Visiting The Shuar of Morona Santiago

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In my earlier 3-part Guaranda postings I mentioned that I have been exchanging casual English lessons for Spanish lessons with my Ecuadorian friend Jefferson. We often meet at the SAEX clubhouse and talk over the days events. With the Club being what it is, namely a conduit for information transfer, I have received an invitation to teach English in El Oriente. This isn’t a formal offer, but rather a chance for cultural exchange.

A group of people, some from SAEX, most not, are leaving this weekend, the final one in April. The plan is to fly to the very south of the country, to Catamayo, and work our way northeast by bus and van.

Before I arrived in Ecuador I had already known that I would visit the Amazon Basin, but I had no clear plans as to just how to carry this off. What I did know is that I wouldn’t be staying in an eco-lodge paying several hundreds of dollars a day to hang out with other tourists, dress up like “natives” and play with blow-guns. So once this invitation reared up, I knew my chance had arrived.

For 18 days I will be traveling in one of the most undeveloped areas of Ecuador: the Province of Morona Santiago, in the southeastern borderlands fronting Peru’s Amazonia. This is the land of the Shuar, the only people on this planet who collected the heads of their enemies.

Una Cabeza Reducida

Una Cabeza Reducida

Known by the Shuar as Tsantsa, this “head-shrinking” practice which is agreed upon by many as having ceased, was done to acquire the warrior spirits, Arutam, of the enemy and to prevent these spirits from causing further harm to the Shuar. I believe that there is a good chance that I will return from this trip with my head still attached to the rest of me. The contents of my head however may not be the same as what I started out with.

There are 17 of us plus Paul, the leader. The majority of the group hails from Europe, with the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, the Czech Republic, and Poland among those countries represented. We will gather on Saturday the 24th to the south of Loja, the largest city nearby the farm where we will begin. Each of us joined this group to take part in 8 days worth of Natem ceremonies and to attend the workshops necessary to prepare for those ceremonies.

These are Shuar-derived ceremonies, evolved through millennia and developed as an intimate and participatory examination of human placement within, rather than imposed upon, this Amazonian environment. The Shuar are, as are all localized indigenous peoples, masters of the knowledge necessary to be fully integrated into this life. They know the plants, the insects, the animals, the land, the rivers, the skies, and of course the gods who weave each of these parts into the syncretic whole.

By taking part in these ceremonies the group will be exposed to the cosmology of the Shuar and how this unique apprehension of the universe is vitally relevant to the existence of the planet. There is a very real and immediate threat to not only the Shuar and their ancestral lands, but, as the “lungs of the world” this land’s endangered future is a threat to all of us.

The Ecuadorian government has doubled back on its promise to protect indigenous lands, allowing the Chinese, the Canadians, and others access to this vital Amazon watershed for surface mining, with plans to permit the largest surface mines in the world. These mines will destroy hundreds of thousands of hectares of unique drainage basins that feed the headwaters of the Amazon.

These watersheds are among the most bio-diverse ecosystems in the world and once they are removed from the Amazon’s life-cycle the entire planet will be adversely affected. Such an environmental violation will not have simply a small ripple effect, but rather an immediate and enormous negative impact on how the world breathes.

By inviting us to take part in such ceremonies the Shuar hope that the knowledge and experience that we gain will help us to help them tell the world of this most critical series of events. The Shuar, the Achuar, the Siona/Secoya, the Cofán, and others live in an ecologically unique part of our planet.

Just off the Ecuadorian coast, the large El Niño clockwise current from the north collides with the even larger counterclockwise Humboldt current from the south. Coupled with this phenomenon is the equally important and  constant collision of prevailing winds, both easterlies and westerlies.

All this occurs both near and above a small (about the size of Colorado) but topographically varied land that ranges from sea-level to 20,000 feet above the ocean. What results are more species of flora and fauna per square mile than almost anywhere on earth, only rivaled by Colombia just to the north.

The Shuar intermontane lands lie between the snow-covered Andes and the low flood lands of the Amazon itself. This area of hundreds of rivers, waterfalls, and jungle forests is home to an unknown number of species where new discoveries happen virtually year-round. So that they might protect this land, and that they might reverse an impending ecological disaster of immense proportions, the Shuar invite outsiders to their home.

After 8 days of ceremonies and workshops, approximately half of our group will continue on, further into Shuar territory, to live with 2 separate families. While with these families we will observe additional healing ceremonies among the families themselves. And I have been invited to teach English to the children from both of these families and meet with teachers in a high school near Gualaquiza. We will stay directly in the homes of these families, with the first family near the pueblo of Gualaquiza, then with the second family near the city of Macas for another several days, finally heading back to Quito by bus.

With Spanish as their second language, many Shuar believe that their children should pursue English to better position themselves as a voice to the outside world. They are now actively working to create a formal English language program and in the meantime welcome any preliminary help that they can find.

I have been told to expect a lively recruitment response to my visit, and look forward to conversing with them in what is a second language for both of us. What a fantastic chance to waltz through the linguistic minefield of subjunctive verbs!

There is a far better than fifty-fifty chance that I will be offline for the entire 18 days, so this could well be my last post until mid-May. Though unable to post, I will continue to write while traveling in Morona Santiago, capturing some to the wonder of this area, and I hope to convey some of that wonder when I re-connect.

The Subjunctive is Only Subjective When You Don’t Know That It’s Real

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After a 24-year hiatus I returned to school in the 80’s, this time to finally earn a degree. A crippling back injury had just ended 20 years of construction, and thus my general contractor’s license, my plumber/gasfitter’s license, my residential electrical certifications; all that was gone thanks to a cast-iron bathtub.

So one day I found myself sitting in a linguistics classroom, having just been introduced to the genius of Benjamin Lee Worf, a pillar of US language and thought. Worf developed what he called “Linguistic Relativity” which argued that one’s perception of the world is entirely mediated by one’s language. A northern European cannot comprehend the realities of an African Bushman anymore than a Tokyo businessman can truly know the ontology of an Anatolian shepherd. Makes sense to me. So much so, that I considered changing my major from psychology to linguistics.

imageI considered the change for about 3 days until the Chair of UNM’s Linguistics Department finally convinced me that Worf’s theories had been roundly dismissed as bunk and his theories were no longer regarded as valid. Well, there was no way that I was going to pursue a career in a field where the leading lights were so misguided. By this time linguists were enamored with the “universalist” theory of Noam Chomsky and others, which argues that regardless of language, all humans are ready and able to understand the world in exactly the same way.

