Censo

This morning in Ecuador everyone who has a house is at home. 

No cars, no buses, no engine breaks or plumes of black smoke.  It's so quiet I can hear the chickens across the river clucking and crowing.  It's so quiet it almost feels like home. 

Today is the national census.  To facilitate a successful census, the government has mandated a day at home, sans alcohol (ley seca, or "dry law").  I am an enthusiastic supporter of this day of forced stillness.  It's like a snow day without snow.  It's like Christmas: the gift is found in the silence. 

I just ate with my two normal-sized cups of coffee (drunk from a mug given to me by a thoughtful visitor) a biscotti (sent in the mail from a wonderful woman in South Dakota).  This morning I feel somehow close to everything I love.  All it took was a little bit of quiet.



Nina.




Puesta del sol (sunset).  Last week sometime.

 



Bananas

fairtraderesource.org

Personally, I’ve never liked them.  My mother used to call the brown spots in the middle “monkeys.”  (Those monkeys were really gross, Mom.) 

I seem to remember that there were always bananas in our kitchen, and most of the time they overstayed their welcome.  After day number x of their residency on our counter, they’d start to turn, morphing into something worse than their originally offensive form, slowly bruising and browning their way to their next destination: our freezer.  Those bananas that were unfortunate enough to make it to this stage were exiled to the freezer, set aside with a future as key ingredients in banana bread or my Grandma Brown’s old and nearly perfect banana cake.  Sometimes the freezer was so full of sad and brown bananas that there was little room left for my then-favorite freezer-dwellers: pot pies, tater tots, and Cool Whip.

Sometimes I’ll eat a banana because I know it's good for me.  They have potassium (however, one of my favorite facts is that celery, potatoes, and avocados contain just as much, if not more, potassium per serving than bananas).  They smell nice, like far-away places.  Everyone else seems to like them.  But mostly I limit the time I spend in the presence of bananas. 

In a seemingly unrelated tangent, I’d like to mention the English conversation course I’ve organized for interested professors at the Universidad Tecnica de Cotopaxi.  I offer two different sessions once a week as an opportunity for English instructors to improve their comprehension and oral expression of English through conversation.  My favorite topics thus far have included the national preference to study English over Kichwa (a.k.a. Quechua/Quichua, the ancestral language of the Andes), the internal impression of Ecuador’s external debt, and the apparently corrupt nature of the cacao and banana industries.  This last subject prompted further conversation and research into the issues involved in the production and export of my least favorite fruit.

The professors in my conversation class brought up a few disturbing points regarding the Ecuadorian banana industry: child labor is a pillar of the industry, the economic condition of the entire country exists as a function of the price of exported bananas, and the richest man in Ecuador (Alvaro Noboa) is the high-profile owner of a 3,000-acre banana plantation in Puerto Inca (in the Guayas province of the country).  A similar set of facts defines the country’s (and the world’s) cacao industry.

Rather than restating portions of well-written articles, I will provide links (below) to a few documents that point out some pretty powerful incentives to think before you buy bananas in the United States.  If your bananas are cheap at the local Fred Meyer or Wal-Mart or Safeway, it should come as a shock.  Consider, first of all, the distance that they had to travel before arriving at your local supermarket.  This cost alone should drive up the price of bananas significantly.  Consider next the fact that workers in this industry are often paid a deplorably meager daily wage to facilitate the lowest possible selling prices.  Labor laws regarding wage, working conditions, and the age of employable children are often disregarded and ignored without penalty.  To meet discerning aesthetic standards and to produce a uniform, traditionally appealing crop of fruit, growers rely on the heavy use of harmful, dangerous pesticides and fungicides.  When they travel from the plantation to their country of import, bananas are shipped in large, climate-controlled containers long before they are ripe.  Once at their destination, they are sprayed with a chemical ripening agent (ethylene) and then delivered to supermarkets for sale.  That, to me, does not sound delicious.

The lives of approximately 383,000 Ecuadorians (the 2007 estimate) are directly and intimately linked to the banana industry.  These are the workers of large plantations and smaller, family-run farms.  To learn about the social issues that emerge with regularity from the corruption within the industry, read this
article (it's worth your time): Science Creative Quarterly

On November 25 (Thanksgiving Day…delicious), local newspapers reported that the Ecuadorian banana laws have been reformed and revitalized in an attempt to minimize illegal production of one of the country’s most important exports.  By mandating fixed prices for produce and requiring all growers to register with the Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock and Fisheries, the government hopes to employ effective regulation of the industry:

Banana law for 2011 will regularize illegal banana plantations, establish fixed prices for the entire year, strengthen penalties for exporters who fail to pay the official price of the box of the fruit, among other actions.

