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| Entryway to my apartment |
Before
I arrived in Ecuador, the resounding chorus I heard from friends, family, and
random inquirers primarily revolved around taking as many pictures as possible,
avoiding cartels and the northern border with Colombia, and generally keeping
self and belongings safe. So I bought a concealable camera pouch and practiced
the art of quick snaps when no one’s looking (just to make sure it makes it
back to the US with me ;)), and avoid making friends in seedy and questionable
places particularly those of the narcotics-trafficking type. I sought out an
apartment in a crowded part of town with two gates, three deadbolts, and five
keys to boot. My laptop found a new home in the oven and my phone in the
toaster when I’m away. I learned to use doorstoppers to stop doors from opening
rather than closing; to keep purses securely positioned in front, never back;
to only take official taxis in the nighttime; and to remember to always check
around corners in poorly lit hallways. Gradually, rather than a regimen
strictly and fearfully adhered to, each step becomes routine, expected, and
almost comforting. It doesn’t mean any fewer days adventuring or fewer nights
out on the town, just the peace of mind that all steps (at least every step
that can be taken) has been to make the next few months memorable in the way
that one loves to remember a new home away from home.
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| At Warmi! Brunch Ecuadorian style! |
That
includes days brunching and wandering the sinuous streets of Guápulo, a
winding, mountainous sector of the city full of artisan workshops and homes, as
well as nights dancing alongside an over-sized yellow and blue minion at Despicable
Me themed parties at night clubs (complete with piñatas and children’s
birthday décor)—you just can’t make this stuff up. In fact, there are quite a
few alarming things that have slowly begun to sink in as simply part of the
fare du jour. For example, waiting my turn in the interminable lines in
the Foreign Affairs office and watching a young child projectile vomiting over
at least three bystanders, none of whom flinched, winced, or even budged from
their seats. (Fortunately, with some quick thinking, the mother was able to
flip the baby upside down to ensure the rest of her stomach contents made their
home on the floor, not nearby laps.) At least I didn’t get splattered.
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| Amigos en el mirador de Guapulo (Friends in the Guapulo Viewpoint) |
Perhaps
my favorite part of the day is the bus ride home from work. Generally speaking,
deathly afraid of crowds (sticky fingers, people, sticky fingers!), I try my
hardest to avoid the sardine-packed blue metal contraptions barreling down the
street at the end of the day. Only once have I actually ventured into the human
compactor fondly referred to as the trolebús (trolley bus) that
literally attempts to squeeze the life out of riders, their hips, lips, bums,
and bags tightly smeared against glass and their fellow passengers. If you’re
lucky enough to press cheeks with a fellow traveling companion, sweet remnants
of this afternoon’s patacones (unsweetened fried plantain slices) or queso
fresco (local white cheese crumbles) filling your nostrils with every
slight breath—not many, there’s just not a lot of room for expanding of lungs!—
you just might enjoy the absurdity of it all. That is of course until you
wriggle free, emerging into the crisp evening air with a slashed backpack or
purse sans valuable contents (where did they find room to slice your bag?!) or
barely escape with your life moments after the trolley doors have slammed shut
on either side of your head as you attempted to disentangle yourself from the
human mass. (Fun fact: I have had the pleasure of experiencing only one of
these two things!)
But,
to the point—bus rides. The evening bus, though occasionally standing room
only, is typically a raucous affair of sorts. I must note that I learned
early on that when people hiss at me or nudge me towards the back of the bus,
contrary to my American self-righteousness, it has less to do with my
complexion than the convention of boarding at the front (to pay the coin
collector) and exiting at the back to keep the flow of bodies, bags, and babies
on the move. If you do get the chance to sit down and observe as the tides flow
in and out of the bouncing transporter, you are bound to notice a few things:
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| Street performer in the Centro Histórico |
1)
Everybody
and their mothers are on the bus. And I mean that literally. It seems like the whole world and
often their mothers or mamá-like figures along with bundles of blankets in
which I’m pretty sure small children are lurking.
2)
Babies
don’t cry. I
have no explanation for it, but whatever the bundles swaddled in cloth and
closely affixed to their mothers, they rarely if ever seem to utter a peep!
3)
Even
rich folks cross town on the bus. Rightly so, Quiteños seem to have picked up on the fact that
traffic is horrendous most afternoons, particularly when a sea of yellow taxis
takes to the streets in the wake of a recent rainstorm (every single
afternoon). Thus, everyone from sharp business suit-clad gents to back-pack
toting students and vendors hauling their wares pile onto the little plastic
seats together.
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| Rainy day Quito |
4)
Bus
drivers love messaging. Above
the driver there is often painted a message, or PA as it were, to all who dare
to board. Sometimes the messages are religious in nature: Qué Dios Le
Bendiga (May God Bless You). Sometimes, they are just downright offensive: No
le deje a su mujer tope el celular (Don't let your wife/woman stop/take
your phone). Who knows what she’ll find…?
5)
You
never know what you’ll want to buy. This has to be my absolute favorite aspect
of riding a bus—much like train rides in India and Burma, in Ecuador, you
really never know what’s being peddled your way on the ride home. From
children and young adults selling pedacitos (pieces) of candy and mints
(25 cents for three! 50 cents for a half dozen!) to the DVD guy who hops on and
proceeds to—with great flourish—re-enact the most dramatic moments of the
movies he hawks. Never mind that the DVD in his hand is Finding Nemo
(his fishy lips are very enticing!) or yet another movie about the White House
under siege (I could have sworn those gunshot effects were real!), he bounds up
and down the aisles switching between a deadpan monotone reciting the titles
and prices to an animated announcer’s voice advising you to delve into the
wondrous world of graphic design, now only un dólar! And if he’s not
panhandling DVDs, he’s toting a foul-smelling green something reminiscent of
Asian tiger balm or days at Grandma’s house in the winter, slathered in Vicks
Vapor Rub “to keep from catchin’ a cold.” As he rubs the slippery salve on his
skin, the odor filling the bus with a pine-smelling menthol aroma, I always
fight not to make eye contact, to keep my eyes averted, whatever my sense of
curiosity because if I don’t, if I even just bat an eyelash in his
direction—done. There’s the sticky green salve hand in my hand, pressing a
packet of not-sure-what into my palm with the expectation of a shiny coin in
exchange. Sigh. It’s always me!
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| Kissing llamas in Papallacta! |
After
what feels like an eternity, I finally return home each day (Purse on person?
Check! Phone still in toaster? Check! Laptop waiting in oven? Check!),
exhausted yet reflective of the day’s events. Every moment, small or large,
from the enervating brain teasers of speaking Spanish all day with colleagues
to the anxious perusal of volumes of papers, papers, and oh yes, more papers to
the nail-biting uncertainty of with whom and when and where lunch will occur
(flashback to teen movies of the eerily familiar glasses-toting tween alone
with an apple, milk carton, and book in the cafeteria) and then the rare chance
encounters when there I am able to meet the very people my team works so hard
to serve.
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| En la oficina (At the office) |
And
then one woman stood, initially equally tearful with joy at the blessing of a
program that provided financial and management skills to build their
businesses. Before long however, smiles gave way to sobs as she admonished the
program administrators for not protecting her, and her business, from the
constant barrage of assaults she experienced on a regular basis as a Colombian
refugee in Ecuador. With audible gasps all around, she lifted her shirt to
reveal several puñaladas (stab wounds) from a recent attack on her small
restaurant by a group of Ecuadorian men who had threatened her and her family
for running their business. You can prepare us, she sobbed that day,
but you can’t protect us. And she was right.
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| El Panecillo en Quito |
