Gringa in Guayaquil

Mi Cometa: A Photo Essay

2006-02-21T13:44:00.000-05:00

Movimiento Mi Cometa

Photo Essay and Impact Study
Written for the Inter-American Foundation

Guayaquil, Ecuador

October 2004-June 2005

By: Dana Hill

“Happy anniversary Mi Cometa!” read posters scattered around the room. Marjorie knelt on the tile floor in the middle of Mi Cometa’s main room, chatting with Wendy as she painted bright letters on sheets of newsprint. Wendy’s fingers moved as she talked; she was making brightly colored kites (cometa means “kite” in Spanish) from toothpicks and string, gluing them to party invitations. Cecilia, coordinator of Mi Cometa’s anniversary party, ran from the computer to the telephone, out the door, then back in, wiping sweat from her eyes in Guayaquil’s November heat.

***

Introduction

The three women are members and leaders of the Movimiento Mi Cometa, “My Kite Movement,” an indigenous community development organization situated in Guasmo Sur, a poor neighborhood on the southern edge of Guayaquil, Ecuador. As the newsprint advertised, the 2004 anniversary party was celebrated October 7, and marked 14 years since the organization’s inception. Many founding members are still active in Mi Cometa, and many others have joined over the years, participating in one or many of the programs run by the organization.

The histories and the vision of the organization and its members are compelling. One cannot be separated from the other: the members are the Movement. For the past year they have shared with the author their stories, memories, and analysis of their organization. Melding their wisdom with academic research and the power of photography, this essay attempts to capture Movement Mi Cometa’s energy and spirit, to showcase the potential for transformation held by community development organizations, and to highlight the strengths and challenges of this dynamic group for the instruction of similar organizations.

***

The Setting: Guasmo Sur

Wendy, now 23, had just been born when her family moved to Guasmo Sur. Her parents and many more of Mi Cometa’s members recall how in the early 1980s they participated in the “invasions” of this neighborhood, coming from Guayaquil and other parts of the country to claim and guard a piece of land for their family. They recount night watches, murders, and political manipulation, and describe how in the early years bridges connected their homes, built over the marshy land.

Guasmo is situated on the flood plain of the river Guayas, and although in the dry season everyone is coated in a dusty film by the end of the day, the rainy season brings flooding. In those months residents pick their way through the streets hopping from strategically placed rock to rock, or wading through ankle to hip-deep muddy water. Some years there is enough rain that water levels in the open sewage canals raise to join with the water in the streets. Incidence of water- and mosquito-borne illnesses increases in this season.

***

The Urban Slum

Guasmo Sur’s population is approximated at 425,000 and Guayaquil’s at 2 million. The neighborhood illustrates one of the trends in urbanization in developing countries around the globe. Like the favelas of Rio de Janeiro or the slums of India, it is a neighborhood on the outskirts of a large city, marginal not just in location but in relationship to the rest of the populace. Its basic services, schools and clinics are inadequate at best and often made inaccessible by fees. It was populated, as other urban slums, by poor people migrating to find employment, and is reputed to be a dirty, crowded and violent neighborhood.

Also typical of marginal urban communities, there are high levels of unemployment and underemployment in Guasmo Sur, and many people work outside the formal economy. They walk the streets selling everything from coconuts to shoes to baby cribs, or open small shops in their homes. Others work long hours for little pay in factories and everyone knows someone who has immigrated to a developed country. Remittances were estimated to be 5.6% of the GDP in 2003. [1]

***

Poverty's Face

Cecilia’s sandals sent up clouds of dust as she walked from Mi Cometa to the organization’s truck, on her way to borrow tents from another social organization. The driver beeped at the kids playing nearby and drove off, down dirt roads between the rows of houses which line Guasmo, walls of cinder block next to cane next to cement, row after row, street after street. He turned onto a paved road running next to an open sewage canal and followed it to the highway leading to Guayaquil’s city center.

Larger homes in the neighborhood are tell-tale signs of which families have members abroad. Most houses are humble and full of people, though. Mi Cometa’s survey found the median income in the sectors of Guasmo Sur it serves for a family of six to be $105 per month. This averages out to less than a dollar per day per person, a standard definition of extreme poverty. Many sources estimate that more than half of Ecuador’s population lives below the poverty line,[2] and UNICEF reports that 70 percent of children and 90 percent of Afro-Ecuadorians and indigenous live in poverty.[3]

***

The Culture of Poverty

Many of these manifestations of urban slum communities were described by anthropologist Oscar Lewis in his famous 1946 article “The Culture of Poverty,” in which he looked at poverty as a subculture within the culture of capitalism. He identified 70 economic, social, and psychological traits which cross-nationally define this culture, such as people having and producing little wealth, having low education levels, and remaining outside societal institutions such as hospitals, banks, churches and marriage. He theorized that these characteristics are the result of factors including lack of economic resources, fear, apathy, suspicion, discrimination, segregation, and local solutions for problems.[4]

Guasmo Sur fits in Lewis’ description of the culture of poverty. Mi Cometa’s survey reported that only 43% of the adult population has elementary and 34% have secondary education. Legal marriages are uncommon, and personal bank accounts non-existent. Lewis theorized that remaining outside of institutions was people’s adaptation and reaction to their marginal position in society, how they coped with feelings of despair and hopelessness knowing they would not achieve success as defined by the larger society.[5] The sense of despair is evident in the robberies, gang activity, in hungry children’s eyes. It can be heard in mother’s voices as they lament not being able to feed, medicate or educate their children, and smelled walking next to the open sewage canals.

***

Breaking the Cycle

It was the morning of the Anniversary party. Staff members arrived early, untangling tent poles and setting up tables in front of Mi Cometa. Music blared from speakers on the roof, and Marjorie and Cecilia danced as they taped up balloons. Amelia teased Manuel as they pieced together a tent, and teenagers were eager to climb onto the roof to hang banners. Women from the Family Development Program appeared every few minutes with more decorations, and Marjorie pulled them over to dance. Laughter filled the street.

Its members comment that Mi Cometa has given them a place to belong, friendships, a sense of identity and the belief that change is possible. According to Lewis, this is one of the most effective ways to break the culture of poverty. He wrote, “Any movement…which organizes and gives hope to the poor and which effectively promotes solidarity and a sense of identification with larger groups, destroys the psychological and social core of the culture of poverty.”[6]

***

Social Capital

Robert Putman, professor of public policy at Harvard University, has made similar observations in his famous studies about civic community and social capital. Social capital is defined as “connections among individuals – social networks and the norms of reciprocity and trustworthiness that arise from them.”[7] He observed that these characteristics lead to easier problem-solving, communication, goal-achievement, and cooperation within communities, and in general allow them to advance more easily.[8]

These connections are evident in Mi Cometa. They are seen when the community gathers to build one family’s new home, when teenagers spend their weekends organizing and leading a children’s program, when half an hour is all it takes for Mi Cometa to summon 50 people to its doorstep to protest an injustice. The validity of these researchers’ findings, illustrated in Mi Cometa, is recognized and capitalized on by the Inter-American Foundation (IAF) in its emphasis on grassroots development.

