I´m putting the following story in small point type because I realized how long it was (Warning: it literally is a book about some of my adventures in the "jungle."
We just passed our one month anniversary in Puyo. Woohooo! So, I am back from the Waorani village of Tiwino. It was a fascinating experience for sure. A lot to process…more on that later.
So last Wednesday night, our German friend Catherina and I went to an Ecuadorian aerobics class at the “Long Life” gym here in Puyo. I had seen the sign on my walk into town and had wanted to check it out, but it always seemed closed. It turns out that it is only open from 4-9 pm in the evenings. The gym has a lot of equipment crammed into a fairly small space, plus an aerobics room. It reminded me a little of a high school weight room…a little weathered, but otherwise functional. It is a pay-as-you go system---75 cents for each visit whether you do aerobics, use the weights or cardio machines or all of the above. We of course arrive early--a few minutes before 7--- and are told the class will start “ya mismo” –which translates to essentially: right now, or very soon…but in Ecuador that can mean anywhere from a minute to 2 days. There are lots of “Ya mismo” jokes among us gringos. Well, around 7:10, the instructor shows up and starts the class. At first it was us two and two other Ecuadorian women. Then other women started trickling in over the next 15 minutes (ya mismo) and soon there were 8 or so of us in the small room doing step aerobics with a short, cheerful male instructor. It was not as rigorous as other classes I´ve taken (most notably that taught by my sis-in-law Kelly!) but I worked up a pretty good sweat nonetheless and my face was as red as my Denison shirt. I had been feeling pretty slothlike lately, so I was pretty psyched to find a half way decent gym to at least work off some of the many calories I´m consuming by eating the 50 pounds of chocolate (ironically enough) sent to my from my trainer and YMCA friends---to whom I am most indebted for their generosity (although Jer ate the last Take 5 candy bar and I´m pretty bummed. They have come close to surpassing Reeces Cups in becoming my favorite candy bar).
Okay, so I have lots of stories from my trip to Tiwino and am not sure where to begin. First, let me back up a bit to the meeting I attended earlier in the week where the trip was planned. It was a meeting whose objectives simply were: 1) decide who was going…and 2) determine what time we would leave. It involved no less than a dozen people...and lasted almost 2 hours. We had a list of the 40 people that would fit on the bus…and we would leave at 3 a.m… on Thursday (no, not a typo, 3 a.m.) cuz that seemed like a good time to leave, I guess.
Another part of the pre-trip planning fun was trying to find a tent in Puyo. Several Waorani women assisted me in the search. By about the 6th store, I start really regretting not bringing our good tent from the states (but of course that would have meant that I would have left several things behind…and well, packing was tough as it was!) We finally found one for $40 (the only other one I found was $72: WAY over the budget). The hardware store clerk told me it was a 2 person tent, but it seemed really big and heavy to me. Nonetheless, I bought it, as I was short on time. I take it back to the office and all the women want to see it, so they take it out of the bag and come to find out, it is a family size tent with 2 DOORS (not a small tent for 2 PEOPLE). It is big and ugly and heavy…but hey, what´s a gringa to do. At least I have a tent.