Richard Salazar, Banana Unit** director from the Agriculture, Livestock and Fisheries Ministry (Magap), said yesterday that the reforms will help the industry because “there are currently 110 000 hectares of illegal banana plantations, which represent 115 million cases per year and it means that half of fruit exports is not legalized.”  (Ecuador Times, 25 Nov. 2010)

** It should be noted that director of the "Banana Unit" is a pretty rad title.  You're lucky Mr. Salazar.  Lucky.

We’ll see. 

In the meantime, friends and family, I urge you to read a few of these articles and learn where your bananas are coming from.  There’s a really strong chance they’re coming straight from Ecuador.  If not, very poor, very tired families in Colombia, Costa Rica, or Honduras are to thank.  Consider searching out Fair Trade certified bananas.  If you do, you can rest assured that the workers who cultivated and harvested the fruit were paid a fair salary, worked reasonable hours, and were not under the age of 14.  They were not needlessly exposed to dangerous chemicals or otherwise hazardous substances.  Their exporters paid a fair price for the product, and their country’s economy was bolstered legally and legitimately. 

And if you do continue to purchase bananas of questionable or condemnable origin, please eat them all up and don’t let them grow nasty and brown on your kitchen counter.  Quietly thank the people who made them available to you, and consider a better course of action for the future.  And if they do happen to turn brown before you can eat them, please make delicious banana bread or cake and share it with someone you love.   

Further reading on the topic:

• New York Times article, 2002
• "Blood on the Bananas"
• Global Exchange
• Fair Trade USA
• Fair Trade Labeling Organization (FLO)
• USLEAP

Friday in Latacunga

This morning I slept in. 


The rain has been incessant here since Monday, but this morning brought a change in weather.  I was finally able to do laundry and, looking around at the clotheslines in my neighbors' yards, it seems everyone had been waiting for this break in the precipitation. 


I have been slow to register my passport with the regional government, so I went for a walk just now to visit the migration office.  It almost felt like fall, the air smelled cleaner than usual and the equatorial sun was obscured by just enough cloud cover to keep it from punishing pedestrians with its usual strength.  People were out in the streets (rather than hunkered in their storefronts or scowling under awnings) and the Saturday market seemed to have arrived a day early.  People never smile at me here, but today was different.  Usually (and of course there are exceptions) when I make eye contact with someone on the sidewalk, my ever-weakening smile is met with the same cold expression: unimpressed and uninterested.  The men usually (and again, there are exceptions) offer only crude whistles and smirks that have admittedly worn down my nerves over the past few weeks.  Today, though, smiles were returned and morning saludos were exchanged. 


When I arrived at the migration office, they read my documents, scrutinized my photos, and asked some questions that I could not answer.  The nice gentleman then told me that he couldn't do anything with my papers today (although he most certainly could have), and that I should go enjoy my weekend and come back next week.  On any other day, this would have been annoying.   But today, as with everything else, it was different. 


I walked down streets I had thus far ignored, finding little gems that I didn't know existed.  There is one street near my apartment that houses only floral shops.  Old ladies cut and arrange roses for crazy cheap prices, and the whole street smells of fresh flowers.  The cemetery, located at the end of this row of flower shops, is surprisingly clean, tranquil, and quiet.  With the sun coming through the palm trees and the street noise dampened by the cemetery walls, it felt like a strangely welcoming retreat from the city.  I found pretty courtyard restaurants hidden behind the trashy Chinese merchandise stores that I had never before bothered to look past.  People milled slowly in the parks which normally seem either frantic or deserted.  And on my way home, walking under make-shift scaffolding and past women selling meals I'll probably never buy, I felt for maybe the first time okay with my role in this place.  I won't ever fit in, I won't ever disappear.  But with each week that passes, more people know my name and recognize my face.  Each week I learn an answer to a question that the previous week had robbed me of sleep.  And each week I remember at least a few things that I love about my home, things this place will likely never know, and my emotions vacillate between gratitude, guilt, and confusion. 


One of my students, a professor of English at the university, mentioned in our conversation class something that I feel should be relayed here.  For reasons such as greed, exploitation, and internal corruption, the country of Ecuador may never have the opportunity to realize its potential as an independent and productive nation.  The Ecuadorian people may forever be trapped by lies that tell them they do not have the technology or resources to be better.  And yet these people are able to find sustaining joy in the fact that most of their families live under the same roof, that they can grow their own food, and that most of their children are able to attend school.  This student of mine expressed sympathy for those Americans, Europeans, and Canadians who experience daily stress and misery in spite of the fact that they have everything.  She wonders why people who have so much seek refuge in substance addiction, medicines, or suicide.  She expressed pity for those people who, having never known true desperation, have to manufacture their problems.  Although these notions can be argued and explained away, her comments deserve reflection.  It's an interesting set of ideas based in a perspective very different from my own.