***

Encouraging Grassroots Development

Through its work, the Foundation enables local organizations to expand their activities, serving local populations and building human and social capital as they do so. Another asset The IAF’s Grassroots Development Framework, the measurement tool used to assess both the tangible and intangible effects of its grantee organizations on their communities. The IAF is attentive to these projects’ impact on individual, organizational and societal levels.

Mi Cometa is an example of an organization with much social capital, and is well-known for its impact on the people of Guasmo Sur over the past fifteen years. For the past three years it has been funded by the IAF, the impact of that partnership provides an example of how the IAF affects the lives of people all over Latin America in tangible and intangible ways.

***

The History

The truck pulled up and stopped in front of the building, and Cesar Cardenas, the president of Mi Cometa, stepped out. “How’s everything?” he asked Cecilia amid the commotion. “Good,” she replied, introducing him to a reporter for an interview, after which several staff members approached him with documents, questions and news. Cesar has been recognized as a leader within the organization from the time he helped found it until the present day.

In 1990 Cesar, and two colleagues from a state agency were working with child laborers in Guasmo Sur, a neighborhood infamous for and marginalized by its gang violence and ruthless political leaders. The three men began organizing recreational activities for children, creating safe play spaces by working with local community leaders, gang members, and supportive parents. After a successful kite-building project, the kids began saying to each other, “Let’s go to My Kite,” and the name and organization were born.

***

The Community Base

The leaders soon realized that to truly change children’s lives, they must involve their families in the process. Movimiento Mi Cometa was formalized into an organization as more community leaders became involved, commitment to the movement grew, and funding was sought and received from outside organizations. The projects have changed name and shape over the years, but have always focused on human rights, children and youth, and improving the quality of life for people in marginalized communities.

In 2000 a massive project was undertaken to create what they call the “Plan of Indigenous Development.” Mi Cometa formed a team which created a community survey and a system of maps to gather information on the needs and wants of the people in Guasmo. 1,251 families representing 7,028 people were interviewed, and a database created. Community Day was organized and people voted on which projects they thought most important. The results compiled, an assembly was held to prioritize the projects and define the mission and vision of Mi Cometa. Since that time the organization has focused on implementing these projects while being guided by the mission and vision.

***

Mission

Movement Mi Cometa is a private community organization focused on social education and productivity. With children, youth and the inhabitants of popular urban sectors it promotes, develops, creates and re-creates alternatives to mainstream processes and organizations, promoting participation and self-reliance for the construction and realization of citizen’s rights.

Vision

To create a community of visionary citizens who advocate for their rights as a mental, physical and spiritual exercise, who propone and construct personal, familial, communal and societal well-being.

***

The Structure

By 11:00 people had begun to arrive. They walked between display tables showcasing Mi Cometa’s various programs. Women under a sign “Family Development Circles” sold earrings they had made. The “Adopt a Family” table boasted the model of the houses being built for that program’s participants. At tiny tables in the “Circles of Recreation and Activities” two- to five-year-old children had their faces painted and worked on art projects, guided by their instructors and mothers.

The structure of Mi Cometa is based around a board of directors elected every two years by popular assembly (composed of general membership), and a staff of volunteers who run the individual programs. These programs change as needs change, new ideas are formulated, and opportunities for grant money become available. Long-time members describe a sort of continuous re-invention of old programs as new issues and funding opportunities arise, but are emphatic that all programs remain grounded in the organization’s mission.

***

Mi Cometa's Programs

Adopt a Family: Health and housing program

Circles of Recreation and Activities: Early childhood development program

Children’s Community Animation Program

Youth League

College for Leaders of the Next Millennium

Circles of Family Development

Community Communication

Radio Utopia: community radio station
Internet Cafe

“Germinate” Program

Auto-credit cooperative
Exchange Network
Alternative Economic System
Commercial Services Network
Family Orchards Urban Gardening Program

Community Security Program

Observatory of Citizen’s Rights

***

Why Such Success?

As the afternoon wore on, people retreated from the heat of the equatorial sun, going home to eat and rest. Cecilia, Marjorie, Wendy and the rest of the staff cleared the displays and tables from the street before going to warm up the meal they’d prepared early that morning for their families. Colorful streamers fluttered silently on the building until evening, when people returned, and large speakers were pulled outside. Members of the community radio team sat behind them, filling the streets with music as the crowd danced late into the night.

Much of Mi Cometa’s success as a development organization can be attributed to the relationships formed, the hope, sense of belonging and identity it gives its members. As discussed earlier, it creates social capital among its members, allowing all aspects of their lives to run more smoothly, and assuages the despair created by the culture of poverty. The education offered as part of many of the programs has raised people’s awareness on issues ranging from hygiene to human rights to the environment, and given them a sense of purpose and control in their lives.

***

Human Dignity and Networks

Long-standing members have seen the neighborhood and their neighbors transform over the years. They say that after Mi Cometa’s health and housing program began, there was an increase in home improvements in the neighborhood, even among non-program participants. They have also observed many women who after receiving the education and improved home that the program provides cared more for their appearance, which they interpret as an increase in self-esteem. Through their membership and the personal growth it creates, Mi Cometa’s members gain dignity, which is passed on through their interactions with others.

The inspirational stories of the people involved with Mi Cometa have captured the imagination of the public, and the organization has developed strong relationships with the national press, national and international organizations and universities, and is well-known by government leaders. It receives a steady stream of international volunteers who add to its human capital, and members of Mi Cometa have been able to travel to various countries representing the organization at events.

***

Community Base and Leadership

Another important reason for success is Mi Cometa’s foundation in the local community. From the beginning, the organization’s founders worked with and achieved commitment from established community leaders, utilizing their connections, knowledge and friendships to build membership and tap local needs and interests. A current challenge is to maintain those connections; as the organization grows in size it is harder for the leaders to know the people, and there is a sense that they are less attuned than when Mi Cometa was new.

Since its inception Mi Cometa has had strong leadership. There are a good number of people who have remained dedicated to the organization since its beginning and their vision, passion, and pure determination have led to many accomplishments and successes. Cesar is one of these people, and is generally recognized as the head of Mi Cometa leader by the general membership as well as people outside Guasmo Sur. Especially in Ecuador’s stratified patriarchal culture, this is sometimes problematic as members are afraid to voice dissenting opinions or disagree with Cesar, and the organization suffers from the lack of representation and healthy debate. Other times the organization’s democratic structure functions well and a richer perspective gained.

***

Education

Most of the programs have educational components, and education itself is a value that is espoused by Mi Cometa. From the pre-school program to the projects focused on children, youth and families, relevant skills, rights, and information are disseminated and taught. Limited scholarships to children and youth are given through the Adopt a Family program, and adults in the community are encouraged to see the adolescents wanting “something more” in their lives. Teenage pregnancy rates are much lower among women in the Youth League than the general population, and adults’ lives are noticeably transformed through the knowledge and self-confidence gained through membership in this movement.