So Wednesday after work, I stopped at our corner cabinas (phone booths) and make a quick call to Dick´s Den to check in on my hour peeps. My friend Noel, who is “long-term subbing” for me during my Wednesday happy hour shift passed the phone around and I got to talk to a bunch of my ole bar pals (who I do dearly miss!). Meanwhile I get another call from my PC boss who briefed me on the latest plans for the ambassador´s visit. Then Jer comes back from his workshop in Baños 7 minutes before I take off for my first Ecuadorian aerobics class. After class I scarfed down some dinner, finished packing, then took a “nap.” At 2:00 my cell phone alarm woke me up, I threw my sleeping bags in a garbage bag because of course it was raining…then called a cab. I was sure as hell not going to haul all my stuff in the middle of the night, in the rain no less, all the way to the Waorani office. Thankfully, the cab pulled up at the perfect time and hauled me and all my gear to the Waorani Nation (NAWE) office. At 2:30, I joined a couple dozen other Waorani huddled in the dark outside the NAWE office to wait for the bus. At around 3, the bus showed up, we all piled in and actually took off relatively on time: 3:08 by my new (and very ugly) $1 watch (I totally crunched my other watch while moving furniture in the artesanía store the day before). Despite all the hours of planning, we still had more people than seats, even with piling all the little kids on the laps of the adults…and on the floor, and in the aisle. I was grateful I brought the ipod to block out the incessant cackling (something was funny…not sure what) on the bus during the first hour. It also came in handy when the bus driver decided to put on THE WORST MOVIE EVER MADE: Littleman. It is absolutely aweful…add in Spanish dubbing over a pirated, thus grainy, DVD to all the other factors and it was a migraine waiting to happen. I did manage to cop a few zzzzz´s. The ride was slow and bumpy and filled with stories about how one stretch of the route towards Coca was pretty sketchy. I was worried that there might be mutiny when the busdriver wanted to stop for breakfast, but the Waorani wanted to keep pressing on toward Coca. The Waorani won. We reached Coca around 10:30 in the morning or so and had our official breakfast spot. We were supposed to have breakfast at the Auka hotel (Auka is the Kichwa word for the Waorani, which also means savage. Interestingly, one of the pro soccer teams in Quito is called the Aukas) but that fell through somehow, so everyone was on their own. Since it was more or less past Ecuadorian breakfast time we were served lunch, which included rice, beans, plantain and some sort of meat. Beef, I think. This meal started my four day carnivorous eating binge, for which I think I am paying for now (I figure it takes my intestinal track a little while longer to process this foreign material). From Coca we pressed on to Tiwino for the final four hours. Now, mind you, this trip from Puyo to Tiwino is not very far as the crow flies…BUT there are no roads directly there. Both Puyo and Tiwino are in the same Province, but we had to go through 2 others before circling back into Pastaza Province. Imagine being in Cincinnati and wanting to go to Cleveland, but I-71 doesn´t exist ---or any other paved surface for that matter--- and the only way to get there is to west towards Indy, angle up towards Ft. Wayne, cross over into Michigan, amble back south towards Bowling Green, further south towards Marion, then head back north towards Oberlin (all on crappy, rocky, pot-hole laden roads) before getting to Cleveland a mere 12 (yes TWELVE) hours later. Your butt hurt yet? Well, at least the views were interesting. Rather than seeing fields of corn and beans, more corn and beans, and places where there used to be corn and beans but now feature sprawling strip malls, cookie cutter McMansion subdivisions and the same crappy fast food restaurants at every intersection, which would typify the Midwestern version of this journey… imagine mountains of cloud forests, sweeping valley vistas, steep waterfalls, and long stretches of the road with no sign of civilization in sight. Well, that was part of the view anyway. The last part of the trip was less scenic. The impact of the oil industry was everywhere. As our big bus lurched along the Via Auca, a half dozen or more oil pipelines snaked alongside the road, following every curve of the landscape.
When the oil companies blazed the road and built the pipeline it opened up the door for a mass and largely uncontrollable invasion of people: the “colonos”—essentially colonists, but really squatters—came to set up camp along the road and to try to tame the rainforest and raise cattle and few crops that could be supported by the poor soils. Where once there was lush tropical rainforest—among the most biodiverse on the planet---is now a sad swath of cattle pastures, humble clapboard houses on stilts, and pipelines and other oil extraction infrastructure. I was surprised by the amount of traffic on this dead-end highway. There were lots of big rigs operated by the oil companies and road crews (although I saw more destruction than construction of the roads).
We got off the bus in Tiwino and were greeted by lots of kids…and intense sun. We unloaded our stuff, all of which was coated with a fine film of dust from the trip, and Noemi and I started walked to the house of a community member she knew in order to set up our tents. As we walked with all our gear, I looked around, and admit that the Waorani village wasn´t exactly as I had envisioned it. I expected more forest cover and more traditional houses. I did not expect to see a really wide road transecting the community…or the oil installations to be set up immediately adjacent to homes and the soccer field…or semis hauling oil and who knows what else up and down the road at all hours of the day and night. I had hoped to see more wildlife. I thought I might be able to get to see some of the oil operations, but in my mind I envisioned them set apart from the community…at least some sort of forest buffer separating the community from the industry. But, in fact, the people and the petroleum are very intertwined…both figuratively and physically. For example, I physically had to step over three different pipelines in order to get to the steps leading into the house. It was a humble elevated wood home that was relatively newly built. It had a modern stove and what looked like a big freezer (but I actually never went to look closely at it, as I tried to stay in the main front room area)…but no bathroom or sink or any running water at all. My shirt was completely soaked with sweat by the time we finished putting up the tents inside the front room. It was quite comical, as my tent was huge and took up almost half the room. There was little in the room that we had to move out of the way: some rubber boots, a wooden bench, a machete…and a plastic bag with a dead monkey in it. All I saw was its little black hand sticking out and backed away, repulsed. Noemi laughed at my reaction and then tossed the bag into the kitchen… Welcome to the “jungle.”