Yet, as Native Americans know, time is circular rather than linear, and Worf is finally returning (though slowly) to a seat of prominence. I’m hoping that the other dim bulbs now holding down the linguistics fort will get out of their laboratories and into the field where they belong. Maybe some of them will head south into Latin America and face off against the world as defined by the subjunctive verb.

I have recently had my own head-on collision with this other world. Yet as fascinating as the difference is, I am too under-qualified to be able to adequately perceive some of the subtler differences, so I’m asking for help.

This posting is really an open letter to my sister-in-law Candice, married to my lovely younger brother. Candice is a true US of A hero: she’s a high school teacher. And for an impressive number of decades she’s led the heathens and the unwashed; your kids, and his kids, and her kids, and those kids over there (but not my kids, I don’t have any, HAH!) out of the darkness of monolingualism and into the amazing world of the Spanish language.

As a teacher of Spanish she spends 9 months in the classroom and the other 3 months shepherding hoards of the little ruffians through Spain and/or a number of Latin American countries. If any of you think that public school teachers have 3 months of vacation every year, call her up and volunteer to help control adolescent hormones in a foreign clime. It ain’t a piece o’ cake.

I’m writing this to Candice, but if anyone else has more than a ¿Donde está la biblioteca? understanding of the 3rd most frequently spoken world language, welcome aboard. Please throw your hat in the ring. Because I believe that, after more than 10 years of reading, writing, listening to, and speaking this language; why, I may have made some progress today. And I’m asking for clarification. Today’s Spanish class was great.

It was an ¡AH, HAH! Moment that I had this afternoon. A Moment that rarely comes in one’s lifetime. And I’m not talking about those LSD-trippy days of the 60’s, when we all went ah hah. Back then we finally understood the universe, except when we came back down from the trip we saw it was just that the red flower was the only one in a bank of yellow ones. Good riddance fringed bell-bottoms. No this Moment today came about from re-acquainting myself with the subjunctive mode in Spanish verbs.

Wikipedia tells us that the Subjunctive is:

adjective
adjective: subjunctive
1 1. 
relating to or denoting a mood of verbs expressing what is imagined or wished or possible.
noun
noun: subjunctive; plural noun: subjunctives
1 1. 
a verb in the subjunctive mood.
the subjunctive mood.noun: the subjunctive

Now that that’s cleared up, we know that subjunctive is an adjective, except when it isn’t. Or maybe it’s a noun, but then, what about verbs? I mean it might be, but then again who knows? Or really, for all us English-speakers: Who Cares? We have painfully few examples of the subjunctive in English. We have little direct knowledge of what is vital to more than half-a-billion Spanish speakers. Let me give you an embarrassing example. Or maybe it’s 2 examples, depending on how you look at it, or them.

One of the fascinating websites that I used to get ready for my trip and still use to learn about culture in South America is Medellin Living. Three hours south of Honolulu I’d have been in the middle of the Pacific. But 3hrs south, non-stop, from Miami, I’d jubilantly deplane in Colombia’s trend-setting world class city of 2 million. A city that astounds new arrivals almost by the hour.

If you still think that you’re being informed, truthfully I mean, by the likes of CNN or Fox “News,” or the other side of the same coin, MSNBC, or some other infotainment channel, then I’ve got a scoop: Pablo Escobar’s been dead for 30 years. Although interestingly enough, his hippopotami aren’t, but I’ll let you Google that one; they’ve become a very serious environmental issue. The point being that Colombia as a whole and Medellin in particular are worth a much closer look; and Colombians love yankees.

I’d be a whole lot safer walking Colombian streets than those of my home town, Detroit. My original plan for this trip, a plan that still carries a modicum of truth, was to refine my language skills in Ecuador, Peru, and perhaps Bolivia, before landing in the north of South America. I may still make it. I’ve been planning to get to Medellin once I can (barely) understand the staccato rhythm of their rapid-fire brand of Spanish. Sooo, where’s the example of a subjunctive world?

Medellin Living is primarily geared for a younger generation of hip and worldly mobile that won’t spurn a good time. Medellin Living, along with many other topics, tells you how to date Colombians. Thus, a frequent topic is that of addressing effective ways to break down cultural and gender non-specific, specific, and pan-specific barriers. In other words: how to party on the weekends and hold down a job, if need be, during the week. Or learn a language, or fly a kite. There are some serious local competitors for this last treat, so be warned, you warriors of the sky.

Often 2 people, say for example: a gringo boy and a Latin American girl, will meet and seemingly hit it off very well, perhaps even seeing each other several times, with maybe (or not) a bit of intimacy involved. Nothing perhaps very exclusive as far as a relationship, but also not simply a casual, “Oh yeah, I remember, you were at the party too” kind of encounter either.

Then the girl will suggest doing something fun together soon, and she will call the boy back to set it up. She will have specifics about where to go, what to wear, which songs to dance to, etc. She’ll have enough detail to let the boy know that this is really something she’s not just simply thought of, but really plans to do. So he waits. And he waits. And he waits for a call that never comes.

This is such a common heartbreak that Medellin Living devoted an entire article to the unwary and vulnerable to serve warning of a pitfall as real as the pickpockets on public transportation. I first read about this some time back and also encountered corroborating accounts as well. Which allows one to suppose that I’d recognize a parallel behavior if it ever came my way. Yet I fell for it too; TWICE!!

My first Spanish teacher and I spent a great deal of time together, 5 days per week for 5 weeks straight. We even met a few times after class when we shared a meal with her delightful husband. So when, during a taxi ride back to the school, she asked if I wanted to accompany the 2 of them to Otavalo in the northern mountains for a weekend of work, I said yes. Her husband, Edison, is a veterinarian who works for the federal government.