One yet unresolved challenge regarding education is that of the staff. Most staff members are long-time members of Mi Cometa and residents of Guasmo Sur, and have lacked opportunities to receive the education and technical training they desire. The current leadership of Mi Cometa has not prioritized providing that education and training to their volunteers, resulting in frustration for both the organization and the individuals. Lack of steady funding and long-term financial management are also challenges, and while current leadership likes the idea of a volunteer staff, the lack of a steady salary makes it difficult for volunteers to feed and clothe their families and at times creates resentment.

***

The morning after the Anniversary party people arrived later than usual. Marjorie put on a pot of coffee, Wendy turned on the radio, Cecilia filled buckets with water and threw them on the floor to begin mopping away yesterday’s mud. The others grabbed brooms and joined her, and as they cleaned the floor they laughed at each other’s stories and jokes. Children ran through the building, then Cesar walked in with a newspaper in hand, pictures from yesterday’s event bright next to the black and white text. It was soon posted on the bulletin board by the door and as more people entered, they paused to smile at the images of their Movement. But then they kept walking, intent on today’s work: another day had begun.

Endnotes

[1] The Economist London, “The Americas: Not so loco: Ecuador,” April 24, 2004. Vol. 371, Issue 8372, 56.

[2] Two such sources are the article cited on the previous page, The Economist London, and Carlos Larrea, “Ecuador’s Dollar Doldrums,” NACLA Report on the Americas, New York: Nov/Dec 2004. Vol. 38, Iss. 3, 47.

[3] UNICEF, “At a glance: Ecuador, The big picture,” Online. Available at http://www.unicef.org/infobycountry/ecuador.html. Accessed January 14, 2005.

[4] Oscar Lewis, “The Culture of Poverty,” Anthropological Essays (New York: Random House, 1946, 1970), 70-79.

[5] Lewis.

[6] Lewis.

[7] Robert Putnam, Bowling Alone:The collapse and revival of American community, New York: Simon and Schuster: 2000, 19.

[8] Putnam, 288-290.

La nina and the rest of the kids

2005-07-17T14:23:00.000-05:00

“Close your eyes,” Jose Luis said, then led me down the hall of Mi Cometa. I heard him unlock a door, and felt the door frame as I shuffled into the room I knew belonged to PAIC. PAIC stands for Programa Animación Infantil Comunitaria (Children’s Community Animation Program) and is the program I helped get going and coordinated since October when I arrived in Ecuador.

Jose was my right hand (19-year-old) man all year, and for the last six months we have been creating a leadership structure within the group of youth leaders. And as the time got closer for me to return to the US, we reorganized things so they and Jose took on more and more responsibility. The last month I was in Guayaquil, I spent my time primarily working on my photo essay, and served as an advisor to Jose and the teenagers running the program. I also traveled some, wanting to see more of the beautiful country before I returned to the United States. The day Jose led me into the PAIC office I had just returned from one of my traveling adventures, and he was excited to show me what he and the kids had done in my absence.

“Open your eyes now!”

I opened my eyes to see a room transformed – the previously bare walls had been painted bright orange and blue. A plush couch and two chairs were set up in one corner, designed to be a hang-out for the teenagers. In another corner a little office was taking shape, a bookshelf, donated table and laptop making up the workspace. I giggled as I remembered how a few weeks before I was the lone adult at a slumber party the youth leaders organized.

I suspect slumber parties have been imported to Ecuador via the media, because none of the 15 teenagers had been to one before, and no one brought a sleeping bag. Several parents expressed concern that the boys and girls were staying in the same space, and I promised to protect their daughters. We watched a movie, ate chips and told ghost stories, and at the end of the night I arranged a row of boys to sleep along one wall, a row of girls sleeping along the wall next to me. After I don’t know how many hours of them giggling and screaming about la nina (the girl), a ghost rumored to live at Mi Cometa, we finally fell asleep on the sandy cement floor with sheets over the top of us.

The PAIC office was a different place this morning, and I thought la nina would probably not like the cheerful atmosphere and bright colors. Jose told me that a group of kids had spent two consecutive Sundays painting, and how they told him they weren’t leaving until it was finished when he wanted to leave. We sat on the couches and spent a few minutes grinning as we talked about how much our 15 youth leaders have grown over the past 9 months.

14-year-old Ana worked closely with me before she took charge of the administrative aspect of the program (she now sends me monthly reports), and she has helped stretch the money my friends generously donated for the program before I left for Ecuador . When I first arrived Ana was a timid, studious girl who rarely left her house; she is now looked up to as a leader amongst her peers, and recognized by those who work with her for her intelligence, insight, honesty and sharp wit.

Ana with one of the kids

Ana and Jose are joined by 20-year-old Julio Cesar, they are the PAIC Leadership Team, and now that I have left Julieta, one of the founders of Mi Cometa, is their advisor, bringing her wealth of knowledge to the program. Thank you again to those of you who donated money for this children’s empowerment program back in September before I went to Ecuador! The money you donated has bought soccer and basketballs, art, office and training supplies, legos and the paint that has brightened our workspace. It has enabled us to take the children on field trips and the youth leaders on retreats, to organize parties for the kids celebrating the holidays and the International Day of the Child. It has paid Jose Luis a small salary so he could work full time on PAIC.

The kids coloring

Retreat and Camping Trip for the Animadores...

Field trip to a water park

Photos Photos and More Photos

2005-05-10T15:54:00.000-05:00

Here are a bunch of pictures I have taken recently, many when I was traveling with my parents (who are too adorable, are they not?). I included a few pics taken by friends of me so you can see that I still look the same as I did when I was 7.

Just click on the picture featured below to see more pictures from that place...

Guasmo Sur, Guayaquil: This is my street after a rain. The other pictures are of the people in Mi Cometa, the kittens I had for a while, and my adorable parents playing with my PAIC kids in Guasmo.

Quito: The capital of Ecuador: This first picture is of some of the indigenous women walking through Plaza San Fransisco in the historic section of Quito. Many of the pics are of my friends at Casa Victoria.

Cuenca: A beautiful colonial city also in the Sierra, the mountanous region of Ecuador. Beautiful city, beautiful people.

Otavalo: A lovely town in the mountains, know for the artisian work. Saturdays there is an incredible market where I went with my parents...

Of love and parasites in a Guayaquil winter

2005-05-05T12:45:00.000-05:00

My dreams have been strong recently. I don’t usually remember them, but I wake in the mornings full of emotion. One morning it was self-criticism, I woke with a list of what I’ve done wrong and what I could do better running through my mind. You’re not making a damn difference here, my mind told me. Sometimes it’s a nameless hunger, craving for something I cannot identify. Last night I dreamt of my cousins and I woke slowly with a smile, feeling love and the comfort of my family hovering around me, soft as the cotton sarong under which I sleep. For a while I lay silently as the fan’s air as pushed through my mosquito net and cooled my face, thoughts and morning prayers mingling lazily in my mind.