Once we had set up our indoor “camp,” we went to the main party area which consisted of a new concrete volleyball court surrounded by a few bleachers covered with a big roof. At one end of the court there was a stage that the Waorani were busy decorating with flowers and balloons. We helped blow up some balloons and then sat and just people watched for a while. There was a group of four non-Waorani who looked gringo-esque, as they had on the uniform: hiking pants and boots and sported cameras. I could tell they weren´t American. Ecuadorian maybe. Or Brazilian. I immediately pegged them as petroleros. One of the men came up and started to strike up a conversation. He was middle aged, sort of round, and…yes, a petrolero (oil man). It turns out, his daughter is going to be an exchange student at a school near Dayton this fall. Small world. He asked me if I had graduated from High School. Granted, I look younger than I am…and I really enjoy being mistaken for being 26…but high school?!?!? Come on!!! He was friendly enough…until I told him that I was in a Habitat Conservation volunter and worked for an environmental organization for almost 10 years…and then his tone changed a bit. His back straightened. And he immediately asked what I was specifically doing with the Waorani. I told him that I am mostly helping them with their artisania, which is true, and he seemed to relax a little bit…but the conversation ended abruptly after that. His parting words to me---non-Wao to non-Wao was, “Ojala que no tomen.” (I hope to god they—meaning them, the Waorani, don´t drink). “Vamos a ver,” I reply. We´ll see. He walked away and immediately huddled with the other petroleros to undoubtedly share his newly acquired intelligence on the random gringita in the group.
As we sat on the benches watching the non-stop Equi-volley games, I watched as two women made their way through the crowd with a big bucket of chicha and two stainless steel bowls. They used one bowl to scoop up the thin, milky brew flecked with small strands of the fibrous yuca (manioc), and the other bowl to serve the chicha. The bowl is ceremoniously sipped---or in some cases chugged—and then the bowl is passed back to the woman, who refills it and passes it to the next person. I admit I was filled with a little anxiety that I would do something against protocol, but mostly for the fear that I would have a gag reflex, somehow manage to choke on it, or worse: vomit. My hands were sweaty. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I tried to concentrate on the Equa-volley game or anything to distract from the fact that I was nervous about having my first chicha. You see, chicha is a very important part of Waorani culture—indeed the culture of many indigenous groups in Ecuador—and is very ceremoniously prepared (I´ll get to that) and served at community events, festivals and other important happenings. And it is considered extremely rude to refuse to drink it. In our Peace Corps training, this fact was explained to us on more than one occasion and anecdotes were offered about previous volunteers who refused to drink chicha were never accepted by their community and eventually had to find another site. Basically, it is bad form to refuse to drink it. That being said, the Peace Corps nurses are saying that it may not be the safest thing to ingest either, because of the bacteria and amoebas that might be mixed in (again, I´ll explain what the ingredients are in a minute). Chicha is a staple of the diets of hunters and many others who subsist largely off the fruits and plants of the jungle. On long hunting trips it may be the only thing that people consume. I´ve been told and read (although I admit I´m a little skeptical) that it is very nutritious and provides a lot of energy for long treks and hunting forays. So what is it, you ask? It is yuca (manioc---a tuber plant related to the potato, but more fibrous and starchy and tasty when fried) that has been masticated by women (and only women) and left to ferment for a few days. Add some water (which likely came from the muddy river) and waaalaaaah, you have chicha, drink of the Andean gods. I´ve heard that there are many different “flavors” as it can really vary depending on the women who make it... Okay, now do you have a visual? So, as I continue to wiggle uncomfortably in my seat, I watch as the women approach with the bucket of chicha. Without staring, I try to take note of the various protocols involved. How the bowl is held when you drink. How you hand it back. Whether you say anything. Waaponi. Okay, I´m ready. I can do this. I´m integrating into the community...this is important to my work with the Waorani. I´ve got pepto in the tent if I need it. Okay. I´ve prepared myself mentally. I´m ready... here she comes....and there she goes. The women skip me. Yep, they went right past me to the next person. After all the anxiety, I thought I would feel relief for being spared. But instead, I felt somewhat hurt. And nervous. And deflated. My imagination immediately goes into hyperdrive. Does this mean I´m not accepted into the community? Did I do something wrong? Did I not smile? Or maybe I smiled and I wasn´t supposed to. Shoot. Was it obvious I was nervous about drinking chicha? Did other people notice they skipped me? Was skipping me accidental or was it intentional? Does this mean they don´t want me here? What should I do? Did they offer it to Noemi? If not, maybe it is a Waorani-only thing. Shoot. She´s not around. I´m too embarrassed to ask anyone else. I guess I´ll just sit here and try to act normal. Whatever that means here...
