so close...

So... I ALMOST saw a spectacled bear yesterday. Yes, almost. It is one of a long list of megafauna that I have ALMOST seen... You know that commercial where the girl on the whalewatchng boat is facing the wrong way and the whale breaches...and she misses the whole thing. That was me. Oh well, it was exciting nonetheless just to knowingly be near these awesome animals. The spectacled bear is the only bear species in all of South America; it is endangered, and sightings of them are extremely rare. The near-bear sighting (not to be confused with the Chris Thomas Watkins Road bear sighting) was in theMacipacuna Reserve a cloud forest about 2.5 hours northwest of Quito. I am currently hanging out with the new group of Peace Corp trainees. Of course many of the trainees saw the bear...but I missed it. Damn!

A big shout out to my pals Chris and Sarah who are the proud new parents of Dylan Christopher Thomas. Dylan, may you have many fun years of bear watching with your pops.

wish list

I am often asked, ¨So what do you need us to send you?" I am lucky to have so many generous friends and family who have kindly sent or brought us books, a steady supply of Take 5 candy bars and Reece's Cups, newsclippings and random other things such as bottle brushes, cordless drills, ziplocks and even wine!. Sooooo, If I haven´t thanked you enough already, I want to express a very public THANK YOU! You guys are the best. (You know who you are!)

Sometimes when I am asked what I want to be sent to me, I can´t think of anything to request or I just don´t want to have anyone go postal at the post office and spend more 10 times more postage than the thing you´re sending is worth. But you´ll be happy to hear that I recently thought of something that I really, really, really want: NEW MUSIC!!! Before coming down hereI had been an NPR junkie for many years, so I hadn´t actually purchased any new music, in an embarrasingly long time. So when we loaded up the new iPod before we came, I loaded everything I had: which was all my stuff from college. Don´t get me wrong. I LOVE my music, and it takes me back to my dormroom days at Denison, and my punkrock, ska and "estrogen evening" DJ days at WDUB...but there is only so many times I can listen to Fugazi or Mighty Mighty Bosstones or the Breeders and not go a little batty. And Jer has every last U2 live, bootlegged and extended version album known to man loaded on there. Plus way too much GRUVER-Cowboy Hillbilly Hippy Folk. I love the guys dearly. I love the scene. (I miss you guys terribly!) But it is no secret I don´t love the music.... ánd I just can´t take it anymore!!!! Please would someone please oh please send me something new!!! Puuuuuhhhhhhlllllease? Anything from say, oh this milennium, would be new to our iPod. Got the 90´s covered already. Thanks in advance for your generosity (pity).

adventure in Tepapare

Not much more than a week after returning from the village of Kenaweno, I found myself on another adventure “adentro.” The objective of this trip was quite different than any of the others: I was going to help guide a group of high school students from the U.S.

The prospect of having a little good ole American efficiency and timeliness infused into the trip, I admit, was somewhat appealing. At the same time, I was wary of the fact that they could turn out to be a bunch of whiney, high maintenance gringo—teenagers at that—and then I would be stuck with them. So, I tried to put all those pre-conceived ideas behind me, and just go with the flow. After all, that’s all I really can do once I’m “adentro.”

So, when I got a call telling me that the plan for meeting with my counterpart changed…again…and that I would have to get ready and half a day before we had planned—and using different transport than planned…my go with the flow patience evaporated. I am a planner, dammit! I can’t deal with all these last second changes that make NO sense to me whatsoever! So, I ended up rushing around town buying supplies in the pouring down rain, bidding farewell to my friends that were in town visiting (that I’d hoped to hang out with some more) and tying up loose ends before leaving for a weeklong camping trip. Welcome to my hurry up and wait routine. I am ready to go at the newly established meeting time and place…and of course no one else is. So, rather than sit around and get steamed, I went to use the internet and told them to text me when they are ready to go. So, nearly an hour and a half later, we finally leave town. I was immediately regretting not having my motion sickness bands. The waorani driver of the pickup truck was driving like a maniac on the 3.5 hour drive on mostly bumpy dirt and stone roads. I had a deathgrip on the “oh shit” handle as I stared at the metal wires sticking out of the seat in front of me and cursed the fact that none of the truck’s seatbelts worked.