In the Guayaquil winter the heat builds and builds, unseen pressure in a beaker, until you cannot stand it, and then the bubble bursts, and the rain comes pouring down. This has been a mild winter, most days it has been possible to hop from rock to rock strategically placed in the puddles that filled the streets after each downpour. Aside from the days I’ve slipped off the rocks and splashed into the mud, there was only one day I actually had to wade through the dirty water. Looking down to get off the bus that brought me back to Guasmo from town center, I saw not the road but water. There was no alternative; I had to get off the bus. The water was mid-calf. I am a wimp. I yelled, “gross!” the entire walk home through the rain, and jumped in the shower as soon I got there, throwing my shoes and socks into a bucket of bleach water. In past years it has been waist high for weeks.

Internally I resemble the Guayaquil winter. Things quietly build and build in me until one day I burst, and the tears pour down my cheeks. The past few weeks have been full; emotions from my nights and days pile up under my surface.

Ceci’s sister Maribel found out she was pregnant just when he husband lost his job, so sometimes they don’t eat because there is no money. Ceci tries to help, but she has had no salary, and her husband Manuel only gives her $3 a day for food, not always enough for her own family. I woke one morning distraught about her unborn child, and feeling helpless at the days of unemployment that lie waiting for that small family. I counted out some vitamins for myself, then sent my bottle of multiple vitamins to Maribel, and recommended a comedor (soup kitchen) at my friend Fr. Eduardo’s church.

And then there are the already-born children. School just started for the year, and so many people have come to me, wanting scholarships for their children, they just want their kids to study. $60 here, $100 there. Ricky’s mother needed $20 for a stomach operation, Cindy needed $12 for a blood test. I give what I have, friends at home have been generous, so I can help some. Julio Cesar, Isaac, Ana, Daniel, Angelica, and Tyrone are in school this year thanks to friends at home.

And then there is the abuse. One evening on my way home I saw Joanna, one of my animadores’ sisters, arguing with a man outside her house. As I got closer, he hit her across the face. I walked up to where they were, watching closely. She raised her hand to her face, started crying. I moved to her side, put my arm silently around her shoulder. The argument continued. He took a step closer. “Don’t touch her,” I said, angry.

“I’m not going to,” he said, still yelling at her. Finally he left.

“Who was that?” I asked, hugging her.

“The father of my baby,” she answered, obviously embarrassed by my presence. I left her with her sisters, and continued to my house, thoughts whirling.

There is death. One of my close friends recently lost her mother, my own mother has lost 3 uncles, a child at the church I attend was killed in a gang dispute.

There is the corruption. I went to a popular “assembly” shortly following the president’s overthrow. There were about 200 people in the room, mostly men, mostly from social organizations, who got together to talk about the changes Ecuador needs. Speeches were made from the head table; we were instructed to divide into groups to formulate concrete ideas about how to restructure Ecuador’s government. The structure of the meeting was contested by a group of yelling men in collared shirts, then we moved into groups to talk.

I sat at the Economic Change table, turned red with anger when I was elected secretary because I am a woman. I told the group of mostly men I refused to be their secretary and explained how angry that made me. They looked down, cleared their throats, and one of the men picked up his pen and notebook.

I loved talking about monetary and fiscal policy, the free trade agreement currently being negotiated, dollarization and foreign debt, but in the end deflated as I realized how no changes would be effective if the current corruption continues. And how do you change that way of thinking? It almost seems to be part of the culture, inextricable as the language. That can´t possibly be true, but it is everwhere.

There is the disillusionment. Attending a few of Mi Cometa’s meetings called to recover their radio station I began wondering if the “democracy” the organization claims is nothing more than a word, and I wonder at the “empowerment” Mi Cometa claims to be giving its members. Cesar makes the decisions, and no-one will disagree with him for fear of being kicked out of Mi Cometa, or because they want to “back him up.” He calls meetings, suggests action plans, cuts people off quickly when they try to speak, then wants approval for his ideas. He gets it. The organization is mostly made of women, and they bring him coffee during meetings. When I ask about the unfairness of things, their lack of voice, they tell me with a smile, “Cesar’s just a man, you have to excuse him.” Sexism is a slippery, ugly thing.

When Cesar asked Nana, Julia and me to write a letter to Ecuador’s powerful and go to the press as international witnesses, the three of us talked at length and decided we were not comfortable with that proposal. We don’t understand the laws and culture of Ecuador well enough to understand Mi Cometa’s reasoning for intentionally breaking the law, but our gut instinct is that they should have tried to work within the laws first. We are disturbed by the lack of participation in the decision-making regarding this project, and the way Cesar leads. In one of the meetings he gave a speech in which he said there was no room for disagreement within the organization regarding the radio, and he dismissed the spoken dissent of Julia, Nana and I as coming from foreigners. Being sick has given me an excuse to stay away from meetings and cool down until I am ready to talk to Cesar.

The fight for the radio has continued to be in the press, it is now a national fight for community radio stations, for the human right to form communication media. A group of 130 people from Guasmo Sur traveled to Quito yesterday to demonstrate in the streets, and today they have an audience with the Superintendent of Telecommunications and the country’s new president. Nana, Julia and I look wide-eyed at each other, shaking our heads at how differently this would have played out in our countries.

Today I built fort, like I did as a kid. I have stayed in bed most of the day, under my mosquito net with books, newspapers, music, art supplies, stuffed animals, and my computer. I’ve retreated into my mind where things feel familiar. I am writing – my therapy. Then I get up and this reality settles in. I feel dizzy and my head aches; I can’t tell if it’s the “bugs in my belly” or the medicine that’s killing them.

I open my window and the outside sounds come in my apartment: vendedors shouting as they walk the streets trying to sell things, voices of children playing marbles in the mud, the loudspeakers of the church next door blaring a sermon that makes me cringe. There is the smell of chemicals as the city sends trucks spraying pesticide through the neighborhood in an attempt to stop the dengue outbreak. I close my window again and get back in bed under the mosquito net. I need a break today.

I am reading a book on international humanitarian workers, working in conflict zones around the world, and I realize how easy my life is compared to refugee camps and battle zones. I read my friend Bryan’s blog, about the people he works with in the Congo, and I realize my friends are rich in comparison. How can the majority of the world live in conditions that make my mind beat against the inside of my skull, wanting out? I know I was born in a bubble, but I also believe it is where everyone should be born, surrounded by love, healthy food and water, health care, quality education, opportunities to discover and develop talents. Some days I feel so hopeless in the face of the world’s realities. A couple days ago tears filled my eyes as I was talking to Julia and Nana about all of this. Nana’s host mother looked at me from where she was drying dishes in the kitchen, and gave me a neutral smile. “Life is hard, Dana. You just keep going.”

The world is just different from this hemisphere. The Southern Cross is in the sky rather than the Big Dipper if you somewhere where the stars’ light can reach your eyes. People throw trash on the floor of their houses for Mami to sweep up later. Dirt comes out of the faucets with the water. You have to ask children how old they are; malnourishment makes a 15-year-old look seven. There is no work. People I know either work 12 hour days, 6 days a week to be paid irregularly less than $200 a month, or they can’t find work at all. The employment situation never ceases to jar my senses.