I continued sitting in the bleachers and then watched a bunch of Waorani unloading a massive speaker system and half a truck-load of case after case of peach wine...boxed peach wine, of course. Woohoo. We have a party now! And, yes, mr. petrolero, there will be some drinking going on.
The speaker system gets set up, and suddenly the Waorani men were empowered to use it to make random announcements and speeches (at a decibel level much too high for what was needed, of course) almost 24/7 for the next four days straight. One of the first announcements was that dinner was served and that NAWE and AMWAE should go first. The meals would be served in the dark, dank oneroom schoolhouse in shifts, as there were more people than tables, bowls, chairs, etc. I looked around for anyone I recognized. I didn´t see of the women from the association, so I kind of hung back waiting for a friendly face to go to dinner with. I didn´t want to be that girl and barge to the front of the line to grab the grub. I waited for quite a few minutes and didn´t see any familiar faces at all. Then one of the Waorani men who was on our bus from Puyo waved me on to the cafeteria area to eat. He pushed me inside and waved me to a table where bowls of steamy soup were placed. I saw no one I recognized, and upon sitting down I realized that I was at a table with only men, and I immediately started to sweat (more than was already possible given the heat, the stuffy room and the steamy soup) that I was again breaking some unspoken protocol of some sort. They were all drinking directly from the bowls. I saw a couple of people with spoons, and I looked around hoping to find one. I must have had the universal, “I need a spoon but I don´t know where to find one” look on my face, because someone recognized it, translated it and brought me a spoon. I then turned my focus on the soup in front of me. It was sort of gray-ish and brothy and had a big chunk of dark meat in it that was sticking out. I dipped the spoon in and skimmed the broth and slurped a little bit of it. I thought the taste was kind of beefy-flavored, not horrible, but not certainly not tasty. I took a deep breath and took another spoonful. Two down. Then three. I look around the table and watch as these guys are totally mowing down the meat from their bowls. It clearly was NOT beef. Cows do not have bones that small and delicate...nor do they...oh shit...that looks like a monkey part. Oh gawd. I don´t know if I can do this. I ate some beef at breakfast somehow, but I don´t think I can jump right into carne de monte. I slurp one other spoonful and suddenly I notice how unnaturally thick the fat globules are in the soup and my stomach starts to turn. I stir the mystery meat in my soup, lifting it above the surface of the broth and find it totally unrecognizable. I´m convinced it is monkey. I lower it back into the soup and look around. I see that most of the men at the table have left. There are empty seats with full bowls to my right. Mine was ¾ full and I hoped it would blend in with the others. While no one is looking, I get up and place my spoon next to the empty bowl to my left and push my bowl next to the fuller ones and make a b-line for the door.
I hear the Texas drawl of our Peace Corps training director echo in my ear, “Ya´ll gotta get out of your comfort zone to be successful down here.” I´m definitely out of my comfort zone. Mission accomplished there. But why do I feel like a failure?...