Edison travels the whole country administering to wild animals in their natural habitats, even spending weeks at a time in the Galapagos Islands. He gets paid for the privilege of seeing what us gringo clowns pay $500/day to see. (Not this clown; 3 days of that kind of Galapagos luxury and my monthly budget would be shot.) So when his wife said that we’d be helping him tend to “A condor, or an eagle, or some kind of big bird,” I believed her. She said she’d call and she was my teacher, so of course she’d call, right? That call never came and she never mentioned it again.

Fast forward 2 months. Raquell’s gone off to a different school (Spanish teachers here are hired guns. They work as independent contractors and are always hustling for work in a highly competitive field.). I’ve come and gone to Cuenca, fully immersed myself with another teacher and everyone tells me that my Spanish is really accelerating.

imageLast week, walking home in the rain, who do I see but Raquell. She goes all Ecuadorian on me with the kissy-kissy on the right cheek several times. That is the standard greeting here in the middle of the earth, and you better remember that it’s the right cheek or else you’re in for a painful close-encounter.

When she’s finished with the greetings and a soulful thank you for the parting gift I gave to her and her family, she asks what I’m doing in 2 weeks? It’s not like my social calendar is overloaded, so I guessed that I could probably be available, why? Well she and her husband are going to Esmeralda, the home of Afro-Ecuadorian culture on the northwest coast. And she wants me to come with them for the weekend. Edison has to work with yet another ill-defined animal, needs help, and would I join them? Willing to prove that suckers really are born every minute, I naturally said yes. And then went home and got ready to pack. And, yes of course, wait for the call.

The weekend of note has come and gone, and I finally stopped waiting. So while you’re winding up for a culture-wide condemnation of the Spanish-speaking world, let me stop that silliness before it leaves the box. In general, and particularly in the sierra (the mountainous regions of South America) the cultural norms are ones of refinement and respect wrapped heavily in courtesy. Which to our North American eyes seems impossibly contradictory to this other, set-me-up behavior. How could someone who knows that she will probably run into me again before I leave in 6 months, lie to me so boldly?

Unless it’s not a lie? Unless, and this is where I need some context, it would only be a lie if the person posing the invitation didn’t want it to happen in some dreamy far-off world where wishes can come true?

Gabriel García Marquez, the late Colombian author, won his Nobel Prize for Literature by writing “One Hundred Years of Solitude.” The Nobel Committee says that it doesn’t award for a single book but rather for an author’s body of work. They lie. Marquez introduced the world to what has become known as Magical Realism. If you need a visual example of Magical Realism, re-visit “Like Water For Chocolate.”

This truly wondrous book from Marquez follows a family of note through 100 years of its life, running forwards and back in time, playing with linearity like a rubber ball. The common tie across generations is the ghost of the grandfather showing up again and again offering sage advice and codging a drink of booze or 2. And the idea of what is real and what is imagined, what exists and what defines existence, and if the mind wants something to be real, who are we to deny that it isn’t, is central to not only Magical Realism, but I think to the core of Latin American thought.

I do not believe that Raquell set me up any more than the heavy breathers in Medellin were set up by the Colombianas. What I do think is that with 14 verb tenses in the Spanish language, and half of those tenses in the subjunctive mode, Benjamin Worf is still right on the money. We are, as a species, held captive by the words we use and they way we use them.

OK class, the grammar lesson is over for today. Your homework consists of reading a book, watching a movie, or writing in the subjunctive mode about what could just be real. Or not.

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South American Explorers Club

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I’m here in Quito, a short city bus ride from the Equator, El Mitad del Mundo: the Middle of the World. This being the tropics, with visions of steamy heat, jungles, humidity and all that goes with these notions, you’d think that this is what I’m contending with. And except for the humidity, you’d be totally wrong.

I’m here at my desk wearing long-johns, a fleece vest over 2 sweatshirts, fingerless gloves, and a wool watch-cap, struggling to keep warm. Ah, the tropics! Tonight the South American Explorers Club, or SAEX (Quito branch) is hosting an Open House and I’m looking forward to being there. Of course meeting with 4-dozen expats, Ecuadorian nationals wanting to practice their English, German and British students just loving life, and cheap beer are incentives enough. But the clubhouse also has a wood fire burning in the living room fireplace and I really want that heat.

SAEX/Quito Open House, March 2015

SAEX/Quito Open House, March 2015

The Open House is both a monthly fund-raiser for the non-profit Club and a very effective way to break down cultural barriers by providing a low-key venue for an international blend of the curious, the shy, the extroverts, the singles, and those pretending to be single, at least for one night.

It was a pretty broad mix of ages, from 20-somethings to pensioners. There was even an octogenarian newspaper editor from a suburb of Albuquerque who was there visiting his son, married to an Ecuadoriana. I’ve already marked my calendar for next month.

SAEX/Quito, aboard the Chiva

SAEX/Quito, aboard the Chiva

Next week (it’s now several days later) SAEX hired 2 Chiva vans. These are really converted cargo trucks with the beds outfitted to carry several dozen happy, loud, and wild revelers each. We were thankful for the covered tops, since it’s winter here and the night saw an off-and-on drizzling rain. The Chivas are a popular way for folks to enjoy club dancing without the clubs, cover charges, or buying drinks.

Both Chivas parked and ready to rock & roll

Both Chivas parked and ready to rock & roll

Everything is included in the $10 ticket; just hop aboard and cruise the city, and dance!. We eventually did stop at one of the parks, where all hopped off and danced along the sidewalks. Each of the Chivas had its own DJ and each had 4’ tall speakers announcing our musical progress as we snaked through Gringolandia (Mariscal Sucre) and Centro Historico for 2 hours.

Lest you think that SAEX exists for throwing great parties, there really is more, far more. The Quito branch spent several years working with the federal government here to clean up the language school business. There are more than 200 language schools in Quito alone, with new ones coming as quickly as old ones shutter their doors. Many operate out of garages, and virtually all of them host impressive websites, snaring the young and unwary from afar.

SAEX helped design a standardization process and the few schools registered with the national certifying board guarantee students a no-surprises education. When I first arrived, I rented a room here at SAEX and worked my way through their literature before choosing one of the qualified schools. When I leave here to move further north, I’ll use their guidelines to choose another language school in Otavalo.

