Seeing the light

One of the coolest and most rewarding experiences I have had lately was helping my friend Roger distribute prescription glasses in the small mountain village of Garcia Moreno. A volunteer medical brigade of eye doctors from the U.S. had visited the community previously to provide eye exams. They returned to the states to process the prescriptions then sent the glasses to Roger, who was responsible for getting them to their new owners. When we pulled into town around 10:30 a.m. we were mobbed with people. It felt like being surrounded by paparazzi! An old woman said she had been waiting since dawn for us to come. Feeling a little overwhelmed and pressed for time since we were delayed by our eating extravaganza in Las Lajas (see previous post ), we tried to get organized as quickly as we could. Unable to get into the community building, we set up shop on the steps overlooking the concrete fútbol field. Working off a handwritten list, we divided the men and women into two groups and then laid out the glasses in clear plastic bags on the steps. Frank and I coordinated with the women while Jer and Roger worked with the men. One by one we called the women’s name from the list and matched her with her new glasses. It was like each one won the lottery. The women hugged and kissed me and said “God bless you” over and over. I felt totally undeserving of their genuine heartfelt appreciation. I was just helping to pass the glasses out and I could not take credit for any of the other goodness…a fact I tried to explain but this didn’t seem to matter to them. They were just sooo happy. Some of the oldest women had tears in their eyes as they looked out through the lenses to see the world more clearly for their first time decades. One of them remarked that they never knew what that sign they pointed to off in the distance said. Others joked that they may not like their husbands so much now that they can actually see them clearly.
Roger and one of the men from Garcia Moreno with his new glasses.

As I said, it was one of the most rewarding things I have done here, even if I did very little to deserve the appreciation of the people. It definitely reminded all of us how much we take for granted our good optical , dental AND medical care. Yeah, yeah, the U.S. healthcare system is really screwed up, but it is hard to complain about the quality of care and the ease of access to doctors (meaning no half-day trips on a bumpy bus just to get to a city). And you don't need new glasses to see that.

web

One of my recent activities has been helping the Waorani Women's Association create a webpage. We have funds to hire a professional designer (porque no sé nada de esto) and so I am just sort of shepherding the process (getting text and photos ready, etc.) I just googled "artesanía Waorani" to see what, if anything, was already out there and came across this site. Last year I had submitted a brief written report and some of my photos to Save America's Forests, who helped finance one of our workshops...but never realized they posted it on their website!

Las Lajas--now with photos

Wow…I have been really recalcitrant on my blog entries. Once I get so far behind, it makes it even that much harder to motivate myself to get caught up. Here are a few highlights of the cool things and/or interesting things I have done the last few weeks:

Visit from Frank. Our friend Frank came from Northwest Ohio to Ecuador for a visit. He came bringing gifts of joy including Guiness and two GPS units for Jer’s project, and granola bars and Take 5 bars for me. Yay! Together we did some exploring around Puyo. We hiked to the Hola Vida waterfall (see previously posted photos) and took another hike down to the Pastaza River. I translated for him on a visit to the local orchid garden/park. Over a 3-day weekend we went up to Otavalo and checked out the market. There we helped him bargain for some cool gifts including alpaca blankets, cotton hammocks, tablecloths and sweaters.

Visit to Las Lajas. From Otovalo, we traveled on a crowded slow-moving bus to Las Lajas, a small community of about 400 people located high in the mountains where our friend and fellow Ohioan, Roger was doing some work. Our host, Norman, opened his house to us and invited us to dinner with some friends in a small brick house that was built with support from the Ecuadorian government. We had a fascinating conversation about farming practices, global warming and geography over a hearty and tasty Sierran meal of chicken, potatoes and rice. Most of the families in the community have small plots of land where they graze cows or grow potatoes and other vegetables. Everything we ate was likely grown or raised within a few hundred meter radius of the house. In addition to sharing our knowledge about live fences, windbreaks and nitrogen fixing cover crops, we also learned a lot from them. For example, we learned that about six years ago a Russian tycoon purchased an entire valley for $10 a HECTARE. There, with financing from the Russian government, he installed irrigation and constructed a 70 hectare greenhouse for growing roses. Approximately 1000 Ecuadorians work in the greenhouse earning $6 per day to spray, prune, cut, and package roses. The roses are then shipped to Quito where they are flown in jumbo jets to Russia where they sell for up to $5 a stem. We of course had lots of questions about their working conditions, the use of pesticides, recent strikes, etc. We also asked if we could buy land for $10 a hectare. Evidently the price has gone up a bit.