I eventually find Noemi and she suggests we go to the chosa. Okay, I say, I would love to take a walk. We walk slowly along the gravel road back toward the way the bus came from. It is the Ecuadorian walk...about 10 speeds too slow for me and my long legs. We keep having to move over to the side to make way for speeding semi´s and other big trucks on their way to the oil installations. The chosa turns out to be a cute cabana-like restaurant-bar with a traditional thatched roof over-looking over the river. I was really excited to maybe get a cocktail or beer and some papas fritas...but they didn´t have anything but coffee. We drank some coffee, then ventured north toward the colono part of “town” (the community is totally segregated into two sections: the Waorani and the colonos...and it looked like there wasn´t much integration going on). We went to a couple little places that were houses/stores/restaurants but no one had anything. We finally found a place that had food and we sat down to eat. It was a grubby little place that smelled pretty foul—the kind of place where you really don´t want to see the kitchen, but you´re hungry enough that you´ll eat whatever is in front of you. Thankfully it was fish, which tasted half-way decent, along with a mound of rice and a few beans. A cute little girl came up to me and asked if I was the singer. I said no, and laughed. “She thinks you´re famous,” Noemi tells me. “Oh, you didn´t know that I really am famous?” I reply. I´ve even signed autographs! I told her an abbreviated and badly-described Spanish version of my Spring Break ´96 trip to San Diego where me and my colleagues in crime took on aliases and made up great stories about our being in a band...and by the end of the night signing autographs. Yeah, it lost some of its luster since I couldn´t say half the things I wanted to say in Spanish. Noemi thought it was funny anyway.
We mosied back to the main festivity area, where they were getting ready for the main feature of the evening: the crowning of the Queen of Tiwino!!! I am really sorry I never had time to sit down and type the story of the crowning of the Indigenous Nation Queen of Pastaza Province pageant we attended, as it is really a good tale. (In the interest of time, I´ll instead refer all interested to the scienceking blog for further details...or at least his rendition of the story). At the Tiwino Queen event they ran out of seats, so I sat on the concrete floor of the volleyball and prayed that it would not be the marathon pageant like that in Puyo (where my group told me to go at 7, but it wasn´t supposed to start until 8, but didn´t actually start till 9...and they didn´t announce the queen until almost 1 AM!!!). Despite the fact this was a much smaller town and much smaller production, it was actually quite superior to the much bigger pageant in the bigger city. My biggest critique was that there were only MALE judges...including one of the white collar petroleros, which annoyed me on several different levels. There were four competitors, two 15 year olds, a 14 year old....and a SIX year old girl. At first I thought that maybe she was the junior queen selected from a previous pageant for that age group...but no, she was actually competing with the teens.
The competition involved a traditional Waorani dance, a traditional Kitchwa dance, a walk around the stage in an evening gown and one softball question session. In between all of these sections were additional acts---including a dance troupe from the high school, singers, more dancing, etc. It was pretty entertaining. During one of the indigenous dances, each of the girls competing danced around the stage, then came down the steps to the volleyball court to offer chicha to the judges and dance directly in front of them. Some of the other girls offered feather crowns, necklaces and other tokens to the judges as they danced. This was part of their dance and not overt offers to bribe the judges, or at least I thought...until the six year old stole the show when she reached in her woven basket and pulled out a cardboard fish covered in silver glitter and handed it to the judges. She was soooooooo cute! Everyone clapped and whistled and cheered for her. She was the clear crowd favorite. She was so little, yet so poised and so confident for such a little tike. It wasn´t a Jon Benet Ramsey pageantry type of feel, it came off very...I don´t know how to describe it. It was...real. I´m not really a pageant fan, but it really was fun. During the “evening gown” part of the pageant, the MC rattled off predictable data about each of the girls...like how old they are, what sports they play, what they like to do in their spare time, who they admire most, etc....and some curveballs: what their astrological sign is, what their favorite perfume is (do six year old Waorani girls wear perfume!?!?!), their favorite color, and--my personal favorite factoid: what their favorite FOOD was. I mean, how many pageants have you been to where its revealed that one of the competitor´s favorite foods is piranha!?!? Piranha maito, to be exact---which is a food preparation specialty in the Ecuadorian Oriente where fish is wrapped in flexible banana-type leaves and smoked in an oven or over a fire. Piranha! Until this point, I felt like the pageant wasn´t really that different than one that might take place anywhere else...but piranha...now we´re talking!