We got past the oil company control and a group of drunk scary men before finally arriving in the Waorani community of Menepare where I met my counterpart. I asked her why we didn’t meet the students in the city of Tena, as we had planned. She said she couldn’t get to Tena…which still didn’t explain the fact why I couldn’t go to meet them. But…that’s the way the reasoning works—or doesn’t—sometimes. Now they were waiting for us in the town 2 hours away, and we had no way of getting in touch with them. I didn’t have the number for the teacher, only his email. I had emailed him before I left, but there was no way of knowing if he would check his email that day. My counterpart’s cell phone battery had died, so she couldn’t get the number from her phone. Luckily I had written down the place we were supposed to meet them, so we hiked to the one place in the community where, if you held your phone in the right place (picture holding it above your head and shouting up at the phone) you could catch an intermittent one bar signal. I called the two people I knew in Tena. Ironically, they are both named Mary…and they happened to be together at the time I called. After several frantic and static-y calls, they relayed the message to the student group—because of their kindness, the trip was somehow salvaged.

The next morning, after drinking a big bowl of chocula (a warm, thick platano drink that is pretty tasty) and eating some boiled platano and mystery jungle meat, I checked out the fledgling nursery project the women had started a few years a go. It was largely left unattended and un-maintained for a long time and now the women are trying to salvage it as part of a new grant they have with Wildlife Conservation Society. I admit I am conflicted about the fact that they machete’d (yes, that is a verb even though my computer doesn’t want to recognize it…the act of cutting things down with machete) down a LOT of plants and small trees in order to plant the palms that had outgrown their plastic bags… but I guess if the stuff they chopped was of no medicinal or cultural value and the stuff they are going to plant will be used in their handicraft production and for food, I guess that’s okay…or that’s how I am going to arrange it in my head at least.

The 13 students and 3 teachers finally showed up and we loaded all the people, their bags and a ton of supplies into two narrow wooden canoes and started downriver towards the Waorani community of Tepapare. It was on the river that I think I finally started to relax. It was really beautiful…just sitting there taking it all in. The dense forest, the partly cloudy sky, the great bird watching… It was just awesome. The river was low in a few parts, so we had to get out a few times, but other than that it was a smooth trip. I had had the foresight to wrap my foam sleeping cushion into a garbage bag which I then used as a seat cushion. That small creature comfort made the trip that much more pleasant.

The canoe ride to the community lasted about 4 hours or so. As we pulled up to the steep bank, we were greeted by a dozen or so Waorani—mostly kids—who helped us unload our stuff. Tepapare is very small. It has a one room school and four houses around a clearing on the side of the river. Another four houses are located about 10 minutes downriver. I overheard one of the kids say, “this isn’t what I expected at all.” I later asked him what it was he had expected. He said he thought the houses would be more “inside” the jungle. In actuality, most of the houses are in areas cleared of trees and vegetation. I later asked Manuela why that was and she said that they don’t want trees falling on their houses. She explained that one time a tree fell down and killed several members of a family. So, that makes sense I guess. But, I agreed with the kid, the mental picture we have of the Waorani—and any other indigenous group that lives in the rainforest—is that their homes would be enveloped by the jungle. And, well, that is only partly true.

After unloading our gear, we formed a bucket brigade to carry water from the river to the water tank by the outhouse (think regular porcelain toilet in a wood shack that you have to throw water down to flush…and it probably goes straight to the river). Another group went to fetch water for the kitchen from a small clear-running stream. Over the course of the next four days, we would all take turns fetching water, not always an easy task, for it meant walking across some slippery boards and balancing a big bucket or pot on your shoulder without spilling it all over yourself.

One of the more memorable moments of the trip was when one of the girls slipped and got her leg wedged between two boards covering a swampy area with a sinkhole. Quick as lightening and without hesitation, the president of the community, Wente, comes to the rescue and pulls her up, partly falls in himself, than gets both of them out without injury. What makes this story amazing is that Wente only has one leg.

You see, Wente’s right leg was amputated at the hip when he was a kid. As the story goes, he was spearfishing with some other boys and one of them accidentally speared him in the leg. He pulled it out, but also pulled out his ephemeral artery and he almost bled to death. The missionaries got him to a hospital, but the doctors couldn’t save his leg. Now middle aged, Wente uses crutches (the kind that only go up to your hands, not your shoulders) to get around. Our culture might consider him disabled, but I can’t help but wonder if the Waorani even have that word in their language. There is very little that Wente cannot do. For example, he went hiking with us and got up and down the slippery muddy and steep slopes more gracefully with his crutches and barefeet than many of the fit, young American teens with their expensive gear. He is agile, nimble, and well--just amazing.