Visas are denied. My friend Jose Luis was invited by the brothers of Taizé to spend this summer in the beautiful monastery where I spent 9 life-changing months. After months of paperwork and bureaucracy, investing time, money, and hope, we turned in everything to the French Consulate last week, and the visa was denied. Why? Probably because José is 20 and makes $145 a month, and they think he will stay in France. His dedication to the people here and his honesty means he would not stay there, but I have to say I empathize with those people who would. Why wouldn’t you want to move somewhere where there is work, and even at minimum wage you earn more in a week than you would in a month here?

So José is denied an opportunity, an unborn baby and mother denied proper nutrition, and countless children denied education. Life isn’t fair.

But this is life. The stories, the facts of people’s lives are usually told me in a conversational tone, although tears other than my own are plentiful in my life. There is a sense of helplessness regarding money; it silently permeates people’s lives. You do what you can, spend money when you have it, borrow it when desperate, laugh when something is funny, cry when the reality of how hard life is hits you.

When I finally got my lab results back after a week of being sick and hours in on the plastic chairs in the clinic’s waiting room, the doctor told me I have fungus in my intestines (can you think of anything more disgusting?), parasites, possibly amoebas, and that my blood test shows I should have a raging typhoid fever (which I don’t). As soon as she found out I was sick Ceci appeared at my door with chicken soup and chamomile tea, flower petals floating in its soothing warmth. The worry on her face matched the tone of my own mother’s voice when we talked on the phone. I think it’s harder to be the mother than the sick daughter.

The parasites’ timing was impeccable, I must say. The day I got back to Guayaquil after traveling with my parents I was at Mi Cometa, and every time someone I hadn’t yet greeted came in, they ran over to me warmly welcoming me back. And each one of them said to me, smiling joyfully, “You’re so fat!”

After about the 10th person in the span of an hour I turned to José, sitting next to me, and said, “This is a difficult cultural moment. I wish I were as happy as everyone else about it, but it’s hard for me to be told so many times how fat I am.” He smiled at me.

Recounting the story to Julia later in the day, I said, “Well, it must be time to fall in love again. The beginning and end of relationships usually make me loose weight.” She said she wouldn’t mind falling in love herself, and then we doubled over laughing at the improbability of finding true love in Guasmo Sur. Little did I know there was a different type of weight loss program awaiting me. But now perhaps I understand the excitement over a few extra pounds.

Fuera Lucio - Overthrow of President Gutierrrez

2005-04-25T12:34:00.000-05:00

When I arrived in Quito with my parents the first of April there were small groups of protesters gathering in the square outside the presidential palace. They grew bigger over the two weeks I was in Quito, increasing until Wednesday when the president Lucio Gutierrez became the ex-president, fleeing the presidential palace in a helicopter.

The recent backdrop to this drama was set on December 8 2004 when a parliamentary majority of legislators affiliated with Lucio’s political coalition passed a resolution dismissing all Supreme Court judges. New judges were appointed, all of whom were connected to that same reining political group. Legally, neither the president nor the legislature holds the power to take such an action. Discontent began growing in the population, and there were marches against the government in January and February in Guayaquil and Quito respectively.

The agitation heightened when on March 29 Guillermo Castro, then president of the Supreme Court and personal friend of Ecuadorian ex-president Abdalá Bucaram, annulled all corruption charges against his friend and two other ex-presidents of Ecuador: Noboa and Dahik. Then on April 1, 2, and 3, they one-by-one returned to Ecuador from their respective countries of asylum (El Universo, 4A, 5A Martes 19 de abril del 2005 y “El fenómeno ‘forajidos’” El Universo, 1D, Domingo 24 de abril 2005). The people took to the streets in great numbers beginning on April 13, and a week later, Wednesday April 20, Lucio was ousted and Alberto Palacio was sworn in as Ecuador’s president.

On Wednesday, April 13 there was a paro, a strike called by the authorities of Quito and Pichincha to protest the corruption of the president and his administration. I saw a lot of Quito that day as there were few busses running because of the strike and I was trying to help my friend José Luis (from Mi Cometa) get his French visa for his upcoming trip to the Taizé monastery. As we walked across the city to Casa Victoria from the French Consulate José trailed along just behind me as I followed the crowds with my camera, chiding, “Dana, be careful. Be careful with your camera.”

“I will, I just want to take some pictures. And don’t worry, protesters like cameras.”

Taking pictures of the confrontations between the protesters and police, and of the vendors stationed along the streets of the protest, offering fruit, gum, water, I moved with José between different crowds, trying to avoid the worst of the tear gas and staying away from the rock-throwers. We stopped to check on a man we saw carried from the fray by a group of police and protesters and then left lying on the sidewalk, only to discover he was just very drunk, and he went running after us when we walked away, trying to give me a little card with a picture of Jesus on it. We got on a bus back to Guayaquil that night, when the spark for the overthrow was lit.

(to see all pics of the protests, click here)

That night in response to Lucio calling the paro a failure, a proposal was made on La Luna, a community radio station in Quito. “Hagamos un cacelorazo, vamos todos a las calles” translation, “Let’s make a casserole, let’s all go to the streets.” For two hours the radio station opened their microphone to anyone who wanted to call in, and a march was spontaneously organized for the following day.

Lucio called the protesters “Forajidos,” or delinquents, people escaping justice. La Luna embraced the word, broadcasting, “We are all forajidos!” Entire families, religious sisters, students, people young and old filled the streets, carrying signs, Ecuadorian flags, beating drums and bowls. (“Los Forajidos hacen una Revolución de otro tiempo,” Hoy Jueves 21 de abril 2005, 2A, and conversations with friends).

In addition to being central to the organization of the resistance movement, the radio station also became a symbol of the movement. When a group of government employees attempted to attack the radio station on Friday, the crowds moved to protect it, and when the station mysteriously lost its signal on Monday April 19th, more than 150 people went to the station to express their solidarity (“Radio ‘La Luna’ se quedó sin señal ayer,” El Universo, Martes 19 de abril 2005, 1A).

The president declared a state of emergency in Quito, suspending several civil rights of the population on Saturday the 16th. The protests continued growing in Quito, while in Guayaquil the first marches finally took place on Monday the 19th, and in Guasmo Sur it was impossible to even find a newspaper. When I did find a paper Monday, it announced the legislators had ratified the termination of the controversial Supreme Court justices over the weekend. When the legislative session ended, those legislators affiliated with the political opposition ended the chanting the same words as the “cacerolazo” (casserole), the thousands of demonstrators in the streets, “Lucio, fuera!” (Lucio, out!) (“Congreso ratificó cese de la Corte, por unanimidad,” El Universo, Lunes 18 de abril 2005, 1A).