During the question part of the pageant, the six year old stole the show once again, by answering her question in THREE of the four languages she knows. Incredible. I can´t imagine being six years old and standing on a stage before hundreds of people in a mini-bridesmaid dress and answering a question...in three different languages. She was amazing...and quite deservedly (and after much less deliberation of the judges than that which we suffered through in Puyo) was crowned the QUEEN of Tiwino!!! It was really hilarious because she was so little, the sash touched the ground, so they had to pin it up so it wouldn´t drag. She walked back and forth across the stage confidently, and then blew a kiss to the crowd...which went wild with applause. It was quite an event! I tried to interpret the expressions on the faces of the teen girls who were not chosen as queen. Were they outraged to be upstaged by a six year old? It was hard to tell, as they all had very straight faces. None of the four smiled during the entire event...something I found strange. But...in hindsight I guess there is some cultural thing about single girls smiling...and that if directed at a boy might be interpreted as her wanting to marry him...or something like that. This all could have been lost in translation...but it might explain why few people smiled during the dancing later on...
By this point, it is pretty late and I am pretty tired. My day started at 2 a.m. that day in Puyo and, given the many adventures during the intervening hours, it felt like I´d been gone a week already. Noemi and her friend Pedro escorted me back to the house, before heading back to the party to dance. What once seemed like a prime party location now looked like the worst place to crash...as the house was only 100 yards or so from the stage...and the tower of speakers that blasted the monotonous electric organ sounds of cumbia music into the weeeeeeeee hours of the early morning. Thankfully I brought ear plugs and was exhausted anyway, so somehow managed to sleep through the din. I was thankful Jer didn´t come, as he would have been miserable. It was warm in the tent (in the house), I didn´t have a sleeping pad (I was just sleeping on top of my sleeping bag, which only provided minimal cushioning properties) and the music—interrupted by random announcements with people happy to use the microphone---was a lot to deal with. I´m thankful my body somehow was able block most of that out and get some rest.
I slept through a lot of commotion in the house in the morning, then mosied over the stage area to find a bathroom. En route, I was waved over to the tent of Cahuo—the Waorani Women´s Assoc VP—and she handed me 2 soccer uniforms and urged me to take one to Noemi for us to play on the team. The bag included a large royal blue cotton t-shirt with AMWAE over the heart, royal blue mens swim shorts with a oversized and obviously unlicensed Nike swoosh on one leg, and extra long royal blue soccer socks. I put on the whole get up, which seemed really official, and my asics running shoes---which looked pretty silly. I had been promised that we were going to play basketball---a game I know how to play and can sometimes hold my own---especially against people that I was easily a foot taller than. It turns out, there was no basketball court and I was instead recruited to play soccer—a game I don´t really know how to play... Noemi didn´t bring anything but flip flops and didn´t really want to play, so she didn´t suit up. We walked back to the chosa for breakfast: a big mound of rice, french fries and a greasy fried egg. Later in the morning, some little kid came to find me to tell me that the team needed me by the field, as we were going to play soon. There was a very formal kickoff to the soccer tournament---replete with national anthem and some sort of formation with all the uniformed players from the various Waorani communities. Even though I was told to rush over to the field, as we were going to play soon...we ended up waiting many hours before it was our turn. In the meantime, it started to POUR. It was a super hard rain and the two teams on the field didn´t seem to think twice about continuing to play. Surely, they didn´t want to damage the half grass/half dirt soccer field sponsored by PetroBell by playing on it in the pouring rain, right? Right.......... the field became a muddy mess...and the players were covered in the same clay colored mud such that it was sometimes hard to tell who was on what team, as everyone was the same color: mud.