“I can’t believe I just got rescued by a guy with only one leg,” I heard the girl mutter.

The students were part of a group called Global Quest, a type of study abroad program for High School students. They were just into their second week of a 3 month trip, so their Spanish skills were pretty limited and they (and their stomachs) were still adjusting to being in Ecuador. I was able to answer a lot of their questions, and moreover help them translate their questions for the Waorani (into Spanish at least, as my wao terero proficiency is severely lacking). I ended up sort-of teaching during one of their sessions—I mostly talked about Peace Corps and my experience in working with the Waorani. They asked very thoughtful, intelligent questions. They were particularly interested in the relationship with the Waorani and the oil companies. Some of their questions were hard to answer, actually. I think they perceive this issue as very black and white, and a battle of good versus evil. And, I guess I have come to see the issue—at least as it exists in present day times—as having many shades of gray. A complicated relationship any way you look at it and not easily answered in a 20 second soundbite.

Anyway, as part of this trip I got to participate in many of the student activities, like taking a great hike into the forest to a waterfall. Along the way, the Waorani taught the kids to climb trees, collect chambira palm leaves, weave leaf basket-bags, identify medicinal plants, and to drink water from special vines. It was great fun. One of the Woarani women who was walking with us, barefoot of course, sat down on a log to rest. Coiled up at her feet and camouflaged by the leaf litter was a very poisonous snake. It seemed listless, but the Waorani killed it anyway. The kids of course were fascinated with this.

The other cool wildlife highlight was seeing a tapir. The excitement in seeing it was somewhat diminished when it became apparent that it was basically tame. It wasn’t a pet per se, but it was clearly not afraid of us (although it scared the pee out of me as I came up on it on the dark path from the creek when Manuela insisted we go for a night bath). Nonetheless, it was a really cool animal. They are pretty rare... I think they may even be on the endangered species list.