The chiming of the bells of the churches in Quito’s city center on Tuesday morning set military on edge, thinking they announced a call to attack the government. Instead they announced the naming of the new pope, Benedicto XVI, just announced in Vatican City, Rome. Amid the chaos, people went to the churches to pray for the new pope (and he does need the prayers, he’s horribly conservative). That afternoon the first casualty in the Quito protests took place – Agusto García, a Chilean photographer, had a cardio-respiratory attack amid the teargas while photographing the march. (“Un Muerto en Protestas de Quito,” El Universo, miercoles 20 de abril 2005 1A).

Wednesday I spent the day in Guayaquil’s city center with José Luis getting the rest of his papers together for his visa application. Crowds of people stood on the sidewalk outside electronics stores, watching images of Quito, where the protests were intensifying. Employees of banks and travel agencies had TVs and radios on, and updated each other every few minutes. The crowds in Quito chanted, “Lucio, fuera!” (Lucio, out!).

He was voted out of his office as president in Congress at 1:30 in the afternoon; soon after the military withdrew their support and the troops who had been on the streets battling the crowds retreated. Minutes later, Lucio fled the government palace in a helicopter and Alfredo Palacio, his vice president, was sworn in as president of Ecuador by the National Congress. The crowds learned Lucio was on his way to the airport to try to leave the country, and they stormed the airport tarmac, impeding his flight and causing the airport to be shut down. President Palacio stood on a balcony of the Congressional building to try to calm the crowds, they chanted for him to leave too, and threw sticks at him. (“Minuto a Minuto” El Universo, 6A jueves 21 de abril de 2005).

Over lunch yesterday my friend Sandra was filling me in on the background of this situation. Palacio is not technically affiliated with any political party, and is seen as a puppet without any strong opinions of his own. Right now it seems the political group Partido Social Cristiano (Christian Social Party) is manipulating him, and they have also taken control of the Congress. The mayor of Guayaquil is also member of this political party, and Mi Cometa has organized several demonstrations against him for failing to follow through with promises made to install sewage systems in Guasmo Sur and provide the people with potable water.

The newspaper yesterday gave an interesting summary of what they consider to be the major issues at the moment in Ecuador. There is still no Supreme Court, and no agreed-upon way of choosing the new court. There is little public confidence in the Congress, people have been yelling “Que se vayan todos!” (Everyone leave!), and during the protests several Congressional members were physically attacked by the crowds. Because of the political turmoil Ecuador had to withdraw from this week’s negotiations of the free trade agreement they are in the midst of with the US, Columbia and Peru. Everyone is marveling at the “forajidos,” the non-politically led, popular leaderless movement, begun by a community radio station, which helped topple Lucio Gutierrez.

On our own doorstep

2005-04-25T12:00:00.000-05:00

I was running late Thursday, and as I hurriedly rounded the corner to Mi Cometa I was surprised to see the building surrounded by policemen in brown uniform, guns in their hands. The front door was closed, and I walked around to the side of the building to the entrance is to the “Cyber,” Mi Cometa’s internet café. Ruth opened the door and hurried me inside, whispering, “shhhh.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, but no one was listening. The door between the Cyber and Mi Cometa’s reception area opened; people ran in and out. I walked to the reception desk where the administrator Gladys was gripping a paper in her right hand, excitedly talking into the telephone.

19-year-old Carolina walked up, wringing her hands, eyes wide. She had been leading her biweekly group of 3-year-olds when the police arrived, and all of her crying children had just been sent home. I looked to the right into the common room, saw police peering in all the barred windows of the building.

“They’re here for the radio,” she told me. “They say we can’t have the radio; they’ve cut the electric line and want in the building.”

Marjorie was walking around, “We must call the people. We must go get the people and have them come here right now.” She ran out of the building.

I walked over to the main entrance to Mi Cometa where Nana and Carolina were standing, talking to a group of 4 men just on the other side of the ironwork of the door: two in police uniform, two in suits. More police with guns filled the patio behind them and more were spaced around the building.

“Doesn’t anyone have a camera?” Carolina asked.

“No. Send a message to Wilmer to come quick with my camera,” Nana told me. I did.

The men on the other side of the door talked forcefully. “We have a warrant; we can enter with force if we need to. Let us in.”

“Just wait a minute please,” I told them, “we’re on the phone with the president of Mi Cometa right now.”

“Is that Cesar Cardenas? Where is he?”

“He’s in the center of town at the moment,” Carolina said. “He’s on his way here.”

Gladys approached the door with the warrant in her hand. “I cannot let you in,” she told them. “This document is not valid, it does not specify why you are here or even mention the name of Mi Cometa – it has a vague description of our location. You did not notify us in advance, and you are using an inappropriate amount of force. To let you in would be to go against everything this organization stands for.”

“If you don’t let us in we will break down the door,” they said. “We have been waiting half an hour already.”

“You have been waiting five, ten minutes,” Nana shot back. “Have a little bit of patience.”

“I don’t have the keys,” Gladys replied. “Just a minute.” She walked away.

The men in suits stepped back, and the policemen grabbed the ironwork of the door and pulled hard. The 3 of us standing on the other side stepped back. They pulled again, and the lock broke, the door swung open toward them.

“How barbaric!” Nana yelled.

The men pushed into the building, the police in the patio following close behind. Gladys blocked the door to the administrative offices. “The radio is over there,” she pointed behind them. Half of the police walked down the hallway where she pointed, the others pushed her aside and went to the room where the radio transmitter was located. The women followed them, arguing fiercely.

One ripped the warrant out of Gladys’ hand and was practically attacked by about 3 women yelling, “That is ours.” He gave it back.

Armed men now lined the building, and several positioned themselves across the room from where the transmitter was being disconnected and carried off. I noticed I was shaking slightly, and was amazed by the courage of these women who were not at all daunted by the presence of so many guns, and their sure knowledge of their human rights. Realizing finally I should get my camera, I sprinted out of the building and through the mud to my house to get it.

By the time I returned, the police were driving off in their cars and Mi Cometa was surrounded instead by the community members who comprise the organization. They had been prevented from entering or even getting close to the building earlier by the police, but once the police had left they charged into the building, found paper and paint and began painting signs, “We have rights,” “Free Radio Utopia” A man emerged from the back of the building announcing, “We have electricity again.”

Cesar, Mi Cometa’s president since its inception 14 years ago, arrived with Sandra, the director of the radio, Radio Utopia. They disappeared into the office and minutes later emerged with a press release, which was soon running repeatedly through the fax machine. The press had already been called, and within minutes trucks from the newspaper, TV stations, and radio stations pulled up in the mud outside Mi Cometa, and interviews began.

The community members taped their posters on the walls around the building, and congregated in front of them, chanting “We want our radio station,” “Free Utopia!” “For the voice of the children” “For the voice of women!” Mi Cometa’s youth group showed up with the stilts and drums they always bring to public demonstrations, and mounted their stilts holding signs high above the shouting children, men, and women below.

After the press left we had a meeting, and it was decided there would be a community meeting that night, so we spent the rest of the afternoon picking our way through the mud and hopping from rock to rock to cross the ankle-deep puddles that fill the roads to notify people. I went to the houses of all my animadores (youth leaders) and we divided up the homes of all the PAIC children, which we visited. We briefly explained the situation, and invited the families to come to Mi Cometa to help organize the organization’s response.