Las Lajas happened to be celebrating their annual festival in honor of their patron saint. Not unlike many other small towns in Ecuador, Las Lajas honors said saint by having a mass followed by lots of drinking, dancing and fireworks. But mostly drinking. In the community house the church ladies were serving up and selling “hervida” which was basically moonshine mixed with hot water, lemon, sugar and spices. Norman bought a bottle for the 5 of us to share. It was $1. Whether it was the temperature of the drink or the booze itself, the hervida did help to warm us up as we watched the most bizarre “firework” display I have ever witnessed. The town had spent weeks and untold amounts of money building a massive tower of sequentially lighting pyrotechnics. The words escape me on how to describe this contraption. Think of the game Mousetrap…now envision it made of strictly bamboo, masking tape and superpowered sparklers. And imagine it three stories tall. Now picture lighting one part of it, and as it spins, it sets off several other huge sparkler in the shape of an animal, which when fully lit then sets off a line of fireworks on the second level. It was surreal. The fact that no one lost an eye, finger or entire hand or limb is no small miracle. This was probably helped by the fact that about 22 seconds after lighting the contraption, it started to rain. Everyone crammed into the doorway to the community house seeking shelter from the rain to watch. Because we are tall, we could stand near the back of the crowd and see over most people’s heads. But as Frank moved forward for a photo moment his 6’4” frame topped by a cowboy had blocked a few people’s lines of sight. It was quite a sight. After the pyrotechnics, everyone’s attention was directed to center stage where a series of musical acts performed. One of the leading acts was a pleasantly plump woman with big 80’s bangs and super-tight clothes topped with an oversized sombrero who seductively sang Mexican rancheras. The men in the room were mesmerized and cat called to her in between songs and costume changes, which was basically taking off one layer after another, as the costume got skimpier and skimpier. I sat with some of our new friends on a chair with a thick wool blanket spread across our laps. Norman came around periodically to offer more hervida and say how happy he was to have new friends. As the night wore on and the acts got increasingly worse (or better, depending on your perspective) people started getting really sloppy drunk. They had to stop the show at one point as some superdrunk guy kept wandering onstage to pry the microphone away from the performer to do karaoke. The guys were getting tired of being peer pressured to keep up with the locals’ drinking, so we eventually decided to call it a night and head back to crash on Norman’s cold concrete floor. They guys had sleeping bags and I curled into fetal position on the very short pleather loveseat. Thank god for the alpaca blankets we just bought or I would have been a popsicle. I got up to go to the bathroom (er, yard, as there was no bathroom) around 4 a.m. and the bass was still thumping from the party up the hill. Here, here to the patron saint!

Norman had already finished milking his cows by the time we got up. Around 8:30 we walked together to his neighbor’s house for breakfast. As we walked up the hill, we passed a number of villagers who continued to party…or had passed out en route home. After we ate our hardboiled eggs, bread with homemade cheese and instant coffee, our hosts expressed deep disappointment that we were planning to leave so soon. They said they had already started making lunch for us. Feeling guilty for the effort they went to cook for us, yet time pressed to get to the neighboring town for another event, we asked if we could maybe eat lunch early or take it with us. Then, in some mis-communication or poor translation, we found ourselves being served plates mounded with fritada (fried pork) and mote (hominy)…just 15 minutes after finishing our breakfast. We all quietly moaned as we eyed the enormous amount of food we were being essentially forcefed. Okay, not really, but it would be rude to refuse. So we ate as much as we could physically be forced down. Yes, we ate breakfast and lunch within the period of 45 minutes. We waddled out of the house then bade a grateful farewell to our new friends and headed down the road to the next town.