The club also supplies members with guidebooks, personal recommendations, and one-on-one instructions on how to live and thrive both in Quito particularly, but also in the country as a whole. Membership in the Club provides hundreds of discounted opportunities for restaurants, hotels/hostels, tour guides, travel agencies, theater events, and new offers that are constantly changing.

Should the need arise, SAEX can recommend English-speaking healthcare options. I’m sitting here in the living room waiting to accompany several of the members who regularly see a dentist that they like. I’m ready for a teeth-cleaning visit and will join the other 2 for an unscheduled drop-in.

John Caselli, SAEX/Quito Club Director, taking control

John Caselli, SAEX/Quito Club Director, taking control

More than 35 years ago the first Club opened its doors in Lima, Peru. Now there are 4: another Peruvian clubhouse in Cusco, a brand new one that just opened near Valparaiso, Chile, and this one here in Quito. The local clubhouse is run by John Caselli, a retired US Marine pilot and flight instructor. John provides clear direction both for day-to-day requirements, and also for long-term planning such as the language school standardization.

If anyone has the vaguest notion of visiting South America, or just simply learning about one of the most fascinating areas on this planet, SAEX, with its $60 yearly dues, is a goldmine of information and a great way to meet some fascinating travelers and very curious and enjoyable Ecuadorianos. Next weekend the Club is hosting one of its many hikes that take place several times each month. You should join us.

Cuenca, for a While Only

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The Gran Hotel, 3 blocks from Parque Calderón, the center of the Historic District, has a delightful interior courtyard. Like the majority of buildings in this old section of town, the courtyard here is hidden from street view, but once inside, we are treated to a jungle of plants, some as high as the 2-storey enclosure itself.

imageBoth breakfast (included with the room-rate of $35/night) and the 4-course lunch ($3.50, no tipping allowed) are served here from 7AM until after 2PM. I’m here in-between the 2 meals, wondering how they will remove the body from the 2nd-floor room before lunch.

Since all the rooms front the courtyard, the platoon of EMT’s, local and state police, and the criminalistics team, along with the hotel staff are working out the logistics. I’m sitting off to the side at a small table watching the staff move the dining tables for what appears to be an over-the-rail descent. Really, it’s a front-row seat and unless they tell me to move, I’m here for the duration.

Two hours ago, while finishing up a late breakfast, I heard running feet from the floor above and looked up to see the First Responders entering the room. Shortly after, the initial cadre of police arrived, and then later the CSI group. I knew from the lack of urgency that whomever was checked into the room had left for good and now it was time for all the paperwork.

I can’t help but think of Sir Terry Pratchett, who just died a few days ago. It’s been 15 years since I was introduced to his “Discworld” satires, and if I haven’t read all of his several dozen books in the series, plus other similar works, it’s not from lack of trying.

But Cuenca is far more than dead bodies. It’s now Friday and Frank and I arrived here in Cuenca on Monday. We’re flying back to Quito Sunday morning with Frank returning to the US early Monday morning. So we still have some fascinating sights to take in.

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This is a very interesting city and like Quito, selected as a World Heritage Site. Cuenca is Ecuador’s 3rd largest population center, at about 1/2 million people in the city proper, with an extensive suburban development.

This beautiful city, with 4 rivers running through it and defining it’s internal boundaries, is regarded as the cultural heart of Ecuador. It’s easy to see why, with 3 major universities, both an old (16th century) and a new (19th century) cathedral, plus a dozen or more beautifully preserved churches, period buildings with balconies like those in New Orleans (or France, for that matter), museums, Inca ruins, and more. Cuenca is a delight to the eye. In fact Cuenca is such a delight that I’ve concluded that I cannot live here.

Since we got here Frank has developed a passionate love-affair with the city and he plans to return with his wife for a visit very soon. With it’s bite-sized colonial district that can be walked end-to-end, both north-south and east-west in less than a day, and with a climate far friendlier than Quito’s, Cuenca seduces very easily. And that is my problem.

Sometime in 2009 Cuenca was selected as the most desirable retirement destination in the world. This singular prize, decided by any number of international living periodicals, and seconded many times since by other publications has not gone unnoticed by an ever-growing number of expats. Earlier this month the federal government released its figures of approximately 12,000 expats living in Cuenca, with about 8,000 of them from North America.

Yet walking the Historic District, or limping along with a cast in my case, some things catch my eye. Perhaps the decades I’ve spent in Honolulu and Santa Fe have soured my soul towards hot tourist destinations, I don’t know. But here in Cuenca I feel a distinct division between the expats and the local population. There is a palpable disconnect between the 2 communities even though they trod the same paths. It’s as if a colony of ants and a colony of elephants occupied the same land, with both populations busily going about their business and not a clue that the other colony exists.

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I realize that this is a gross over-simplification, but it feels real to me and I don’t want any part of moving here. Though the 2 of us dropped in on 3 very competent Spanish language schools to see about enrolling in their immersion programs, I just can’t do it. All 3 are within 4 blocks of each other, a few blocks from the hotel and the central plaza as well. It feels as if I would suffocate from the claustrophobic closeness of everything. And living with ants and elephants is not something I would willingly do.

Would I come back to Cuenca for a visit? In a minute! The place is gorgeous and known for some of the best food in the country. Its venues host world class symphonies, dancers, writers, painters, sculptors and much more. But I prefer losing myself among the millions in cold and rainy and chaotic Quito.

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Language Immersion in Quito

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Terracentro Spanish Language School

It’s not like I’ve been putting this off, but with Guaranda and all, I just got side-tracked. Though now that I’ve just finished my 5th week in a Spanish language immersion program, it’s time for a review. I just ended one program and I’m set to begin a new phase.

Firstly, I have to say goodbye to Raquell Dávalos, my cultural, historical, environmental, and, when I couldn’t avoid it, Spanish teacher. Raquell has headed off to a teaching contract in El Oriente (the Ecuadorian part of the Amazon headwaters) for 2 weeks. All the best Raquell! It was 5 weeks of in-depth exposure to the wonders of Quito.  I could not have hoped for a better profesora.

OK, really, it is now time to buckle down and truly feel, not just know intellectually the difference between Por y Para , the rough Spanish equivalents to the English For. Wait! Let’s put it off some more; first let’s take time for some diversion. I can always study later.

