in the lovely mujeras>

In each of the four side-by-side stations, one churcher rubs shoulders, head and face, while another rubs hands......and feet. Let's be clear, foot rubbing?  This is traditionally where I write the HELL out of a donation check. Like....seriously.  

But you just don't tell the reverend Becca Stevens "no".  I think I agreed to write a check AND take the first shift for shoulder/face/head rub.  Nothing like a 5'12" gringo trying to rub the shoulders of a 4'12" seated mujera. Imagine any of the cranes looming over downtown Nashville and you get a visual. The finishing "treatment" was the application of specially purchased chapstick on each client. I'm pretty sure my client doesn't have to worry about her chin cracking any time soon. 

For the second session of our treatments, another churcher showed up and with the extra person, we decided we should have an attendant to pass around the oil and lotion and crap to the other women doing the work.  

And I. Was. All. Over. That. Shit. 

Well unfortunately.....one churcher who had previously been stationed at a foot post did NOT understand the new, brilliant assignments because she jumped into a chair to take advantage of the spa treatment she was being offered, thereby vacating her post.

So this is where we pause to imagine McC's face when she realizes she's in a perverse game of musical chairs, the Enya music has started and there's an EMPTY chair (or kneeling pad, as it were) at the feet of one of our clients. No, really...imagine my face.  

To say I was unprepared (and I mean unprepared all the way down to my bones) for this new assignment seems a titch obvious. I believe there is an appropriate amount of oil to use for a foot rub and "all you can hold in your hands" is apparently not that amount.  My poor client looked like she was headed to the deep fryer.

All I kept thinking was - surely these women haven't had many spa treatments and won't know how terrible my service is.  However, let me just say.....if you ever find yourself feeling a little long on confidence, might I suggest you try kneeling in an Ecuadorian village to give a total stranger a foot rub, only to get CORRECTED for your technique by a fellow churcher.  Seriously?  Although realistically, it's probably only the complete encasement of her feet in oil that kept my client from running away. 

Five minutes per foot and then the same per hand. Sounds pretty quick doesn't it?  Well there is slow-workday-time, there is prison-time and then there is maeve's-giving-a-foot-rub time. Do you know how many times you can play "this little piggy" in five minutes?  82 times. 80 if you go slow.

The main life lesson from this experience is that I do not tip enough for my pedicures. 

Well....I took this trip to get out of my comfort zone.  So check, check, check and CHECK.  All done being out of my comfort zone now - time to go find the wifi password. 

6 Missionary Couture

I didn't know my travelmates before I took this trip. So the first time many of them saw me for any length of time was in a village on the equator.  I can't decide if a tropical jungle look is the best baseline/frame of reference. On one hand - these people will ALWAYS be pleasantly surprised in future meetings when I don't smell like BO (I mean that's the plan, anyway).  On the other hand, I not sure these folks appreciate that in civilian life, I’m not actually a janitor. 

One issue with my San Eduardo wardrobe was that it was a little.....repetitive.  See....when I hear 92 degrees with 100% humidity.....I think shorts - NOT how can I make my knees sweat even more by wearing pants.  But it turns out women don't really wear shorts in the village. Considered inappropriate. G-reat. I am horribly mispacked with shorts and not pants.  Right outta the gate on this mission trip and I already need a loves-and-britches miracle. Which makes me really, really, really wish I hadn't removed those extra pair of Kuhl pants that Rita had packed so I could make room for my spandex shorts. 

So that left me with 1 pair of jeans, 1 pair of legit camping pants and one pair of pants that you could unzip the legs off to make.....shorts. They were seriously unattractive. The only reason I brought them was 1) because Rita told me to and 2) in case I needed another pair of shorts.  Turned out all the guys had the same pants. Nice. (Missionary Barbie, I was not.)

The second issue emerged on Day 1 when I went to clean the bathrooms.  That's right, you heard me, clean the bathrooms. Apparently, the motto of my church group is "from each according to her abilities...." and I know how to clean toilets in Spanish. ANYWAY, day 1 cleaning activities included my co-worker splashing the entire left leg of the only legit camping pants I had with bleach.  So now I can't even pretend I'm wearing similar but new pants on days 3, 5 and 7 because they are now distinctively bespectacled with the evidence that I don't know how to clean a bathroom.  

Whoever said "the less you pack, the happier you'll be" was a boy.  I wished I had a judgment-inducing massive suitcase and pants that didn't walk on their own. 

By the time we got back to Quito and I showered and put on the new jeans I had bought, I looked like extreme missionary makeover. And again, for most of my travel-mates, this is the first they have seen me in civilian clothes (clearly, I need to improve my church attendance).  One person exclaimed "you're so clean!"  There is no hiding the fact that the unspoken end to that last phrase is "compared to usual".  Someone else incredulously asked "are you wearing makeup??"  Me: I often wear makeup after my janitorial shift is over. 

Finally, when someone said "Your hair is soooo blonde after being in the sun for four days", I wasn't about to own up to the fact it's always that color when its clean. 

All that to say, laundry day in Nashville is going to be quite an event.  I hope Rita can help me get that bleach stain out.