Ups and downs

The ups: Whirling in delight with a pack of children, the remains of a huge fire licking at our faces and heels. Diana shaking and spinning, her shawl flying out to the sides and her feet pumping back and forth in the center of the circle. Little hands in mine, shrieking laughter, Ecuadorian national music blaring, more spinning (señorita, una vuelta), the heat of my face and layers stripped as the cold night air slaps my bare arms and i return to the fray of children, delighting to no end in the beauty of their skirts and embriodered shirts, the complete euphoria of dancing recklessly with all these little bodies, mateo dancing solo with his batman, and the slight fire of earlier drinks allowing me not to care that everyone is watching, and very few adults are dancing. Later after the kids have dispersed and the second bonfire lit, feeling my feet flutter across the cobble stone as my husband and I dance salsa and actually acheive some grace at it, turns feeling smooth and romantic (señorita, una vuelta).
the downs: Having had too much to drink and yelling at my husband for no good reason, my stomach churning the next day as we ride with our boss who (like everyone in ecuador) drives very fast and doesn't slow down for the curves on the way to Quito. The shame when cameron gives me away as being sick from the night before and not from motion sickness. Being doubled over on the side of the highway in the hot sun, traffic whizzing by (señorita, una vuelta), nausea that has persisted for two days, making me grumpy and wonder if alcohol is all there is to it.

La biblioteca

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Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

Week three, and things are hopping. Every day more kids come, and sometimes my heart gets all gooey watching them read on the floor or play on the computer we resurrected for the kids room. My name seems to have officially shifted to señorita, and this cry is heard over and over again as a kid finishes a book and asks for a little picture of a book to put next to his or her photo- marking the accomplishment. Already I have seen specific children arrive at important steps in literacy, and I am so thankful for my training that allows me to celebrate small successes such as the three year old boy who in the past two weeks has learned how to hold a book right side up and read from left to right. He has his favorite book that he quietly reads through, conversing softly with the pictures of baby animals. Then there is my firey buddy Diana, probably ten years old, who doesn't like to listen to me, but emerges and reemerges sticky fingered and tattered many times throughout the days and weeks. She has memorized her favorite book, and can proudly recite the lines when her friends show her the pictures. Cameron says she and I are very much alike, and that is why she is so ornery with me- I am still trying to figure that one out. I found a book of Mexican nursery rhymes yesterday, and between the two of us, we knew the tune to about three of them. We sang them over and over, and eventually the king of the wild boys caught on to the tune of "Chocolate" and created a little dance routine for us complete with vogueing and reggaton style hip gyrating. It was too much. Then I taught them "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes, and it was all over- they were so hyper that most of then had to go run around outside- which was OK! Unlike being in a classroom- they can leave when they get squirelly, and for me this element of choice makes all the difference. My boss Fernando arrived the other day as we were having our end of the day game of futbol, looked at all the kids, and said "Wow, the library is really a success." I hadn't realized until that moment that yes, it really is.

Sick puppy

Yesterday, I knew I needed to do laundry. My favorite sweater was covered with a sticky Gatorade type substance from holding Cooper, my roommate’s puppy, while the vet for the cows at the hacienda tried to squirt it into his mouth. Of course he puked it up (as I knew he would) and finally we began giving him fluids and vitamins subcutaneously. I have never been this involved with an animal’s sickness. Even when my own dog Luna was sick in this manner, when her situation became this grave she went to the vet’s and stayed there until she was out of the red. Here, there is not that option. Between Luis the vet, Luis the owner, and myself, we read the directions for the cows, try to adjust it for a dog, use all of our strength to hold this poor little puppy down who is tired of being messed with, and hope for the best. Today is the first time I feel sure he won’t die. The perrito negro next door died on Monday, his sister was also very sick (but now is fully recovered), and Jota Jota has been missing since Sunday- the day the other dogs got sick. No one knows what it is, but a virus is suspected. Cooper has been vomiting for four days now, and as I looked at the aftermath of another night, I knew action had to be taken. I hauled all of the woven reed mats outside and was shocked by the amount of catzas, these June bug type insects that fly at the windows at night, were dead under them. I hauled the cover off the couch, and flung it into a pile with my dirty clothes. After the stone floor was swept and mopped, I went to find Rosa to tell me how to clean the mats, and how to use the lavendaria a piedra. She looked at me quizzically, as I have access to a normal washing machine, but only when it is not in use by the hacienda. She showed me how to turn the faucets on using a spoon, how they put all the dirty stuff in a tub with soap, and then rub it on the stone as the water comes out to rinse it, and then she left me alone. An hour and a half later, back very sore from bending over, I was done, and everything was hung on the line. Then it started to rain.