I’m going to meet Frank, coming in from Albuquerque late tonight, and we’re headed to the southern part of the country for some genteel mayhem. It will have to be toned down simply because I’m sporting a plaster cast from mid-calf to my toes on my left foot. I broke the outside metatarsal by looking up when I should have been looking down.

So, with cane in hand, I lead Frank to Cuenca, Ecuador’s 3rd largest city. Like Quito, Cuenca is a World Heritage Site, selected for it’s colonial architecture, postcard setting, many museums, and because it’s just simply a beautiful place. More of Cuenca later, in a separate post.

I stumble back in a week to change my program at the school. Since starting at Terracentro in the beginning of February, I have been enrolled in “Cultural Quito” a stunning introduction to the charms, secrets, and thousand year old history of this amazing city. This program puts the student in class, one-on-one with an instructor in the mornings, then during the afternoons we were riding buses, taxis, and mostly walking in, through, and around some of the museums, markets, churches, cathedrals, historical sites, and so much more, both in and also near to Quito. It’s a good program; no, it’s a great program, but really it was not right for me. And I knew it even before I left Honolulu.

So sue me, that’s the way I am: if moderation is good then it stands to reason that overindulgence must be better, right? Tell that to the broken metatarsal.

It’s been almost 3 years since I bowed out of Spanish classes in Albuquerque: to first remodel the house, and then to sell it to return to Honolulu. Three years is a disastrously long time to be away from a 2nd language that I had certainly not mastered before the hiatus. I knew this, but the thinking was that I would only be in Ecuador for a month or 2 and I wanted to pack as much as I could into that time, so taking a cultural program without remembering basic grammar was a good thing, no? Ahhh, No.

I have no real idea how Raquell put up with such a poor student other than because of her deep love for her native Quito. And the fact that she shares a cynical view of the world. If this old gringo wants to blow his money by tripping over first-semester verb tenses, at least we can have fun. So we did.

Every day for 5 days each week for the full 5 weeks we saw something new and wonderful. Which was after she made me pay for it by squirming from her stare in the classroom.

imageShe’s got a certain sadistic side that hides behind an innocent smile, a smile that speared me daily with questions about how could I possibly ever think to use a first-person present tense ending on a 3rd person past tense verb? Even children don’t speak like that! Yet in spite of myself I have made progress and look forward to the new program. I will spend 5 or more hours in class each day with no more sight-seeing, so that I can really build a strong grammar base to use in this truly expressive language.  ¡Que Bueno!

Two weeks into my cultural program I realized that I need to be in Ecuador for more than the standard 90-day visa allowance. The culture, the language, and most importantly, the people of Ecuador demand (though politely, to be sure) a deeper commitment from me. And I willingly accept this, so I am working with a lawyer to extend my visa to 180 days. Will that be enough? Of course not, but I really do want to see other Andean countries too.

Cotopaxi from my 2nd storey bedroom window

Cotopaxi from my 2nd storey bedroom window

The other part of an immersion language program expects that the student will live the language outside the classroom, and what better way than to live with a family? In my case, I believe that I have the best of all worlds, since I live right here, at the school, with the Director’s parents. Carmen and Hector Villacís are about my age and they have both welcomed me into their home, into their kitchen, and I dare say into their lives. Carmen is a retired banking officer and Hector is a journalist, a Periodista.

Having lived in Long Beach, California for several years while earning an accounting degree, Carmen speaks pretty good English and we, against the rules, often default back there when my Spanish flounders. We spend breakfasts and dinners here at the kitchen table, while I go out for lunch on my own. She’s an avid listener to talk radio, and it’s usually the basis for a protracted breakfast, with heated discussions along the way. Strong into women’s rights, she has little patience for weak-willed, macho politicians. And let’s me know it, often.

Hector, who teaches an advanced arts and politics program for his daughter’s school, speaks no English. Yet somehow, he and I have had any number of 3 hour discussions with both of us enjoying them immensely. He is widely traveled, particularly through Latin America, and has worked for 40 years in radio, in television, and with the printed word, spending decades both in front of and behind the microphone. He has a life-long love of the arts and knows Shakespeare and Tchaikovsky and Velázquez far better than most. He currently writes for a political publication and here in Ecuador these days, that’s not easy.

Well, that’s what I do with my time for the most part. Yet I haven’t explained how I chose Terracentro, one school out of 200 Spanish schools in Quito. And that’s because I haven’t told you about the South American Explorers Club. That might have to wait until after the Cuenca post.

Guaranda, Finally. But Never What We Think

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Guaranda, Part III

With the coming of the New Year, as it had been in many of our “developed” cultures in times past, each family of the Campo greets the other families wishing them well, and this year the Moposita family was the first one out of the shute, as it were. It must have been 10 or 11 in the night when we began this New Year’s version of the custom of serenading the surrounding families. Keep in mind that we had been flying with Pajaro Azul since mid-afternoon, so it took major commitment from the entire goup (5 of us) to hang together on pitch black footpaths or trampling through cornfields, finally stumbling into courtyards of the families nearby. As soon as we arrived, though not silently what with the barking dogs, honking geese, and our own laughter, we began to sing and play this song. Or, in my case since I didn’t know the words, kind of hum and moan and clap my hands, which actually I was pretty good at. Well, that’s how I remember it anyway so I’m sticking to my story.

The other part of the tradition requires that each of the families being serenaded bring out yet more cerveza (beer) and/or Pajaro Azul. This being the campo, and like virtually all farming communities worldwide, folks are early to bed, early to rise. So when the lights turned on in the houses we visited, and the head of the household appeared in the courtyard with a glass and the booze, imagine his, or occasionally her, surprise to see a gringo in the midst of the neighborhood troubadors! Most were quite taken aback, and one or 2 even stumbled in surprise, but none paused in pouring out salutes to health and good harvest. A good time truly, was had by all.

Yet while the campesinos had either started or were soon to start celebrating good fortune and bountiful harvest in the new year, it was anything but good fortune for the pig. His year was starting out badly and went downhill from there.