Other memorable moments from the trip included:
Helping construct a casa tipica, a traditional waorani house. It was actually very easy (especially since the waorani had already collected all the leaves) and pretty fun. A great teamwork exercise.
Target practice. We set up some targets and started throwing spears and shooting darts with the blowgun. The kids were totally into it. I am not very good at either activity. Basically, I suck. We all struggled to handle and hold up the heavy, unwieldy blowgun—it was over 3 meters long! I think I strained some muscles actually trying to do it. It is freakin’ difficult!
Making chicha!!! It was my first experience actually making the fabled jungle juice. There are a couple types of chicha the waorani make. The most common is made of yuca (manioc), but there is also one made with chonta. It happens to be chonta duro season—which is a fruit from a palm that tastes somewhat like a cross between a sweet potato and a squash maybe (or maybe I say that because the inside is the orange color of a sweet potato). It is pretty dry and starchy, but with a pleasant taste (at least I think so). Chonta are hard, the size of a medium sized apple, and very colorful on the outside—usually bright orange-red and yellow. After cooking them, we peeled and mashed them. I was even invited to masticate the chonta…yes, spit is the secret ingredient of any good chicha. It sounds gross, but the enzymes from our saliva help to ferment the chicha, making it into the culturally important drink that it is…
Story telling by the fire. Manuela and her family told some fascinating—albeit hard to follow sometimes—stories about their ancestors and life before contact with the missionaries. They also told us about (and demonstrated) the cultural traditions related to childbirth. The women cut a hole in a hammock and put leaves on the ground below them. They sit in the hammock while gripping onto a rope that is suspended above their head. A midwife or other female family member might help out, but otherwise, the woman is on her own. Manuela’s mother told us she gave birth to Manuela on a trail as she was on a two day walk to another village.
Discovering that one of the little girls in the community had broken her wrist. It was really exasperating, really. The girl told us she had fallen a few days before and it looked to our untrained eyes that she had broken her wrist or arm, as it was crooked and severely bruised. We offered to take her back to the oil company post—or even back to Puyo—to get her to a doctor to get the bone set. As a group, we even offered to pay for it. But the girl didn’t want to go. And, because it is very much a cultural norm for children to make their own decisions and not be forced to do something they don’t want to do, she stayed in the community. It was one of those times when you really have to suppress trying to impose your cultural norms onto theirs. It was just something we had to accept and move on. I still can’t help thinking and worrying about that little girl, though.
Medicine woman. The jungle is a hot and humid place. It is also home to many biting insects. When you go adentro, you have to deal with these elements. The kids evidently didn’t get that memo. They chose the comfort of wearing shorts and sandals during the day, only to discover their legs to be covered with little red dots and big welt-like bites. My attitude is that I can deal with a few days of being uncomfortable wearing long pants, crazy hot rubber boots, and even longsleeved shirts if it means I won’t have to deal with itchy bites for WEEKS afterwards. The kids thought I was crazy for wearing pants in the canoe and while working during the heat of midday. Meanwhile, I thought they were crazy for wearing shorts. Well, we’ll see who is laughing now. One person in the group supposedly had 140 bites on just one leg. They actually counted. Some of them were truly miserable. Manuela felt sorry for them and offered to mix up a medicinal plant concoction to help heal the bites and suppress some of the itching. She had the kids sit down and she rubbed a hot tea-like liquid infused with certain types of leaves all over their ultra-white with red polkadot legs. The rest of the Waorani looked on and laughed (other peoples pain is funny to them, I have noticed).
Trading post. The Waorani brought out some of their handicrafts to sell directly to the students. Most of the students didn’t bring much cash with them (after all, there are no stores in the middle of the jungle) so they offered to trade some of their stuff for the handicrafts. It was a pretty amazing process for me to watch from the periphery. The students are anxious to buy some stuff—particularly the blowguns—and they were going through their clothes and gear trying to figure out what stuff they can live without, what stuff might actually be of use to the Waorani, and how much stuff could or should be worth in a trade. One of the teachers traded her used running shoes for a blowgun from one of the men. The shoes fit him really well, and he was thrilled. Some kids traded flashlights for necklaces and bracelets. One kid traded a compass for a spear. The Waorani didn’t know what it was or how to use the compass, but it became a popular toy with some of the kids. One of the girls agonized over whether she should trade one of her shirts for a necklace. I told her the necklace sells for $4 in Puyo. “Really? I paid over $50 for this shirt. Maybe I should pick something else to trade.” She ended up borrowing a few bucks from one of the other kids and paid in Sacagawea dollar coins. Ironic or fitting… I’m not quite sure.
As we were loading up the canoes getting ready to leave, one of the women approached us and asked to trade a smaller blowgun for a flashlight or headlamp. All the kids were tapped out and distracted, however. I felt really bad, because this woman really really really wanted a flashlight. I felt a little selfish, but I was unwilling to part with my headlamp which I use all the time, so I pulled out my small LED necklace flashlight. Feeling like it wasn’t a very fair trade (for her) I started digging around in my day pack for other things I might be able to offer. I ended up offering her two packs of needles (left over from one of the workshops), a fiber breakfast bar (which I had needed on the trip, just not that day we would be on the river) and a pack of crackers for the blowgun. I meekly held out the random assortment of items to her in humble offering. She studied the flashlight and then smiled and thanked me.

As the community gathered to say their goodbyes, I repeated, “waaponi kemini tomamini” a few times…which I hope meant “thanks for everything.” They shouted out a few more phrases in Wao and waved enthusiastically as we pulled away from the bank and glided away down (actually up) river.

The return trip went extremely well except for one not-so-small hiccup: the buses were not waiting for us when we got off the river. It turns out, they were being blockaded in other Waorani in the community of Gareno and they men would not permit the bus to pass unless the drivers provided a rather large payment. They literally blocked the road. I had heard that this happens sometimes, but was kind of in denial that it would happen if we were with Waorani guides. The teachers told me that two years before they had to pay off three different families that had blocked the road and demanded payment to pass. Unfortunately, because that precedent had been set, this particular community feels that it can continue to demand such payments from anyone travelling into the territory. I thought maybe the Waorani guides would be able to convince their brethren that they shouldn’t have to pay---after all they had just made a decent cash contribution to the community that they had just visited, plus paid the guides extremely well…but it was not to be. After a long negotiation process, some palms were greased and the logs blocking the road were removed and we passed through.