In short, this morning was a good one.  And, as much as I find myself missing people, dogs, and things back home, Latacunga is fine by me for a little while longer.

Tena

Rio Jatunyacu beneath stormy skies.

Tom Murphy and I traveled to Tena (on the western edge of the Amazon Basin) last Thursday. 

 Among the highlights:

• bug bites to rival any August Alaskan mosquito attack
• muggy, rainy heat that could only be countered by the diligent consumption of cold frosties
• discovery a Catalan-owned restaurant in town, menu complete with Spanish tortilla and gambas!
• paddling in warm water!
• riverside locals who gasp and then cheer after each successful (or unsuccessful) combat roll
• naked children with homemade water wings who may or may not have had better lines than us in the rapids

Tena in the evening.

I have included a link below to a video of mediocre quality, composed of bits from our two days on the Jatunyacu River, filmed with my amazing new camcorder.  Discerning viewers may be confused by the obvious lack of whitewater in the video.  Although the rapids were fun and big and, at times, punishing, the novelty of our days on this river was not found in the whitewater but in the other elements: the people, the vegetation, the birds, and the rain.  So please (this is a disclaimer), do not watch this video if your only hope is to see me swim.   

Follow this link:  Tom & Chandra's Jatunyacu Video



Graffiti in Banos

On the way back from Tena, which is about five and a half hours by bus from Latacunga, we stopped for a night in Banos.  Banos (like "baths") is perhaps the most tourist-friendly town in all of Ecuador.  It is settled in an Andean valley and thrives in the shadow of Tungurahua, a (very) active volcano.  Ecuadorians flock to Banos to go swimming in the public baths, but our visit was too short to enjoy the murky, mineral-dense water.  Early in the morning on Monday, before rushing to catch a bus back to Latacunga, we walked up a muddy trail to the ridge above the town.  Climbing up through (and emerging above) a cloud, we were rewarded with an amazing view. 

Banos, as seen from the Bellavista trail.



Cotopaxi

In response to the Mama Negra's attempt to beg divine protection from the next eruption of Cotopaxi, I thought to include some links to information regarding the volcano. 

• Go to this NASA Earth Observatory page for a quick explanation of the history and scale of the volcano. 
• See this site for good photos and a brief description of the volcano.
• The Geophysical Institute of the EPN (National Polytechnic School) here in Ecuador has a good site (in Spanish) with weekly reports of seismic/volcanic activity for all the country's volcanoes. 

Mama Negra

"Mama Negra" 2010: Dr. Roberto Sandoval

Black face and sugarcane alcohol

Yesterday, Saturday, we indulged in what is perhaps Latacunga's most famous and exciting event: the Mama Negra (Black Mother) festival.  At 7:30 am, Amanda (visiting from Riobamba) and I made our way to the opening ceremonies.  Two hours of poetry, prayer, and introductions/recognition of prominent members of Latacungan society welcomed in the crowds.  Slowly, as the fireworks roused the town and summoned its citizens to the southern part of the city, people filled the streets.  Kim, Lindsay, Julia, and our new friend Ivan arrived from Quito just in time for mimosas (my own North American contribution to the morning) and a.m. Pilseners.  The parade began with tremendous spirit and finished, many hours later, with the same vigor and animation. 

Huacos, or witches, with their instruments of "cleansing"

Bands and groups of dancers from the region's universities, schools, and institutions followed one another through the streets of Latacunga.  From our fortunate viewpoint near the ceremonial grandstand, we were able to see the whole parade in all its strange glory.  Every once in a while, men dressed as huacos (witches) would pull someone from the crowd into the street for "cleansing."  This ritual involved dancing around the chosen spectator with painted sticks, chanting the names of the major Ecuadorian volcanoes, and finalizing the deal by dousing him/her with sugarcane alcohol sprayed from their mouths.  We were all lucky enough to experience this at least two times each. 

Kim receives her cleansing.

This kind gentleman finishes the cleansing by spitting alcohol all over Kim's back. 

 


These men, called ashangueros, carried entire roast pigs on their backs.  In addition to the pig carcass, these impressive athletes danced their way through the streets with roast cuy (guinea pigs), full bottles of booze, boxes of ciggies, and other party favors affixed to their bodies.