compost

So, our attempts at a mini container garden have been officially dashed. Smashed, to be exact. Lacking a piece of dirt to grow our own food, we started a humble compost pile on the flat concrete roof of our apartment building. We had started some seeds with mixed success. We simply get too much rain (on the order of 5 meters per year). And after our landlord asked us about our “trash pile” on the roof, we read between the lines and decided that it was time to officially abort our veggie mission…and dismantle our compost box. Today was the day to dismantle our failed gardening project. Jer marched upstairs and started scooping the compost into a rice bag. He had half of the bag filled when an ant attacked him and stung him on the hand. Ticked off, he came back down to the apartment, grabbed the rubber gloves and asked for my help. I grabbed my garden gloves and followed him upstairs. “I’ve decided I’m just going to launch it off the roof,” he said. “Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. “Yep. Grab the other end of the box.” So, after securing that the coast was clear and then on the count of three, we launched the heavy (jer says 50 pounds, but it felt like more) wooden box filled with compost, partially decomposed papaya peels, pineapple tops and assorted other produce remains (as well as a small army of stinging ants) into the air. The box went flying off the roof of our building and crashed into the adjacent abandoned lot. The box broke apart and the compost scattered over the boards and weeds. Mission accomplished. We looked down and admired our handiwork. We agreed that you actually had to know what you were looking for to even notice it, because it blended into the weeds. Normally I wouldn’t condone such acts, but given how fast things decompose here, it is unlikely anyone would even notice. Who knew launching compost could be so satisfying!

Quehueri'ono part IV...the finale

So most of my blog stalkers have undoubtedly given up on me by now…I don’t blame you…I mean, the cruelty of it all. Making you wait weeks for one lousy story…the nerve! While I cannot promise it will be worth the drive to Richmond (sorry for oblique slogan known to few outside a 150 mile radius of Fort Wayne Indiana) I do promise to conclude my recollections of this trip so that I can eventually move on to tell the tale of other interesting misadventures.

Around mid-morning on the second day of the handicraft workshop, my compañero, Antonio and a small group of women from the stranded group walked into the classroom, totally drenched in sweat. It turns out that because of the perpetual shortage of canoes, they had ended up walking to the community. At some time around noon, the last of the group and the food supply showed up. The group looked hot, haggard, and hostile. And rightly so. Most of them had left Puyo on Tuesday morning…and were just now getting to the community on Friday afternoon. Quite a commute. Those that came by canoe loaded down with the food and supplies actually arrived after the walkers because the river was so low and the canoe advanced at a snails pace as it maneuvered around the many logs and tree limbs. Their trip was really quite ridiculous. It turns out they had spent the entire day Wednesday by the bridge waiting for canoes. When none came, they camped on the side of the road for a second consecutive night. On Thursday two canoes came and transported them only ¾ of the way to Quehueri’ono…(as far as the river level and the daylight hours would allow) and then they spent the night on a sand bar on the side of the river. Another half day of travel later, they finally arrived at their final destination. Only one of the two canoes made the final trip to the community; this displaced a subgroup of people who were then forced to walk. Incredibly, some of them had walked the entire way from the bridge to the community.

Meanwhile, back at camp, I had recruited a couple ladies to help me with lunch duty. We were at least an hour into the process when the food supply arrived. We incorporated lentils and the produce that hadn’t gone bad en route into the menu…but somehow this was unsatisfactory to my counterpart. After 2.5 hours around a wood fire in the hot, mid-day equatorial sun I was not in the mood to hear critiques about what we prepared. Everyone was edgy. I was annoyed. She was frustrated. But I guess I would be cranky, too, after such a ludicrously long trip. Nonetheless, the chemistry of the group changed from a happy-go-lucky small baby boat contingent …to a mass of hungry, tired, moody mujeres.