Jefferson’s father had arrived home well after midnight, having begun the celebrations with friends in other places. We had brief introductions as I was headed off to bed. He seemed to be struggling with the remembrance of just why this tall gringo was standing in his house. He wasn’t angry by any stretch, the Blue Bird sings songs of love, though he was sorely and profoundly puzzled.

But while I was soundly asleep, snoring and drooling, he was sharpening his killing blade. After the deed, and the singeing of the hide with his plumber’s torch, his work was done and the women’s had just begun. His wife began first by scraping the hide, gutting and then sectioning the carcass. She, with help from an ever-changing number of daughters, spent most of the day first butchering then cooking the pig in a gigantic wok-type of pan/pot/whathaveyou.

imageWhile she was building up steam for the task ahead, Jefferson’s father (I never did learn the names of Jefferson’s parents) took me with him for an early-morning wake-up over at his neighbor’s place. As we walked over there, he explained to me the purpose of a gulley that was obviously hand dug along the top of the ridge we followed. I had seen it earlier and thought it curious since it appeared to me as if it were a revetment, designed for fending off invading barbarians. The reason, though not so exciting, was still interesting. This ditch is the traditional way for the indigenous families to mark off boundaries between their separate properties. I’m thinking that few of the lands here are registered with any governmental agencies, and surveyors be damned, so this is an effective way for clear and permanent delineation between neighbors.

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At the neighbor’s house we were offered the red-eye special: fried chitlins in choclo with an aji salsa that cleans the rust from your pipes, washed down with, of course, more booze! Choclo is one of about 7 different types of corn grown in Ecuador. The kernels are huge, the spherical size of a nickel or so, and the aji (pepper) salsa is unique to each family and having grown up with hot and spicy food, hit the spot. Beer for breakfast? Not so exciting, but customs in the hills developed for good reasons and it was not for me to question.

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Back at the house the family was split into 2 factions with one group up to their elbows in pig and the other group getting ready for Guaranda’s Carnaval. As the honored guest, my role had already been defined before I even arrived from Quito, so I boarded another death-ride taxi for a pell-mell dash down the mountain to town. By now it was mid-morning and the parade had already begun. So we squeezed in amongst other revelers to take in whatever happened next.

And what happened next was a traffic jam. A mile from town the dirt road, and all the other ways into Guaranda were blocked. Cars, and more often trucks, handcarts, and the ocasional dumptruck(?) were haphazardly stacked up, one behind or beside the other, so we abandoned the taxi and boosted the children on our shoulders, making the last part of the trek on foot. The city streets were awash with parade-goers and certainly the party was in full-swing.

Before leaving Quito, my host family had provided me with an image of mayhem and wild destruction awaiting the unwary wanting to see a true Andean Carnaval. And in the years past, when both my generation and ones following took part in the festivities this was truly the case. But Ecuador has cleaned up its festivals so in comparison to days past this Carnaval was almost genteel, though not quite.

People of the Andes have for centuries marked the new year with blood all-round. The killing of the Moposita Family pig was certainly part of it, and from the squeals coming from other campesino family compounds it was easy to tell that they too added their parts to the rituals. Though community Carnavals are where this is most evident.

In days past, and still in many parts of Peru and Bolivia, ritual blood-letting was/is not only accepted but strictly enforced. Rival teams of men and youth would confront each other throughout the Andes and trade blows to the head with the expectation that resultant flowing blood would supply Pachamama with the energy she needs to ensure the harvest of the New Year. I’m glad that, at least in Ecuador and Colombia, things have toned down a bit.

imageHowever I was warned that instead of flowing blood I could and should expect raw eggs along with flour missiles and water bombs. So I came prepared, decked out in full-body rain gear, virtually head-to-foot in rubberized clothing. Man, was it hot! Well this year, the eggs are gone, the flour use is pretty trivial, and what is the weapon of choice, excuse me, the expression of joy, is shaving cream; boatloads and boatloads of shaving cream. But not your store-bought Schick or Gillette cans of personal grooming.

There were hawkers parading up and down the street between us, the beer vendors (by the glass or the case), umbrella sellers, and the actual parade participants, selling aerosol cans 18-24” high, and packed with high-pressure shaving cream. These cans allowed the gunners using them to float a focused stream of shaving cream 20 or 30 feet into the crowd. Which they did. We, all of us, found it in our hair, faces, front and back, down the back of the neck. Then there were the youths on the roofs of the buildings above us: ready, willing, and quite able to drench all of us with water balloons. And they too did, often and with great accuracy.

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The actual parade was itself almost a distraction from the aerosol snipers, the overhead water bombardiers, and the drunken couples dancing, stumbling and falling to music from the mega-decibel salsa sound trucks slowly driving by. We saw the obligatory beauty-queens, the hand-made floats crafted during the past year by local artisans, and marching dancers. Or was it dancing marchers? We saw groups of made-to-be hippies of the 60’s, with flourescent hair, wearing costumes from the disco 70’s, we saw tractors pulling memorials to the workers’ cooperatives, we saw elite troups of military and police brigades. And then it rained. And then the rain began to freeze. And then it hailed. And with mild panic, the crowd ran for cover, while the bands played on. There was at least one aging gringo who was glad for his full-body rain gear.

We finally squished our way back to the house where we became one with the New Year pig at the dinner table, sang a bit and went to bed early for a 3AM bus ride back to Quito. Since then, as I consider what transpired I realize that though the Guaranda Carnaval was an enjoyable, though truly frigid experience, what was of greater meaning were the events in el campo. It was a true privilege being welcomed into the Moposita Family home. Though I was more than a bit uncomfortable sitting at the place of honor during meals, I knew that each of the family members freely and unconditionally wanted me to feel at home, to be one of them. And really, I did.

Religious Experience, Part II

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Homecoming to a Home I’ve Never Seen

On my father’s side I come from a long line of professional butchers and the processing of meat, from the hoof to the plate, is not unfamiliar to me. So I knew immediately that the screams from below my bedroom window came from a dying pig. It was the morning after a night that I’ve partially forgotten.