As I have not really been involved with Radio Utopia since it started in January, this meeting was very informative for me. Mi Cometa in January submitted papers to the appropriate authorities to register the radio station, but rather than waiting for the response and license, they pirated 108 FM and began broadcasting. In part they began before getting permission because of the time they knew it would take to receive permission (they said it could take years), in part because they say there are no laws specifically for community radio stations, only for commercial ones, and they wanted to bring this to the attention of the authorities.

The argument Mi Cometa is making is that the Ecuadorian constitution, in Article 23, guarantees the human right to form medias of communication. They are articulating to the media (who are covering this case daily) that the laws of telecommunications are contrary to the constitution and thus the human rights of the people, that Mi Cometa is in the right and it is the law that is in the wrong.

Friday morning a large group from Mi Cometa went with their signs, drums and stilts on the streets in front of the Public Ministry building. Cesar and Sandra met with the attorney prosecuting the case, and asked for 1. provisional permission to operate the radio until the license is granted to Radio Utopia, 2. the return of the transmitter, and 3. that the legal charges against Mi Cometa be dropped. He said only that Mi Cometa needs to present more paperwork to the Superintendent of Telecommunications in Quito.

By Friday night it had been decided that Mi Cometa would take as many community members as possible to Quito for this event, and plans are underway at the moment for this massive mobilization. Meanwhile, they have contacted other organizations around Ecuador as well as in other countries to get their support, which they have overwhelmingly received. Radio La Luna in Quito has pledged their solidarity, and a group from a community radio station in Venezuela wants to come to Guayaquil to show their support.

It has been interesting to reflect on this event and what it has shown of Mi Cometa. Radio Utopia deliberately broke a law the organization thought was unfair, and Mi Cometa is using the opportunity the persecution presents to fight for the right to form medias of communication. Nana, Julia and I have had some interesting discussions about how this is not how we would have gone about trying to change the law, but we are used to functioning in a more fair and efficient system.

When I look at the people and how they have responded, I think it is in this sort of situation that Mi Cometa shines. It is an organization that professes its goal to be “to create citizens who realize their human rights,” it is focused on fighting for the rights of the economically disadvantaged and marginalized sectors of Guayaquil society. The people in Guasmo Sur are very loyal to Mi Cometa, they are quickly mobilized and have a unique way of protesting, which is always covered by the media. Over the years the organization has built strong ties with other non-profit organizations as well as the media.

Nonviolent change is central to the organization’s philosophy, but they also make protesting a cultural event, arriving with drums, stilts, and children, dancing, chanting, jumping; smiles on everyone’s faces. Cesar is without a doubt the leader of the organization, and he is a charismatic convincing speaker, well versed in human rights and knowledgeable of Ecuador’s laws and constitution. The staff of Mi Cometa is also knowledgeable of their rights, believes in change, and is excellent at mobilizing the community. They are a talented group of people, many of whom have been brought to life over the years by their involvement in Mi Cometa.

To see all the pictures please click on the following picture...

Bizarre Week

2005-04-23T19:28:00.000-05:00

My visa expired Tuesday. In true Ecuadorian style went to Immigration bright and early Monday morning, passport in my under-clothes fanny pack, newspapers in my backpack for the anticipated wait. I walked up to the second floor, asked the uniformed man behind the desk what to do. “Oh, we can’t do that here; you have to go to Quito.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is the office even open?” I asked. “What if I go to Peru? Will that work?”

He hesitated.

“What if I just don’t do anything? Does it matter?”

“They could take you to jail.” He lowered his voice. “Just go to Peru. Huaquillas is closer.”

I sneezed as I left the shade of the building and stepped into the sun, into the oppressive heat of the never-ending Guayaquil winter. The bus terminal was across the street, my house an hour across town, and the second half of my week would be busy. I crossed the street and bought a bus ticket, got on the bus and pulled out my newspaper. An hour into the four-and-a-half hour journey my mom called my cell phone. “What’s that noise; where are you?”

“That’s the wind coming in the window. I’m on a bus to Peru.” Pause. We burst out laughing.

I got off the bus in Huaquillas, the Ecuadorian town that borders Peru. The immigration official stamped my passport, “Salida: Huaquillas – El Oro.”

I got back on the bus, got off the bus 5 minutes later in Huaquillas, and went to the office of the Federacion Democratica de Mujeres, where I had taken pictures in February for the Inter-American Foundation.

My friend Rebecca was working. She jumped out of her chair and hugged me. “Dana! Come, sit down!” I explained whey I was there.

“So you’re going to Peru now?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I think I just needed this stamp and then tomorrow when I go back into Ecuador, they’ll stamp my passport again and I’ll have a new visa.”

Rebecca invited me to her house for dinner and to sleep, and I spent the evening being entertained by her bright-eyed 2-year-old nephew Fernando, who ran around excitedly, bit me, his grandmother, and the dog, and was later fixated by the sight of me in the shower, dumping buckets of water over my head. I’m sure he’d never seen such a white naked person. There was no door to any of the rooms in the house, no running water, and there was little of the delicious food in my dinner bowl. Rebecca, an engineer by training and president of FDM, now lives with her sister Maria, a teacher, and Maria’s 2 children. Both women have steady jobs, but work long hours and barely getting by economically.

The next morning I was up early and on the 5:30AM bus to Guayaquil. When I got off at Immigration just outside of Huaquillas and handed the official my passport, he handed it back to me. “You need an entrance and exit stamp from Peru.”

I tried talking him into just stamping my passport, then the bus driver tried, but two minutes later I was standing on the other side of the street, looking for a ride back into the city. A policeman asked a couple men in a pickup truck if they’d take me, and I climbed into the bed of the truck and went back to town, where I walked down the street that connects Ecuador and Peru.

As I approached the boarder money-changers walked up to me, and I realized not only was I unsure of this passport business, but I didn’t even know the exchange rate between US dollars (Ecuador’s currency) and Peruvian Solis. I asked how many solis it cost to take a taxi to the immigration office in Peru. They said 35, I asked how many dollars that would be.

“Sixteen.”

“No.” I said. “Thank you.” I put my backpack on my front, and kept walking to the border. Two more men approached me, asked where I was going. I explained my situation.

The older man in a blue checkered shirt said, “I’ll help you. I’ve helped lots of foreigners. By law, you have to be in Peru for 48 hours. To get both stamps on the same day you have to bribe the officials $100. But the immigration officials’ shift ends at 8:00am, so we can go through immigration now, you can say you’re going to Tumbes (nearby Peruvian town). We’ll go there, eat something, go back to the office after they’ve changed people and since they won’t recognize you, you won’t have to bribe them.”

I asked his price in dollars, his name, and as I weaved through people following him to his car, I thought how strange it was to be choosing who to trust between complete strangers. And without foreknowledge of fair prices, how to get my visa renewed, etc. I felt almost stripped of my intellect. I felt small.