Sitting on the edge of the covered volleyball court, getting misted by rain, I actually was chilly. My arms were covered in goosebumps, and I pulled my socks up as high as they would go---as much to stay warm as to keep the bugs at bay. I really didn´t want to play. Not that I mind getting my one pair of athletic shoes muddy...I didn´t care about that. They´ll wash. Plus, most of my team was wearing simple canvas shoes---you know the ones, we used to call bo-bo´s (Joan´s uniform Freshman year of college) or no shoes at all. I didn´t care about me getting muddy despite the fact there was no shower. I just didn´t want to get hurt. If I twisted my ankle, or torked my knee or worse...I was sooooooo far from any Peace Corps approved medical facility...and so far from, well, everything. I just don´t want my service to end because I had to get med-vaced out because I hurt myself trying to play soccer in the mud in the middle of nowhere. After my little tumble down the ski slope two years ago, I am protective of my friend Louie the ligament. I am grateful for the donation from some organ and tissue donor...and I hope to return the favor to someone else some day...just not now, not here... Once again, my imagination took a rollercoaster ride imagining what the Waorani would do with me if they found me writing in pain in the mud, clutching my knee as I tried to figure out how to say anterior cruciate ligament in Spanish. By the time it was finally our team´s turn to play, it had at least stopped raining, but the field was still a mess. We had more than the minimum number of people to play, so I was a sub—a position I happily played. I psyched myself up to play, saying to myself, “most of these women are overweight, you can keep up with them.” And, once again, I got myself all worked up all for naught...as I never got put in the game. I was the lone player on our team that wore a blue uniform...the rest wore mud.
By this point it was mid-afternoon and I was hungry. I had declined the offer to eat in the school-with the masses, siting that I couldn´t eat right before exercising—or thinking about exercising, as it turned out to be. I had brought some snacks with me, so I grabbed the crackers and peanuts and fruit and my book and went back to the chosa to have some quiet time alone.
That night, the festivities included several different musical acts and lots of drinking...at least on the part of most of the Waorani men...and lots of dancing. Noemi and I were popular with the high school boys. After each song, everyone would rush back to their seats, and then another teen would approach us to dance the next song. It was hardly the electric latino dance moves you might envision. It was mostly the campo shuffle---the back and forth bounce, charlie brown style dancing that did not involve any interesting dips, spins or intricate footwork. No touching one another. No looking at one another. And certainly no smiling. I couldn´t help but smile, as I found the whole scene funny. Dayo, one of the older Waorani women who doesn´t speak much spanish, but is always friendly to me and anxious to know how to say this or that in English---was great. She kept mimiking every gringa dance move I made. Everything I did, she did. It was really funny. The band that was playing really COULD dance. They were impressive, actually. At one point, they invited a half dozen couples to the middle of the dance floor somewhat randomly. Then suddenly I get pulled onto the floor by this high school kid who wanted me to be his partner. A crowd of people circled around us as the couples started to dance. I didn´t really understand what was going on, beyond the fact that couples were periodically dismissed, until we were one of the last two couples left. I felt like all the spotlights were on us. Definitely out of my comfort zone here. THEN, we were invited on stage where we danced with the group. It was a trip and a half. The lead singer asked us our names, made everyone cheer for us and tried to gauge by the crowd reaction who was better... It was crazy... Somehow in all the craziness me and this high school kid, Juan, won a dancing contest despite the fact neither of us were very good. We got t-shirts and bragging rights out of it...and I got asked by every other high school kid in the place to dance. It was a trip. Meanwhile, I should mention that I did not bring ´clubbing clothes´ to Tiwino. I thought I was going to the jungle...not the disco. Despite the fact all the girls and women are wearing super tight jeans, cute heeled shoes and flashy tops, I was in a tank top, wick dry pants and crocs. The fashion police should have had me arrested. I just didn´t know what I was walking into...in soooo many ways...
So, after four hours of typing, I am losing steam in my storytelling. I´ll hit the high points of note: before I left Tiwino I finally got to drink chicha...and no, I didn´t choke, puek or gag. And I got to play a little soccer...and no, I didn´t break or twist anything. But I couldn´t even walk on the field, much less run without slipping. I had soooo much more respect for the women who somehow kept playing without falling. They were graceful, in fact. I was truly humbled by their agility. I pretty much sucked. I was slow and awkward...and thankfully only had to play a few minutes before subbing out. Noemi and I hitched a ride back with the NAWE president so that we could get ready for the Ambassador´s visit. We rode in a 4-door pick up truck. Five adults, plus a 2 year old and a newborn in the front...and 3 guys and all our gear in the truckbed.
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