Padrinos and prancing horses

(story continued from last entry) While Pablo and Andrea met with the community near Isla Corazon, Alex and I did some birding from a pier. We saw lots of really cool waterbirds: beautiful sandpipers, gulls, ibis, herons, and frigatebirds. Isla Corazon (named because from the air it looks like it is shaped like a heart) is home to one of the world’s largest (maybe THE largest, I can’t remember) frigatebird populations. We were all kicking ourselves for not bringing a camera. How could all four of us be sans-camera? Duh! After the PC meeting, the local guides invited us on a canoe tour to the island, which is a mangrove reserve (for those non-bio geeks out there, a mangrove is characterized by trees that can grow in salt water). The canoe ride was great and offered more great birdwatching opportunities. Once on the island, we schlepped through some mud (which is actually quicksand around other parts of the island) and then walked along an elevated boardwalk through the reserve to the sounds of birds singing and clamshells snapping shut. Yet another really amazing experience.

On our way out of town, we stopped to “approve housing” for the Peace Corps volunteer that would serve in the community. It was a small, very basic room (but with a nice, new bathroom) attached to a family’s house. To enter the house, however, we had to trod through thick mud. The constant rain had made a total mess of the dirt roads. It was the kind of mud that would suck your Crocks off your feet and totally destroy the interior detail job on the Peace Corps 4-runner. Oops. Sorry guys. On our way back to Tabuga, we stopped again in Canoa for lunch. Along the way Pablo shared some insightful information: the reason so many Ecua-houses have re-bar sticking out of the roofs is because there was some law that taxed houses under-construction at lower rates than completed houses. Thus, every other Ecuadorian tried to take advantage of the tax loophole by just leaving their houses unfinished…you know, because “we’re still working on the house…saving up for that third and fourth story.” Yeah right. I immediately phoned our friend Roger to share this revelation. We had many a conversations about the half-ass home construction in most areas of the country…how no one seemed to finish what they started…the rebar industry must be raking it in…but now we know. And, as G.I. Joe always said, “knowing is half the battle.”

Once back in Tabuga we got cleaned up and had dinner at the hostal. The Italian dude cooked us a simple but TOTALLY overpriced dinner…one that Shelly couldn’t even eat because she had issues with her stomach. So, she retired early and the rest of us hung out for a while, checked out the archeological dig that was next to the cabins, and racked up more ridiculous quotes (see previous entry).

The next morning we met Andrea and Alex in “downtown” Tabuga so that we could attend the graduation of her god-kids. Tabuga is a small “town”…really a smattering of wood houses and shacks off the Golden Coast highway that runs along the coastline (think Pacific Coast Highway 101…but okay, it is really not like it at all). The town population is around 400 people, at least half of them are under the age of 10. And lots of teen moms. We dropped off our stuff at Andrea’s house…or room, rather. Her room is part of a rustic wood house and has just enough space for a bed, small table, refrigerator and an alcove for her stove. She has two exterior doors, one of which leads to the family’s outdoor bathroom, which has a flushing toilet and a shower (which is really just a hose that is elevated to the height of the shower) that, as Andrea pointed out, the family recently upgraded by covering the structure with bricks. It really makes our place seem like a castle…and confirms her phrase that she is in a “real” Peace Corps site. It is a site that she absolutely loves…and the community absolutely loves her, as was obvious the entire time we were there.

The local school’s graduation ceremony was held in concrete recess/soccer field/common area outside the small school buildings. The two dozen-or so- kids (the equivalent of kindergardeners, 5^th graders and freshman) were seated in super straight rows of white plastic chairs, while the families were proudly seated at small tables around the periphery. Each table had a fancy white lace tablecloth, on which was placed an elaborately decorated cake, candies and soda. As the final preparations were being made, a little boy approached us and asked Jer if he would be his “padrino” or godfather for the ceremony. Godparents are a big deal here (but that may be a catholic thing in general) and they are an integral part of graduation ceremonies everywhere. Jer at first didn’t understand what the kid was saying, and just replied, ‘nice to meet you.’

“Jer, honey, the kid wants you to be his godfather.” “Oh! Really?...uh…ok.”