Arriving in Guaranda with my friend Jefferson mid-day Saturday, we shoved ourselves into a taxi after a great lunch in a Chifa, or Chinese restaraunt. Though these are not the big yellow taxis that we’ve come to know and love in the US. Like taxis in many primarily rural Latin American countries, these conveyances are Hilux pickups with space for standing room only in the beds of the compact little trucks. They have welded racks for the clients to grab on to while the driver practices his time-is-money routine by racing around curves.

Each time I’ve ridden in one of these, both in Ecuador and years ago in Guatemala, I’ve revisited an alien emotion: FEAR. I don’t care that there is a rack to hold on to, 40mph over bumps and  around curves with a 3/4” metal tube between me and death does little for plans for the future. And I say this truthfully: I lost count, from the jostling and bouncing, at 22 of us jammed into a standard Toyota truck bed! That I was a head or two taller than all the other passengers allowed for the size of the passenger list, but still it was no easy delivery to the path leading up to La Casa de Los Moposita. Thank you Mother Earth.

Most of the family was out when we arrived, and so I was quickly introduced to Jefferson’s mother and 2 of his sisters. His mother was cooking up a type of marmalade (sambo) that is well-known in the region and highly sought after throughout the rest of Ecuador. I was unable to try any because it takes some time to prepare and age. Since the women of the house were busy preparing for the next day’s festivities, we walked out on to the property, past a grazing cow and her calf. The surrounding lands, including the Moposita property, are dizzily steep and they reminded me of photos I’ve seen of terraced lands in the Philippines.

imageAs we retraced our path back we were greeted by Jefferson’s brother Diego and his 2 brothers-in-law, Jorge and German. After some pleasantries that I stumbled through, Jefferson left and I stayed near the cook-fire and sat down with the other 3. They had already been drinking the local Pilsener brand of beer by pouring small doses into a glass and then passing it around for each other. While I generally avoid all alcohol for personal health reasons, I knew that it plays an important role in indigenous communities. So, being the obvious outsider amongst 3 young men, I knew it was time to relax some personal rules.

All 3 were outdoing each other being cordial to the obvious rube in their midst, and spoke slow and clear Spanish to find out just who this whiteboy was. It was the first time that any of them had met someone from the USA. The talk finally got to age, and even after I showed them a copy of my passport, there were serious doubts of my credibility all round. None of the 3 were ready to accept that I was actually older than both of the Moposita parents. I could tell that this seemingly simple issue might change the mood, and certainly not change it for the better.

By now I had been there for half an hour or so, helping them work through their 2nd case of the beer (they were well ahead of me) and it was time for some quick action. Sitting with strangers well into their cups (or shared glass in this case) can start off friendly enough, but quickly turn sour with an unintended remark or gesture. So taking the lead, I mentioned that I had read about something called Pajaro Azul, the Blue Bird. I said that what I had read made me very curious. This stopped everything. No talking, no scratching (We’re men, what did you think we do?), no movement, nothing. Then each looked at the others, they smiled simultaneously, and the smallest of glasses appeared out of nowhere. From behind the wall, by Jorge’s feet, a repurposed plastic water bottle jumped into his hand and then the real fun began.

All Ecuadorians know of Guaranda. It figured pivotally in the country’s fight for independence from Spain more than 200 years ago, and universally these people know their history far better than we know ours. These same Ecuadorians know that Guranda has 2 unique treasures: its Carnaval, and Pajaro Azul, which only flies during the days of the fiesta.

Throughout Latin America distilled sugar cane is made into Aguardiente, a potent, clear liquor available everywhere. If one decides to distill the liquor even further (120 proof, minimum), and add a few spices, maybe some special family herbs, a pale, blue-tinged liquid comes out the other end. Over countless generations this liquor has been treated with the highest reverence and respect. After the killing of the pig the next morning, Jefferson’s father sprinkled Pajaro Azul on the ground where the bloodletting had taken place. The liquor helps to send the blood to the spirits underground with hopes that they will be pleased and then assure a bountiful harvest in the coming year. But we weren’t ready for all that right then.

The sun was going down and the women had been joined by the 2 other daughters along with my friend Jefferson. Since by now we had solved most of the world’s problems it was time for dinner. Meals in el Campo (the countryside) are pretty simple affairs that always start off with soup. Sopas (thinner) or Caldos (thicker, often gruel-like) that I’ve eaten daily since I arrived in Ecuador are some of the best I’ve had in my life, and this meal’s caldo was right there up on top, followed by boiled chicken and potatoes.

For desert, with the table cleared and the women somehow vanishing, Jefferson and Diego brought out a quitar and a violin and began singing a very simple but hauntingly resonant song of Guaranda and Carnaval. For the next 36 hours I was never more than 10 minutes away from that song, whether there at the Moposita home, or down in Guaranda, or hearing it/feeling it coming across the steep hills and valleys of the Campo as the mist settled in, sung and played in other homes, the song was there, always there, hearlding in the New Year.

Jefferson Moposita, a 25 yr old Mechanical Engineer

Jefferson Moposita, a 25 yr old Mechanical Engineer

I admit that I played a small part in continuing the melody, and my foot still hurts one week later, from crunching a stone in pitch blackness. But by now, after dinner had settled and the beer pretty much gone, it was pure Blue Bird and we were just about ready to get started on phase II.

End of Part II

A Simple Recipe for a Religious Experience

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imageWith just eggs, flour, and water, and perhaps some help from a little bird, I experience religion in its most basic form.

Part 1: Gimme That Ole Time Religion

Chimborazo sits in the clouds, with its head rising more than 20,000 feet above sea level. Only on rare occasions will it allow us a brief view, and at that, usually only for minutes at any one time. Yet on these rare times of peek-a-boo visibility we can feel how much its presence determines the life around it. The volcano creates the weather for many miles in all directions by trapping moisture from the heavy clouds as they pass by, then collect on its flanks, and finally disperse and pass on. The surrounding lands accept these concentrations of moisture and provide the people who live here with truly abundant harvests of fruits, vegetables and dairy produce from the lush green fields.

