I Just Want to Eat Ice Cream!

 Yesterday we went to a rather interesting “museum.”  El Museo de las Conceptas is actually a cloistered convent with part of it open to the public.  Within the museum, there are various rooms full of religious art and sculpture from 17^th-19^th century.  There was one painting that particularly caught my attention.  It was a painting of a family tree.  At the very top of the tree there is a depiction of God.  On the limbs branching from the trunk are paintings of Spanish kings. 

It was with this painting that the Spanish conquistadors would exploit the indigenous people of Ecuador centuries ago.  Ecuadorians used to “export” many goods to Spain, that is to say, the indigenous people had to sacrifice their own well-being so Spanish citizens could reap the benefits.  In addition to shipping goods overseas, Ecuadorians also had to send a significant amount of their annual wages to the motherland as well.  Spanish generals would justify these laws by showing Ecuadorian citizens this painting.  The Spanish kings were “related” to God, and because of this, they needed to make sacrifices for them. 

As I was hearing this, my eyes began to water, not only out of sadness, but out of shame.  I had learned about the exploitation of these indigenous people before I came here, but now I had actually encountered indigenous people in my daily life, and I have to say, I’m generally annoyed.  Beggars dressed in indigenous garb approach me every day, asking me to help their kids, or their sister, or their brother.   When you’re trying to peacefully take in the quaint scenery of the plazas while eating an ice cream cone, the last thing you want is to be approached by beggars. 

However, after encountering this picture, I was brought back to reality.  I remembered the history I had learned about months before, the oppression that these people had faced for such a long time, and the rights that they still fight for today.  These were a people that were so trusting and kind, and in return they were manipulated and exploited.  How could I let a minor annoyance blind me from the bigger picture?  Poverty is not something that you can just overcome; it’s cyclical and can take generations to escape.  These people were oppressed for so long; they are doing the best with what they have been given.  

Repeat After Me

Repeat After Me

My host parents have family over all the time.  Of all the people who come in and out of the house, we are most frequently visited by their granddaughter Maria Gracia.  She is 4 years old and absolutely adorable. The first day I was at the house, she instantly accepted me as part of the family, and it wasn’t long before I found myself in the middle of a rousing tea party with a few Barbie’s and Winnie the Pooh. 

To get to know me, she asked me a variety of questions, from my favorite color to my Mom’s name (who knew the name JoAnne could be so hysterical)!  She was told by both her grandmother and her father that I don’t speak Spanish very well, so speak very clearly and a little slower than normal.  She obliged for the most part, but there were times where she sensed my confusion and asked me, “Me entiendas?” (Do you understand me?)  She then proceeded to ask me why I sometimes don’t understand Spanish.  When I told her I live in the United States and I speak English like she speaks Spanish, her face lit up in delight.  She started rambling off the array of English words she had learned in school.  I was astounded! She knew how to count to ten, the names of quite a few common nouns (dog, cat, parts of the body), and even a few phrases. 

One phrase eventually became somewhat of a joke between us.  Every time I see her, I ask her, “Maria Gracia, how are you?”  She smiles in response and politely answers, “I’m fine, thank you.”  Our conversation in English usually ends there and we resume in Spanish.  However, the other day when we were eating lunch, I asked Maria Gracia the usual “How are you?” and she cocked her head to the side.  I asked her why she was looking at me like that, and she told me I was saying it wrong!  She then patiently told me to watch her mouth as she asked the question and then repeat after her!  The rest of us instantly fell into a bout of laughter.

 I later had a conversation with her father, who told me that she has one hour of English class EVERY DAY!  My mouth dropped.  She’s only FOUR and is already learning another language!  I wish I had started learning Spanish when I was that young, then maybe I wouldn’t get so frustrated trying to converse with my host family (and I’ve technically been studying Spanish for over 5 years now)! 

English has become a universal language; global businesses use English to communicate with other countries, whether it’s between France and the United States or Japan and Ecuador.  Because of this, Americans have become lazy and don’t see the value in learning another language.  In fact, there is a xenophobic pride in being able to speak English in the United States.  I think about the people back home who are of the attitude, “They’re in my country; they need to speak my language.”  In contrast, if I walk into a little mom & pop store to buy a bag of chips here, the owners are so happy to use their English in front of me.  This concept amazes me!  I’m in YOUR country; I should be expected to speak your language!

The owner of that store saw that I was struggling with my Spanish and wanted to help me.  In the United States, those types of instances are rare, and I find that the people who are sympathetic to foreigners are the ones who have learned a second language.   I think the true value in being able to speak another language is that it makes you more sympathetic to others.  It makes you think beyond yourself.   