The Mama Negra's roots are varied and at times seemingly unrelated.  Traditionally, the celebration is something of an offering to the Virgen de la Mercedes (Virgin of Mercy) so that she might continue to protect the townspeople from another violent and doubtlessly catastrophic eruption of Volcan Cotopaxi.  The festival also incorporates elements related to the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, indigenous Andean culture, and the African presence in South America.  Important men from the community are chosen to play the prestigious roles of the main characters of the event: El Angel de la Estrella, El Rey Moro, and of course La Mama Negra.  Other notable characters: (many) men dressed as women, two moss-covered creatures in full face paint, and gorillas on leashes. 

El Angel de la Estrella  (Angel of the Star)

El Rey Moro  (The Moorish King)

Below are some photos of me and the members of Team Fulbright who were able to attend the festivities.  It should be noted that the Latacungan population can win any party.  The volume of liquor consumed yesterday and the enthusiasm with which it was passed from person to person, the hours spent schwilling in the oppressive highland sun, and the speed with which the municipality cleaned up the mess was truly impressive.  Bravo, team.  And viva Latacunga.  Viva la Mama Negra.

Chandra, Kim, and Lindsay.  The paper visors were a nice touch.

First television interview of the day.



Television interview number two of the day.  Uncomfortable.



Adorable Shannon and fascinating new Ecuadorian friend Ivan.



Mucha gente.



Cuyes

National delicacy: cuy, or guinea pig. 

I neglected to put these photos up earlier.  The first day I visited Latacunga, I met a wonderful man who raises guinea pigs.  He had, at the time of our meeting, around 200 cuyes.  He sells them to people who want to eat them.  And he occasionally, on days when celebration is in order, eats them himself.

Puentes

Canoa, in the Manabi province of Ecuador (Pacific coast)



Puente = bridge.  I remember this from my time in Spain:  If there is a holiday on a Thursday, for example, and maybe another holiday on the following Tuesday, the government will declare a puente, or long weekend.  This past weekend, Ecuador enjoyed a series of dias feriados (Day of the Dead, Cuenca's Independence Day, etc.).  Some lovely new Quito-based girlfriends were kind enough to invite me on their road trip to the coast.

Our destination was Canoa, a "sleepy village with a heart of gold" (according to Lonely Planet, a source whose printed bits of guidance are often suspiciously flawed).  The noise emitted by competing sound systems from the myriad seaside dance "clubs" (discotecas y salsotecas) was relentless, and the bass was often strong enough to set off car alarms.  [A side note: I've thought many times in the past month that a better name for this blog might be "No One Cares About Your Car Alarm."]  Restful sleep was hard to come by, there was no sunshine or heat to speak of, and the beach was disappointingly just as dirty as the streets of Latacunga.  On the other hand, it was absolutely dreamy to escape to sea level, breathe air rich with oxygen, swim in the perfectly tepid equatorial Pacific, and eat fresh seafood. 

Locals claim that Canoa is on most weekends quiet with few visiting tourists.  The aggressive bass, the hordes of Ecuadorian vacationers, and the piles of broken glass are characteristic of a feriado weekend.  The second curious proclamation is that "beach season," with it's warm weather and sunny skies, begins next weekend.  I am not convinced of either assertion.

The beach is phenomenal: grayish sand battered by persistent waves, tall and apparently inaccessible cliffs at one end, the strangely upscale town of Bahia de Caraques at the other.  The water is clean and the air smells good.  The conversation was beyond pleasant, the food delectable, and the car ride (thankfully NOT a bus ride) was beautiful. 

The most memorable moment of the vacation most certainly was the following:

Our hotel bar housed a prominent sign that promoted beach maintenance by offering a free cocktail for every bag of trash gathered by guests.  On our first walk toward the cliffs, we took a large trash bag with us.  Despite awareness of the fact that our efforts in trash collection would attract unwanted stares and quizzical comments from the Ecuadorians, we began to pick up garbage (plastic cocktail cups, food containers, kitchen appliances, etc.).  The steady stream of comments and consistent stares were at first discouraging, but then the most beautiful thing happened: a girl, probably thirteen years old, brought a wad of paper/plastic/something to my open bag and dropped it in without a word.  And she wasn't the last to do so.  Our enthusiastic and laughable team effort to remove junk from the Canoa beach was unexpectedly supported by sporadic contributions from individual Ecuadorians.  This made my heart pound.



Trash collection.  So American (foreign).

Below are some more photos of our little trip.  Anne (fellow Fulbrighter), Mandy and Eva (human rights lawyers) are stellar travel partners.  These girls work/volunteer for an NGO in Quito that works to protect the rights of refugees and women in the country.  They are smart and engaging and find humor in things that I, too, think are funny. 

Ice cream and black shirts in Bahia de Caraques.

Rental wind/sun/rain shelters.



Girls.



Girls.  In hammocks this time.