A reflection: 30 de septiembre

The past forty-eight hours have been like nothing I have ever been through in my sheltered little world as a privileged and protected, apple pie, stars and stripes, all American girl. I haven’t had a lot of time to process and filter through everything; when I try it’s just a swirl of mixed emotions, all I keep coming back to is that nothing has changed but yet everything has.

On September 30^th, 2010 during my five hour Spanish class phones began to ring and the radio was turned on telling my teacher, my peers, and I that there was an attempted coup d'etat in Quito just thirty minutes away and that we needed to return to our home stay families immediately. We lingered not knowing what to say to each other as contradicting emotions collided, excitement and fear. Not knowing which feeling to harness, we began to say good bye to each other and go our separate ways. A group of us headed the same direction as like any other day but that day we stopped into a cell phone store and made calls stateside. I called my mom first because she would be the most likely to worry and call the National Guard, Red Cross, and White House. I remember my mom asking me if I felt safe, I tried my best to have my “brave girl, please don’t worry about me” front for my mom sakes. Next I called my Dad and more than anything I wanted to hear my father’s voice. It’s the little girl in me that thinks my Dad can fix the world and save me from anything and everything but there was no answer, he was at work and I was a world away.  

            In my world businesses shut done, province state lines closed, public transportation stopped, banks closed, and crime skyrocketed. A car was set on fire in the central of my hometown, Sangolqui and someone was robbed near my school. Mid-morning police surrounded the presidential palace and surrounding ministries in the “Plaza de Independencia”. From there President Correa was attacked with teargas and was rushed to the hospital after his knee gave out (he had surgery early September). From the hospital late last night there was cross-fire between the loyal military and police officer as Correa fled. The media here is graphic—I watched everything unfold as men died outside the hospital as the President was evacuated.  

I checked up on CNN, BBC, and the New York Times but they haven’t quite grasped the magnitude of this event. What the media and people abroad don’t understand is that here security is maintained by the presence of officers in every major store, university, and bank. This prevents looting and robbery—a major problem in Ecuador. With the police protesting the security of this country became no existent and all the citizens could do was hold their in the anticipation and hope for stability.   

With all of this happening my family seemed so calm. My sister was doing her nails when I got home and my brother was playing Halo—no one was watching the news. I think my mom knew that I was freaking out so we turned on the news during lunch after my Grandmother prayed for her sons. The only precaution taken was sending my brother out to buy bread (my family really loves bread). After watching the news for awhile my mom and sister got bored and decided that a coup d’état was the perfect time for ice cream! After driving around for an hour we found the only ice cream shop open in all of Sangolqui and ordered our cones. 

Think Jurassic Park minus the dinosaurs.

I find that I am happiest living out of a backpack without electricity and running water. I thrive in the simplicity of hammocks, long walks, and stars. I love the sounds of the wilderness as my night time lullaby. I love how I can be small again the moment I climb a tree. Dinner by candlelight makes anyone beautiful, it reveals one’s soul. I forgot how much I missed sitting on a log to pray, listen, and worship. It scared me to sit in the valley of the cloud forest and realize the power of my Savior and see His creation. I want to take time to try to form the words and share the pictures that can capture my time in the Cloud Forest before it slips away, this is my attempt:

My breathe was stolen when I saw my first volcano and caldera.  

The chill of the Andes gushed from my very first waterfall.

 I saw the power unity holds when passion and determination collide as the Intag’s community battles against mining in their fight to protect the Cloud Forest. I ate vegetarian food and savored every bite. I heard the legends of the indigenous community and was called a Rainbow Warrior. I saw coffee beans grow and climbed over waterfalls. This is my adventure but I wish I could share the beauty of it all with you.   

Chickens Have Two Feet

Today two of my host siblings were at school and my other brother got a job for the week three hours away and so for lunch it was my parents and I. One of my goals for this semester is to say yes to anything that won’t end in death or a perm. This has gotten me to see an Ecuadorian movie, get my nails painted on a street corner, lung myself into a waterfall, rock climb a water fall, go to a bull run, listen to Spanish metal, and see a parade of horses. This applies to food as well; I also am willing to try about anything that my host mom eats. Having seen traditional Mexican food come in and out of my state-side mom’s kitchen, I can handle most things and appreciate them. With this I try to keep an open mind.

My host mom is an exceptional cook and baker, she keeps telling me it’s because she puts extra love in it just for me. Anyway, today my mom made the best chicken soup of my life-- it was raining and our electricity had gone out and all we had was this bowl full of her love in the form of rice and cilantro and at the same time it was all we needed. I happily savored every mouth watering spoonful until I noticed to the left of my bowl a sharp toe nail peaking out of a nearby plate, it was a chickens foot, not the drumstick thigh but the foot, toe nails and all. I had finished my soup and decided to pass the foot to my father who smiled and said that this soup was made especially for me. That’s when she told me that chickens only have two feet with the mischievous twinkle in her eye. I couldn’t help but laugh.  Without hesitation my mom began to teach me how to eat a chicken’s foot. First you need to rip of the smallest toe first, nibble. Repeat for every toe after. Always save the ankle for last, because it’s the best part. During my attempt of rib, nibble, chew, swallow, repeat my wonderful mom told me I was eating cartilage. I remained calm noting that it tasted like chicken.  