You Say Tomato

Last week in Otovalo, a few friends and I went out to a club.  My first impression was that I was at a middle school dance.  As I took in the scene, I noticed everyone was decked out in Aeropostale, Abercrombie, or Hollister.  Because we were the only “gringos” (a term Ecuadorians use to describe Americans), we were deemed exotic and instantly approached by the locals.  We were talking to two men from the area (both dressed in Aeropostale).  One of the first topics covered was our age.  My mouth tactlessly dropped when they told me they were 25.  They were 25 and dressed like an American 7^th grader!  Being receptive to my “nonchalant” surprise, they inquired about my reaction.  The conversation naturally progressed into a conversation of cultural differences.  I told them that in the United States, the common demographic for such name brands are a little younger, more than ten years younger in fact.  They recounted to me that here, these name brands are EVERYTHING.  Here, having Hollister branded across your chest is a sign of wealth and affluence, and is fashionable among people well into their sixties.  I cringed as I imagined my mother (who is in her fifties) dressed from head to toe in something I wore in middle school. 

However, after thinking about it, how could I be so condescending?  I reflected on my three Coach purses at home, the Pandora bracelet I have, and the Movado watch I’ve coveted for the past year.  To me, an American that has outgrown Hollister, Abercrombie, and Aeropostale, wearing these clothes now seemed immature.  But how immature can it really be?  Although I no longer wear these clothes, my tastes have simply evolved into things considered by American culture “more” sophisticated.  Aeropostale to them is my Coach purse.  Neither one is better, just different.     

Both cultures put a stress on brand names and they signify the same thing: money.  However, here, a sweatshirt from Holister can cost you about as much as that Coach purse.  I know that back in the U.S. these clothes are a little pricey, but here they are double the prices back home!  Because these clothes are so costly here, it’s very easy to figure out who has money.  To own that shirt from Aeropostale is a big deal, especially when you think about how much less money the people here have.  To give you an idea, the average schoolteacher here makes about two dollars an hour.  Looking back on that instance at the club, I wish I would’ve had a different attitude; those guys were probably millionaires! 

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...in the Amazon?

This past week we left Quito at 6:00 a.m. to begin our journey to the Oriente.  We stayed at Tiputini Biodiversity Station, a place six hours removed from civilization.  Because of this, we had to devote a whole day to traveling, with quite the progression of transportation: bus to plane to bus to boat to bus to boat.  Finally we had arrived at the small human habitat in the middle of the jungle. 

The knowledgeable Mayer and I  

The following day, the group split up into 3, each led by a guide from the station.  My group was led by an elderly man with a kind face named Mayer.  Remember, we were in the middle of the jungle; clean, paved paths were nonexistent here.  One of my first thoughts was “How is our guide going to hike with us?”  However, it didn’t take me long to see that Mayer was perfectly capable of getting by, having the agility of a man half his age.  Another thing I realized about Mayer fairly quickly; he loved the jungle.  An hour hike was stretched out into three because he stopped us every few paces to inform us about something.  It sounds frustrating, but everything was so informative and with purpose, that before I knew it we had been out on the path for four hours!  

His knowledge was endless, not only in biology but on the history of the area.  He identified plants that have medicinal properties used by the indigenous peoples for centuries.  All of the information he told us seemed like it was from another time. It seems barbaric to run out into the forest, pluck some leaves off of a tree, mash them up and boil them in some tea.  After all, we live in the age of CVS, where neat, coated pills come in a convenient, sanitary bottle.  I was shocked when he told us many of his stories were from personal experience!  He recounted stories from his childhood about his village using the plants from the jungle to cure illness.   As a child, his mother would often make him tea from a certain type of tree bark to remedy his colds.

 

One of the Ninja Turtles.... Michelangelo perhaps? 

After pointing out a tree that’s bark had recently cured his arthritis (proven by his expert hiking ability), we came across a turtle.  Mayer crouched down slowly and picked it up.  After a few minutes of coaxing, all of the turtle’s limbs were extended quite comically.  With a gleam in his eyes, Mayer turned to me, pointed at the turtle and said “Neen-ja…tour-tell.”  At the moment, I burst into laughter at the reference, not thinking anything of it.  Now looking back on it, it’s a little strange that Mayer, the king of indigenous home remedies, would know a reference so deeply rooted in American pop-culture.  It’s amazing to think how small the world has become, that something as trivial as the Ninja Turtles has made its way into the hearts of the people of the jungle.  Mayer is a prime example of how fast culture can spread.  Here is a man who was raised in a household of indigenous remedies, yet the Ninja Turtles are in his repertoire.  In one single generation, the world has shrunk to the point that while a person may seem completely different, you can most likely stumble upon a reference that brings you together.