It was a really disheartening way to end an otherwise great trip. And it was another dramatic contrast between the Waorani community on the oil road (who looked like they were drinking, had nice clothes on while they played equi-volley in a big covered volleyball court) and those that are living in the more remote areas like we had just visited. What is important to them…what their needs are… how they interacted… Ahhhh…I could write another 20 pages about all of my reactions and thoughts to it…but I’ll stop here.

going postal

A lot of things didn´t quite go my way this week. I am frustrated about a lot of things, but rather than enumerate them all, I will just rant about one thing in particular: my absentee ballot. You see, I just got it. And, well, last time I checked the primary was March 4th. And just happen to be registered in the most-watched and most-cursed center-of-the-political universe state of... Ohio.

So...I am mad. I am mad at the board of elections for not sending it directly to Puyo as I thought I had requested. I am mad at Peace Corps for not expediting the envelope that was clearly marked urgent election material from Quito to Puyo. And I mad at myself for not trying harder to make sure that all the t´s were crossed to make sure that this all happened so that I could get the &%$·" ballot. I am so mad I can´t even write any more.

cowudi

It has been a while since I have last blogged. For that I apologize to my blogstalkers (all two of you) who felt that I might have been withholding vital information about my misadventures. Since I last blogged, I have taken two separate trips “adentro” (deep into the rainforest/jungle) The first was for a handicraft workshop with the Waorani Women’s Association in the village of Kenaweno. The group received a small grant for the project from ECORAE, a regional organization that disperses government funds that are raked in from oil revenues. Our original plan was to load the Puyo-based women leaders, a half-ton of food, and all our gear in a bus and drive 4 hours to a bridge, then load all everything and everybody into two large and long canoes to get the community. The trip was calculated to take two days. But, two days before we were supposed to leave, we find out that the canoes were no longer available (evidently the community got a better offer from some tourists). So, we were thrown into crisis mode. We couldn’t really postpone the workshop (for reasons I will talk about later) so we had to either a) move the location to a place where we could get to by bus…or b) find another way to get to the community where we planned the workshop. “We can just walk,” one of the women offered. “Yeah, we can send the supplies in a plane and we can walk there,” someone else added.

“So, how far is it exactly?” I naively asked.

“Oh, six hours.”

“No, it is ten hours.”

“My daughter did it in less than four hours.”

Hummm….that is quite a range. I don’t even like the average. But plan B was choice b: we would walk (through the Amazonian jungle of Ecuador, that is)

Anyway, the day we were supposed to leave, I was summoned into the Women’s Association office (a fact that was annoying in and of itself). I ended up getting sucked into a meeting with 20+ indigenous women from Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia…actually I can hardly call it a meeting. It was supposed to be an interchange of experiences, but ended up becoming a rambling one-woman Waorani show. At the conclusion of the event almost 10 hours later (and without eating anything all day) I was informed by my counterpart, in no uncertain terms that I was NOT --under any circumstances—to walk to the community of Kenaweno. She said I would never make it. At first, I was hurt, because I interpreted it to mean that I wasn’t tough enough. “But, I love hiking,” I wanted to say. But before I could, she went on to tell me of all the dangers along the trail…like having to cross creeks that went up to your neck in water (actually, up to their necks, which would “only” be mid-chest on me)…like having to cross super narrow and slippery logs over big rivers…like if anything…say a twisted ankle or knee, or worse—a snakebite would happen, then I would be a LONG way from getting help. Like, oh, say an entire day. At least. Okay, so now what do I do? We’ll fly there.

So, in the end, my trip to Kenaweno, which started as a two day canoe ride, then turned into a 6 or 8 or 10 hour hike before eventually becoming a magnificent 23 minute flight in a small plane. The approach towards the runway was spectacular…and scary at the same time. On first glance, it looked like the short grass runway ended in the chocolatey river. After circling around and buzzing barely over the treetops in a narrow gap in the “big broccoli” of mountainous forest, we touched down breathtakingly close to the river before rumbling down the grassy clearing and coming to a stop.

Once we had all caught our breath, we climbed out of the small plane and were immediately greeted by the usual throng of curious, eager-eyed children.

This is maybe why the canoe trip would take 2 days...