Guaranda, at the base of Chimborazo, is the capital of Bolívar province. This city of at best 50,000 people hosts what is considered to be Ecuador’s most authentic indigenous pre-Lenten Carnaval. Both Ecuadorians and visitors alike reserve beds as much as a year in advance for this most important of religious events. Not only does this Carnaval mark the start of the Catholic religious period of resurrection with its culmination at Easter, but it marks the New Year for the indigenous Kichwa who inhabit not only Ecuador, but the other Andean countries of Colombia, Peru, and Bolivia. The crowds of spectators (and boundaries blur between spectators and participants as events progress) fill every room in every hotel both in Guaranda and in the surrounding pueblos.

So when I received an invitation to attend the Carnaval, less than a week before it was to take place, I had serious doubts about pulling this off. Firstly, my grasp of Spanish is now less than basic. After 3 years of not practicing the language, I discover daily that I have forgotten more than I remember. Thus my Spanish teacher certainly earns her salary, trying mightily to create her own version of the resurrection: my ability to converse again with those around me. The best of luck to you, Raquel Davalos!

The second obstacle (and the more immediate one) to witnessing Guaranda’s Carnaval was the simple fact that all rooms in all hotels, hostels, boarding houses, and elsewhere were full. There truly was no room at the inn for this traveler.

Yet somehow I found myself totally immersed in the indigenous New Year living with the Family Moposita, having arrived in Guaranda by a 7hr bus ride in horrendous traffic. I was traveling with their youngest son Joffre. He and I have become fast friends in Quito where we exchange language lessons. Joffre, or Jefferson as he prefers, is a mechanical engineer. But he is unemployed because he cannot speak passable English. So we meet most days of the week and laugh a lot, and hopefully benefit each other by speaking our respective languages.

Jefferson’s father is a plumber in Guaranda.  His mother, who only wears the traditional dress of Bolivar province and speaks her Spanish with a heavy Kichwa accent, seems to have taken, along with her husband, lifetime vows of poverty. They live in a partially completed house with an outside hose-bib for water and single light bulbs, precariously wired in several rooms of the unheated concrete and block house.

They live this way in apparent content, with Jefferson’s mother enduring bitter cold by cooking outdoors in a semi-walled area open to the skies. She cooks simple but delicious meals over a kindling fire and I never saw her once without a smile. They live this way by choice since rather than investing in their own comfort, they have chosen instead to invest in their children.

Anita, the oldest daughter, is a physician working in a clinic in Quito and expecting her first child. The youngest, Sandra, has just completed her first year of construction engineering at a private university, also in Quito. The 3 other children, each married and 2 of them with children of their own, live in Quito as well, which meant that this was a great homecoming, with all 6 children, 4 spouses, 2 grandchildren, and an old gringo filling the usually empty and very cold house.

We had all come to see the Carnaval, but first we had to acknowledge and celebrate the New Year. And that’s when the little blue bird really did fly up my nose.

End of Part 1

Altitude or Elevation?

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If you squint, you still won't see Cuba, but the sun is setting as we fly over the island on our way to Quito.

If you squint, you still won’t see Cuba, but the sun is setting as we fly over the island on our way to Quito.

Most people use the two words interchangeably, but they’re not really the same. If you find yourself aloft, in a jet plane leaving the US for a South American adventure you are at altitude, a certain distance above mean sea level. When you are standing on firm ground and this happens to be a noticeable height above that same level of the sea, you are at a certain elevation. In spite of that distinction, what laid me out in a hotel room for 4 days when I first arrived in Quito, is commonly called “Altitude Sickness” and I can assure you that no matter what you call it, the symptoms are not  pleasurable.

Having first experienced the malady when I was 19 and climbing Mauna Loa on Hawai’i island, I have since had altitude sickness several times. So I knew that Quito would be a problem. I’ve been living in Honolulu for the past 2 years so any tolerance I built up from living 30 years in New Mexico is gone. Landing in Quito hit me hard and I immediately reached for the medicine bottle. Before leaving I had subscribed to a local travel medicine service, and in addition to updating pertussis, hepatitis A&B, tetanus and typhoid, I also received a generic form of Diamox, the standard medication for relieving the symptoms of altitude sickness. And these symptoms, like symptoms of many other maladies are described as “flu-like,” a description that I’ve never liked.

So after 3 days of Diamox dosing (starting 24 hrs before leaving Tampa) I was feeling no better and actually feeling a little worse. It was time to do what people of the Andes have been doing for many centuries, start drinking Mate de Coca, or coca tea. It’s from the same plant that cocaine eventually comes from but has none of the narcotic effect of the highly processes and chemically tainted cocaine of ill repute. Within 15 minutes of drinking my first cup, the splitting headache was gone, my breathing was less labored (but don’t kid yourself, 9,300 ft elev. is still home to very thin air), and overall, my energy returned to a more normal level. Sometimes the old ways will always be the best.

 

Nosing Around Quito

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This bench, and 2 others like it, is located less than a block from the South American Explorers Quito Clubhouse, where I am staying until Sunday, Feb 1.

The 2 pickpockets scurried across Av. Rio Amazonas during a lull in the heavy traffic. Just before reaching the curb they split up, with one fast-walking ahead and the other inserting himself in the flow of pedestrians a few steps behind me. Seeing them for what they were, I immediately turned toward the street and maneuvered myself close behind the trailing thief. I closed in on him and when he realized what happened, he kept looking back: over one shoulder then over the other. It was my first morning in Ecuador. WELCOME TO QUITO, GRINGO!

There are a few things to note about this little episode. The first is that Quito can indeed be a risky place. But having grown up in Detroit, I learned early on that Motown was no picnic either. It was pure luck that I saw these slimeballs and I’m no Captain America with danger radar protecting my every move. Although since then I have not seen anything that could vaguely put me in harm’s way. But that also means that I don’t walk down the street swinging an expensive camera, wearing a pair of cargo pants stuffed with expensive toys. I also don’t stop on the street to puzzle over a map.  Quito is really no less safe than any big US city, but you just don’t advertise your wealth; this is the capital of a developing country and few Ecuadorians have the financial resources that travelers have, so don’t flaunt what you don’t want to lose.

What I have seen this first week is a fantastic variety of produce, and the SuperMaxi, a be-all grocery store in the elegant El Jardin mall offers easily 2 dozen more fruits that one could buy at the local Safeway back home. I’m drinking raspberry or blackberry juice every morning and papayas are less than 1/2 a buck a pound.