It should be said that feet are not very cute to eat, there rather messy and sticky. Think spaghetti minus the fork and knife plus a grossness factor multiplied by lip smacking crunching noises. All this in mind picture my mom happily nibbling and chewing her way through the other foot. My dad had insisted that she eat the other foot because he knew how good they were. My father looked at my mom with such love when all I saw was toe nails and cartilage that I realized perhaps true love is eating a chicken’s foot and still being seen as beautiful. True love does not envy over delicious chicken feet but enjoys it through the delight of another. It’s in moments this I began to recognize that perhaps love can come in spoonfuls of rice and cilantro. I’d like to think that when God made chickens He made them with two feet just for my mom.   

The Hands of Machismo

My eyes remained down cast focusing on the only familiar thing I had, the look of his blue wind breaker winding in and out of crowds with people I towered over. I had only met him once with an awkward peck on the check and now he had complete control. I could barely keep up with his brisk stride stepping across puddles and avoiding glass. Every five seconds he would patiently look back at me as my wide eyes helplessly darted away from his gaze and reflected the chaos of people that had been our obstacles. When the crowd grew thicker he would grasp my hand as if he had felt the creases of my life line our whole lives. I could feel the pores of my privileged completion be clogged with grim as the rain brought down pollution from the sky.  Ecuador had begun to get under my skin into the respiration of my lungs as a cough crept up my chest threatening to reveal that I was an outsider, that I did not belong.

His grasp, on my child like hand, was steady and persistent allowing no room for protest telling me that I now held in my hand the essence of machismo. Machismo is an ugly word when its existence was used to confine and control the nature of your womanhood. Machismo is an ugly thing when all it’s ever done is “put you in your place”. I have prided myself on being beyond machismo but here in the street with the rain and glass I had lost all control and the only one I could trust was the man covered by this wind breaker. The moment he took my hand I realized that I had two options in Ecuador—I could walk these streets alone with the independence that would lead me to my ruin or I could humbly accept the hand of my brother and submit to the only thing I had to hold on to.

It wasn’t until I quickened my stride and focused on the sharpness of his eyes, the intensity of his gaze that I realized he wasn’t looking back at me. My dear brother was  looking back and making eye contact with the surrounding threats of men building a boundary of protection around me with his eyes. He held my hand and claimed me as his sister, as a woman with family, as a woman that was valued. It was not his machismo that confided me but his machismo that protected me. It was in the life lines of my brothers hand that I could feel the protection of machismo.

  

In Good Company

The bus ride wasn’t long enough for anyone to el valle de Los Chillos—all 14 wide eyed gringos with our flores waiting for our first home stay family. Without any time to say good bye I saw Chirma my host mom for the first time and Luis Daniele my 20 year old host brother. Losing all sense of direction as my host mom zoomed past cars in our Honda, I somehow ended up being welcomed home by a large fat lab. I think there are four houses—one for each son and their families and abuelo. I haven’t met anyone beyond my own cottage home, besides the abuelito (more on him later). My host sister Michelle is 18 and will be starting her first year at university in two weeks. Her joys echoes throughout the house in her laughter, singing, and voice. I’ve never met someone who brings forth so much happiness.  I have one more host brother, George who is 24 and likes to play Nintendo and rap music and is studying tourism. Sometimes I forget the normalcy of family—how it ebbs and flows with dependency and independence.

My house is a gallery— paintings replace wall paper in the house of the Morales family. The best part is I get to have café con leche with the men who create and envision these paintings. My host father George, his father, and all of his brothers are painters; yet, their paintings drip beyond talent and into the essence of their existence. This is simply who they are. My house is a museum. Trinkets are replaced by artifacts from the indigenous community. Displayed with a pride that says this is who I am, this is my history.  My room is a library and I get to spend my evenings with old friends like Neruda y Marquez.  My room smells like books, it’s like living in a small wonderful library.  I feel like Belle in Beauty and the Beast surrounded with art and literature—only with a rooster and no Beast.

To say I miss you, whoever you are reading this, might be a white lie because I am where I need to be—stumbling over Spanish, eating seven times a day, avoiding eye contact with men, and resting for a little while.

            

Locations

Mexico will always be under my skin and in the rhythm of my journey.
Loveland, Colorado is my hometown, the place where Jesus found me.
Denver, Colorado is not only where I go to school but where I chase dreams.
Canada is my home, my family, and my favourite place in the whole wide world.
Ecuador is my next adventure-- to listen, laugh, and bless.