This was the third three-day waorani handicraft workshop I had attended, and, while it was still far from perfect, it was much better than the two. This was partially aided by the fact that I was not already totally exhausted from spending hours in a bus by the time I got there, plus I now come better prepared...like, I know to bring candy and ear plugs. Which the latter was a lifesaver because the Waorani women were like teenage girls at a sleepover…talking and giggling the ENTIRE night. Since we all shared the same small classroom space, there was no way to escape them and no amount of shushing would quiet them down.

I led a short session of the workshop where I talked about the importance of making high quality handicrafts. I made a display that showed both good and bad examples of some of the things they had made. To one of the few men that had gathered around to watch, I asked him that if he had $10 to buy his wife a gift, which of the bags or necklaces would he buy? I repeated it with the women in the group and they giggled.

In addition to being in charge of distributing the supplies and running the cordless drill non-stop during the workshop, I also played the “telephone” game with them. I wrote a short story in Spanish and told one woman from each of the four teams. One of them translated it for the others into wao terero, and then they went to repeat it to the next person in line on their team. Predictably, the last women in each line had wildly different and incredibly short versions of the original story. It served as a small lesson in word of mouth communication and the importance of having your fact straight before repeating information.

It is NOT a very well guarded secret that the Waorani tend to be very chismoso, meaning gossipy, and sometimes the facts are forgotten or wildly exaggerated in the re-telling of stories. I believe this was the case during a recent incident which allegedly occurred in a portion of the Waorani territory, the Intangible Zone. Without going into the gory details (and because I don’t want to repeat unconfirmed information or scare my dear family) suffice it to say that the waorani rumor mill grew a story into a very tall tale that eventually made national news.

During one of the evening gatherings, the women each took time to talk before the group. Many spoke about how excited they were to be a part of the workshop…and that not that long ago they didn’t even know what a workshop was. They spoke excitedly about teaching their daughters the traditional handicrafts, and planting chambira palms so that their granddaughters would be able to keep their traditions alive. It was really moving. I wrote in my journal that it is exactly those kinds of moments that remind me why I am here. I firmly believe that the Waorani culture is at great risk of being lost forever…or at least irreversibly transformed and homogenized with every other poor colonist community of the region.

Another impressionable moment of the trip came when we travelled by canoe (in the pouring rain) to the community of Toñampare, the unofficial capital of the Waorani territory. It was here that I met the famous Waorani leader Dayuma.

“Dayuma is who civilized us,” one Waorani man told me matter of factly.

In short:
As a child, Dayuma ran away from the intertribal warfare that plagued the Waorani before contact with the western world. She later befriended some American evangelical missionaries and taught them the waorani language, wao terero. After the infamous killing of the five missionaries by the Waorani in the 1950’s, Dayuma and Rachel Saint, (the sister of Nate Saint, one of the missionaries who was killed) went to live with the Waorani and “save” them. The culture, character and fate of this small indigenous group would be forever changed from that day forward. This story has become famous. And after having finally seen the movie End of the Spear (which was atrociously translated as Final del Espiritu in the pirated video stores in town) I was that much more intrigued to meet the famous Dayuma.

I followed my counterpart down a short path that leads off the long grass runway to a cluster of small wooden buildings. Tucked away amongst the buildings was a small monument that was erected in memory of the five slain missionaries. A few feet away, a laminate sign marked the grave of Rachel Saint.

Our visit with Dayuma was brief. She doesn’t get around very well and she said she didn’t feel very well either. I noticed a metal walker in the corner of her cluttered front room of her humble wooden house. A few photos and religious posters were tacked to the rough hewn boards. Manuela talked to her in her native language, while the two other non-waorani speakers and I sat in silence and took it all in. At the end of our visit, Dayuma asked us to send her sugar and food.

It was a sad and sobering glimpse into the last phases of her most unusual life. The changes she has seen—and herself brought about—are hard to capture or quantify. It is a thought that I can’t entirely get my head around. She was born into a culture of true semi-nomadic hunter gatherers and warriors…and she will be leaving behind a culture that has rapidly, often uncomfortably, even violently transitioned into what it is today…one that is at once awkwardly trying to cling onto traditions while being absorbed into the culture of the cowudi (outsiders, cannibals, non-Waorani) the Waorani formerly and famously rebuffed.