(to be fair, the Spanish accents on the coast are very different than other parts of the country…and extremely hard to understand! Costenos talk twice as fast as Ecuadorians in other regions… and they “eat their s’s”...meaning they don’t pronounce them…and boy does it make it hard to understand). So, the new godfather accompanies the boy down to the line of kids clinging to their godparents. Shelly and I just sat in the peanut gallery and giggled at all the pageantry. The white robe-clad priest promised us a short ceremony. And, for his part, that was true. (He later went on to openly flirt with me… Which really creeped me out.) But of course, the presentation of the diplomas was proceeded by the kids each reciting a short memorized poems or mother’s day card greeting card-type saying to each parent while handing them a flower. Half of them needed help remembering their lines. And they either screamed into the microphone or talked so softly you couldn’t hear. Either way, you couldn’t really understand what they were saying, so I didn’t even bother trying to translate for Shelly. One poor little boy about 6 years old was so shy and so terrified that once he was standing before the whole group he broke down into tears and heaving sobs. It was so sad and so sweet at the same time. He walked back to his seat with his head down, and then later buried his face in his hands for the rest of the ceremony. So, after the poems, each kid was called up individually yet AGAIN (this time accompanied with their godparent) to be presented with their diploma and be photographed with their cap and gown. The thing is, there was only ONE cap and gown for the whole school. It was physically painful to watch each godparent ceremoniously put the same cap onto their precious one’s head and then struggle to tie and untie and tie again the cape. It took forever. Shelly and I let out a synchronized groan while rolling our eyes and making smartass comments of launching an international relief fund called the “Cap and gown for every kid campaign.” The process dragged on…and on…and on… At some point we ended up hanging out with a group of little boys, around 8 or 9 who were equally bored and sitting near the back with us. We kept taking pictures and short video clips and then showing them to them…a trick that always fascinates kids of all ages and from all areas of the world. And of course our little pal, Gironimo, wanted to take a picture of us, too. So, after giving him the instructions on how to use the camera, he points and shoots…right at our breasts. Yes, he took a picture of our boobs. Shelly and I just laughed and laughed. We weren’t sure if it was intentional or not. So we gave him the benefit of the doubt and I went over the directions again, “remember, look at what is in the screen and aim a little higher this time.” That time he captured us in all our cynically amused glory.

After the ceremony finally finished it was time to eat cake…and lots of it! We were each offered and consumed no less than 5 pieces of cake and 6 glasses of champagne, fake champagne and extra sugary orange soda (We had to do it! After all, it is rude to refuse...although we did give some of it away to some kids that didn’t get any cake at all, poor little things.) One of the families celebrating featured a transvestite: one of the few I’ve seen in Ecuador. Quite surprising for such a small town. Yet there she was partying it up next to grandma and the godfathers. The transvestite seemed to fit right in, as I didn’t really notice any obnoxious gawking or poorly suppressed giggling and rude comments from kids or adults for that matter that you might expect in small town u.s.a…. According to Andrea there are quite a few transvestites in the nearby communities….

That afternoon we checked out the local artesania offerings (kinda cool lamps made out of cool wooden—bamboo-ish bases) and then took a short hike to check out the dry tropical forest reserve where Andrea does some of her work (and where Alex is helping out).

Even later that afternoon, we packed up our bags and then went to the road to wait for a bus to take us to the beach town of Canoa. We had no sooner sat our bags down on the side of the road when a car stopped and we were offered a ride. Well, uh, sure! So, we throw our bags in back and piled in the car. As soon as we take off, we hear Bob Marley on the stereo. What perfect beach-road trip music…we couldn’t have scripted it better ourselves. When Pepe, our kind driver, stopped for gas he refused any money we offered, saying that he was doing it because his heart said he should. Well, okay! Right on! Jer did buy him a bottled water and a 6-pack of Milky Way bars. Aw yeah! The trip was already perfect before our toes even touched the sand. At some point along the way, we slowed down for one of the randomly placed speed bumps (or maybe it was a large pothole, I can’t remember) and we see two guys training a horse. Pepe stops the car and we all stare out the window. This beautiful majestic horse is trotting (actually, it wasn’t trotting, it was some sort of dance step for show horses I think) around and around in a big circle, sweating and snorting. Not missing a beat, Pepe flips through his CD’s and throws in a disc and then turns it up full blast. It was surreal. If I understood Pepe right (again, coastal Spanish…ugh.) it was music specifically used by Colombians when they trained special show horses. He could have been totally blowing smoke up our butts, but the guys training the horse seemed to react positively to the music, if not the random carload of goofy gringo gawkers. Again, it was just one of those very random, but very memorable moments that doesn’t really make sense, but is impressionable nonetheless. Pepe ended up driving us right up to our hotel, helped us unload our stuff and again refused any money. And shook our hands, thanked us for the entertainment, then he was gone.