The door

We have the nicest house on the block, and although this is because, unlike our neighbors, we are not storing potatos from the last harvest, 50 lb. sacks of rice, massive amounts of corn to feed the chickens and pigs, and guinea pigs to eat on holidays, it makes me feel funny. One of my neighbors works with me in the library, and after not showing up for work for two days, I gave her a little talking to. I am torn between wishing that I hadn't said anything to maintain the pleasant relationship (which isn't so pleasant right now) and lessen this power dynamic between us, and trusting that I can't let someone walk all over me just because i want to be liked, which i do. I want to be liked here, and wish so whole heartedly for a real friendship to emerge out of all these lines we walk. We are fed by the hacienda- sometimes in the home of the cooks, and sometimes on a white linen table cloth in a formal dining room with English speaking guests. We cross the threshold of the door that separates the kitchen from the dining room many times a day, and I sometimes wish we just stayed in the kitchen. Patience, patience. We've only been here two weeks. The kids are our salvation, as they are curious, open, patient with our Spanish and welcome us into their games of futbol any time.

El Dia de los Difuntos

R. came to get us around eleven, and I helped la abuelita strap the basket of bread to her back. I said I could carry it, but she waved me off like I was crazy. We had spent all day Sunday making this bread, different women of the family wandering in and out to help. There was a lot of gossip that flew over my Spanish speaking abilities, although some of it was in Quechua, so I didn’t feel so bad. As the grandma indicated for me what to do and was visibly perturbed by the fact that I didn’t know already, I was reminded of the moment in which after I had asked a million questions about the bread, its purpose, its tradition, she had said something in Quechua to her daughter. R. tsked her, saying “Mami. She is from another country, they have different customs.” Luckily this amused me, as there are moments here when it may have made me cry to think my elder thought I was maleducado. Bread successfully tied to grandma’s back, we began our slow walk to the cemetery. On our way we passed many people coming or going. We turned up a dirt road that was new to me. More people. We saw our favorite tienda owner who greeted us by name and was pleased that Cameron offered her “Un beso de amistaad.” Booths of food lined the entrance to the cemetery, and we ran into a niece buying snails to eat. We passed through the gate, giving money to enter, and followed R. past groups of families around graves- some singing, some hanging out chatting, kids running, some praying, all decorating and cleaning the graves of their ancestors. We arrived at the grave of El abuelo, and the family was all sitting on it eating snails and fruit. Every now and them someone would offer grandpa something to eat. M. tied on a picture of Jesus, a card from one of his grandchildren, other baubles, and flowers were arranged. We took turns cleaning the grass and weeds away, and then people came by to offer hail Marys and Our fathers for the souls of the dead, for which they received bread and a banana. One young man who had a very nice clear voice was asked to pray many times, as D. and R. began listing off the names of the deceased in their family. In this manner I discovered that M., with whom I work at the library, was not the first from her mother. The first daughter died. I wish this holiday existed in the north, for so often when the dead are gone they are gone, and we remember them as a whole in our hearts or not at all. Grandma did not come to lunch. Although she did not appear distraught, el abuelo was her husband, and it has only been five years since he died. I watched her take a short cut through a field, climbing under a fence and jumping a creek. She is a strong woman for 83.

Guinea Pigs (Cuy)

Cameron and I woke late, and exited the house in rubber boots, basket in hand in which to place greens from the garden to go with our eggs. I knew something in me had adjusted when at the sight if my neighbor with a tub on her hip and a bloody steak knife in her fur covered hand, I didn’t balk or even raise an eye. “¿Que están haciendo?” I asked of R. and her daughter D. She showed me the three white skinless guinea pigs they had just killed, and asked if we wanted to go with them to her brother’s house for almuerzo, after the cemetery. I was very happy to be invited to participate in the holiday, and to try cuy for the first time. It was salty and tasty. Luckily I was having a pretty hearty day and did not feel squeamish about watching my friend C. who works in the kitchen at the hacienda, gnaw at the head. She asked me how we remember our dead in our country, and was surprised to hear that there is no special day. One of the younger girls thought this was good- better to live and forget, but I disagreed. C. gave me a little lecture on how I better get on it if I want to have kids because my change of life is coming (menopause?). I promised we would get on it and have four before we left. They told us we better go take some lessons from the guinea pigs that live in R’s house. For desert there was Molado Colorado, made from blueberries gathered from the mountains and traditional herbs. It is a sweet hot liquid in which chunks of fruit, in this case pineapple, are placed. Yum. Soon after we wandered back to our little neck of Zuleta. The roads were still full of people, full of cars, which is unusual. I realized that for the families who are not together anymore, those who have moved to the cities, this is probably a day of return, a day of travel. If we had this holiday, where would we go? To which grave, to which ancestor. They are so spread out, there is no definitive homeland for my family. I entered my house ready to be there, ready for the quiet of my husband and myself. I felt very full and fortunate to have been included.