Funky Cool Ecuador

Home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Back from the equator, back to sea-level, back to toilet paper in the toilet, child labor laws, smooth streets, English, thesis... I'm back. Significantly more broken-hearted, open-hearted, scared, bored, amazed. Mildly envious of guys with cool patterns shaved into their hair.

After three weeks in Ecuador, anticipating return, I miss it. I miss stumbling my way through conversation in Spanish, my conversation partner looking at me quizically. I miss the screaming-hotties, waking around in tight jeans and stilhetto heals on cobblestone streats, a guy with his arm around her waist and a large-and-in-charge look on his face that says, yeah, I'm with her.

The folks at the orphanage, so kind and friendly, in spite of the fact that I'm there for only a few hours and will return home without them, leave them to fend for themselves, as they always have. The kids that curled up on my lap, accepting that I was only there for just now, taking what they could from me- contact, words, attention, not asking for anything more. I wish I could give them more. Blind promises to the nuns of, next time I come, I'll spend more time here. A week? Two months?

Vamos a pintar.
Es pintura azul.
Dame los cubos.
Muy bien!

Gracias, Ecuador, for your gifts to me. I hope that I can/have/will return the favor.

Dancing, Fireworks, and Life

Yesterday was the celebration of Corpus Christi in downtown Cuenca. Being unavoidably of the gringa-persuasion, I am forever in awe of the safety precautions (or lack thereof) here in Ecuador. (As an example of my obvious identity as an "extranjera" in this country, while walking down the street the other day, a guy rolled down the window of his moving car and yelled at me, "Te quiero, Blancita!" Awesome.) This particular celebration, like so many others down by the equator, was carried out with a mix of exhilaration, terror, and everyone checking to make sure they didn't have any bald spots from falling fire crackers. It was beautiful. Being of the generally non-religious persuasion (along with that of the "gringa" and the "extranjera"), I don't know much about Corpus Christi. There were a significant amount of burning castles constructed of bamboo and fireworks, which I'm told represent the body of Christ. "Joan of Arc meets the Bible meets Burning Man" I think is the official tag-line for the holiday.

I, along with my eleven-year-old brother, were sitting close to the soon-to-be-lit "castillo." Having already experienced a number of exploding sparkling wheezing screaming paper-mâché virgin Marys and vacas locas, we knew that we would be receiving a full body-mind-spirit-see-your-death kind of show if we stayed put. My brother wisely suggested that we should move farther away from the castillo before we lost our eyebrows. I, being one of those fearless individuals who are recklessly unconcerned with their eyebrows, chose to remain. Several minutes later, I found myself joined by a mother, father, and son (who was probably about the same age as Graham). Looking uncertainly at the already sparking castillo, the son cautioned, "Pienso que deberiamos ser mas lejos del castillo."

While he was ignored by his parents, I couldn't help laughing to myself at hearing this for the second time in minutes. Words spoken by two boys who probably grew up in different countries, and who certainly grew up speaking different languages. We are so close, really, I thought. We all want to be close to the fireworks, but then pull back in fear, which we mask with a pretense of responsibility and concern for what we should do. Not wanting to be found out, called a coward, or seen as anything other than a thrill-seeking adventurer, we cower behind those who ignore pleas to move away from the heat. But as the fireworks begin, we forget our fear and melt into the smoke, excitement, and falling stars, and for a few minutes, our imagination lives on the outside of our minds and we hardly remember to check to see if the sparks have burnt any holes in our clothes.