The final day of the workshop actually went fairly smoothly. I gave a presentation which included a report on the store’s sales, an explanation of my mini-census of the artisans (i.e. tracking who knows how to make each type of handicrafts sold), the importance of quality and the need to produce handicrafts pictured in our new catalog, and finally, a brief explanation of the webpage the Waorani Women’s Association will be launching. The latter topic required me to be extremely creative considering my audience was women who live in jungle communities largely without electricity.

In between sessions, talk turned to just how exactly we were going to get out of the community. There was only going to be one canoe available on the day we planned to leave. It would fit 12 people. There were over 40 of us. Uh…yeah…. THAT will be interesting…But we had received word that a group of tour operators from Great Britain would be coming in to check out the new Eco-Lodge. Smelling a potential sales opportunity, I helped the women prepare their handicrafts for sale to the tourists. It was somewhat improvised but in the end adequate effort. I had large sheets of butcher paper that we use to wrap up the handicrafts to transport back to Puyo. On each sheet I wrote the artisans name and then organized their wares on top of it. The papers stretched around the entire room. The women changed into their traditional dress, painted their faces, donned their feather crowns and continued weaving while we waited for the distinguished guests. Meanwhile, some of us had packed up our stuff in hopes that we could catch a ride on the plane that would be transporting the tourists in and otherwise flying back empty. But the sky was gray and a rain shower had passed through (and sent my stomach sinking with despair I wouldn’t make it out on the plane).

Somehow all our luck wasn’t bad. We soon heard “Evo, evo, evo” the Waorani word for airplane. The plane touched down on the grass landing strip. It happened to be a spacious 5 passenger plane AND it turned out that the plane would be returning with another load of passengers immediately after dropping of the first load. Score! Five women jumped into the plane and took off down the grass runway. This landing strip happened to have the skeleton of a plane that had crashed there years ago. Incidentally, it was the plane that my counterpart had been a passenger in. She and the others onboard miraculously escaped with minor injuries. Even with this knowledge, the sight of the wreckage was a little unsettling.

While the plane was shuttling the first load of passengers back to the Shell airport, I was helping to translate for the British women tour operators who were checking out the wares. I was able to explain to them the entire process of making the handicrafts, which added value to their experience and in the end I think it helped to encourage them to buy more items. They seemed like very hip, interesting people. I would have liked to have talked with them more…but our conversation was cut short by the sound of the plane returning.

As the second batch of tourists unloaded their backpacks we pushed past to quickly load ours onto the bright yellow plane. Because I was the tallest passenger by a good 8 inches, I got to sit in the co-pilot seat. In no time at all we were taxiing back down the runway and then were up, up and away. The view below was stunning. I was totally mesmerized by the sea of green below…until we flew into a very dark rain cloud. Water started bubbling around the area where the windshield meets the dashboard of the plane… hummm… that didn´t seem normal. Then all the sudden we hit a patch of turbulence and the plane suddenly and violently bumped downward. One of my compañeras screamed. I grabbed my seat out of sheer terror. We made it through the cloud and touched down in the rain at the airport in Shell without further problems. We chatted with the pilot afterwards and he admitted that he, too, was scared by the bump. Then he confesses, “but that´s mostly because I ´m still jittery from when I wrecked a plane two weeks ago. But I only got scratched.” Hum…that´s comforting. So, all of the sudden I was back in Puyo, just 35 minutes after being deep in the jungle. I think that stark transition is in some ways a more difficult dose of culture shock than going from Ecuador to the States.

Anyway, there you have it my friends, my final chapter of our trip to Quehueri’ono. My apologies again for dragging it out so long. I promise to try to post shorter, more timely posts in the future. The operative word being “try.” Chao for now.