My round purple entrance stamp to Peru was easy, and as we sped by the vivid green of rice fields between El Oro and Tumbes Gustavo and I talked about our families, politics, life, and we arrived in Tumbes quickly. Over our café con leche and cheese sandwiches, he told me the official might notice the date on my stamp and give me a hard time for being in Peru only a day. My friend Kristin’s advice came back to me. “That’s when you have to play dumb, flirt, or bribe,” she had said.

Gustavo had another plan. To lie. “Just say you were here visiting your friend the Consul, say you’re working together on a project for children.”

We went to the park after breakfast and he pointed out the Consul’s house, and asked his name. It was 7:45. Back to the taxi. “Pedro Morgatio Izquierda,” I rehearsed the name silently in the car on the way back to the immigration office. I smiled brightly at all officers and they stamped my passport and wished me a good day. I exhaled as I walked quickly from the office, and smiled at Gustavo. “Thank you so much!”

As we approached the border to Huaquillas again, Gustavo asked me for a tip that almost doubled our agreed-upon price, wheedling that he needed to make a profit and that his knowledge had saved me money. The small feeling returned, and I argued with him for a few minutes, finally giving him a smaller tip. As I walked back into Ecuador and found my way to the bus station I felt weary from ignorantly trying to defend myself from being taken advantage of and still be fair, and for the first time in all my solo travels, I wished I hadn’t been alone.

My Ecuadorian entry stamp and visa extension were then easy and back on the bus I took off my shoes, opened my window and my notebook and went to work on things for PAIC.

At the Guayaquil bus station I got on a city bus to Guasmo Sur, sat in a bench 3 rows behind the driver’s seat. Near 9 de Octubre, Guayaquil’s main street, a blind man was helped onto the bus. In one hand he gripped the broomstick serving as his cane, with the other he held onto the silver bar at the entrance to the bus, which lurched forward as he reached into his pocket for his 25 cents. He teetered. Everyone sat in their seats. I jumped up, put my hand on his shoulder.

“Can I help you to your seat?” I yelled above the regatón music and the wind. I didn’t hear his answer, but as I guided him to the seat just behind him, the bus driver slammed on his breaks, and the little man and I stumbled forward then backwards. He half fell into the seat behind him; I regained my balance and laughed in disbelief as the bus weaved through traffic.

Ten minutes later he yelled, “Where are we?” and the other people on the bus yelled back street names, and helped him off the bus; I craned my neck to watch him walk slowly down the sidewalk. I opened my newspaper and as I looked down to read it, noted my formerly-white shirt was brown from two dusty traveling days. A few minutes later the other passengers and I laughed at each other in disbelief, bouncing out of our seats the bus driver drove over the median to change lanes. A few minutes later, a stream of dirty water flew through the bus window and hit me in the face. I looked back to see men working on a water line by the highway, and wondered if my life could get any more bizarre.

The answer was yes. On Wednesday the president of the country was overthrown, and when I talked to my Mom she told me my new credit card she mailed me was stolen in the mail, and someone tried to charge over $2,000 on it. On Thursday morning a group of police and government officials surrounded Mi Cometa, breaking down the door I stood on the other side of with my colleagues, trying to reason with the armed men. By later in the day Mi Cometa’s story was all over the news.

Friday after a bout of diarrhea, a broken refrigerator and a fall into one of the disgusting mud pools that comprise Guasmo’s streets this time of year, I joined the rest of Mi Cometa for a demonstration in front of the Public Ministry and the Office of Telecommunications in Guayaquil.

By yesterday evening letters were pouring into Mi Cometa from other organizations expressing their support for our plight, and plans are currently underway to mobilize 200 people from Guasmo Sur to go to Quito to dialogue inside and protest outside the offices of the Superintendent of Telecommunications and the new President of Ecuador.

Lindo Quito

2005-04-22T10:08:00.000-05:00

I first visited in December, my first trip to Quito. I was invited by Alicia, a friend of a friend from DC. Casa Victoria is the name of the non-profit organization that was Alicia’s dream, and also of the historic house that is central to the organization she and her family founded. The house, situated in Old Quito just outside the historic center in a low-income neighborhood, was built in the 1800s and was first the country home of a wealthy businessman. Over the years it has been a residence, hospital, and later its beautiful rooms were divided into small sections and rented to poor families.

Alicia, with her daughter Carolina, a historian and teacher, and Carolina’s husband José Luis, an architect, work together for the foundation. Several years ago they bought the abandoned house with the idea of renovating it into a community center and home for adolescent boys who would live there in Christian community with mentors and learn trades such as carpentry and plumbing as they worked together rebuilding the house.

Over the past couple years, José Luis completed the blueprints, Caro did a historical study of the neighborhood, and the founding members of Casa Victoria (above mentioned, plus a beautiful couple, Cheryl and Tylor) interviewed the neighbors, gathering their impressions of the neighborhood and ideas for the house. José supervises the renovation process, and Caro works closely with Gaston, a teacher, catechist, and artist, who moved to Quito from his home in Buenos Aires to mentor the boys, on issues related to their formation.

When I first visited in December Casa Victoria did not yet have mentees, but when I returned in March there were three street kids, Oscar Patricio, Raul, and Leo, living with the two mentors, Gaston and Esteban. There is also now a steady trickle of other teenage boys who come to the house invited by their friends for meals and soccer games.

(front row Oscar, seated behind him José Luis and Carolina, behind them Esteban and Leo)

Since my first trip to Quito, I have felt at home in Casa Victoria, and to my delight this visit extended into a two-week stay. My parents were with me for a few days, Mom mothering the boys, Dad working with the kids scraping paint at Casa Victoria, and all of us enjoying getting to know the beautiful people there and the adventures on which José and Carolina took us.

When Mom and Dad left, Nana and Julia, two Austrian volunteers who are doing their social work internship in Mi Cometa with PAIC, came from Guayaquil, and the 3 of us stayed another week (All pictures are from Nana´s digital camera).

Julia

Nana

We joined in many of the group´s activities, including a hike up Pichincha, and Nana and Julia visited organizations and universities in the captial to learn more about social work in Ecuador.

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“Hoo hoo hoo,” I mimicked Juan’s soccer-playing monkey noises as I tackled him, trying to strip the soccer ball in the weekly Wednesday afternoon soccer match. He passed the ball to Leo, I spun around and went after it, laughing as Esteban teased me, “Go for the ankles or shins.”

“Galletas,” (crackers) Juan complimented Leo on his footwork, and I stopped, leaned over, gasping for oxygen in the thin air of Quito, 9400 feet above sea level.

That night at the dinner table I pulled up my jeans to look at the black and blue that ran from my ankle halfway up my shin. Juan (not his real name), sitting at the table accross from me cocked his head, jerked it quickly upward. “Ey, Dana. Let’s go to the discoteca.”

I laughed. “Do they let you in, Juan? You’re only, what, 14 or 15.”

He gave me a mischievous half-smile. “No, I’m 23.”

“And I’m 85.”

Nana walked into the dining room, Julia close behind, and we sat at the table for dinner. “Nana, Julia, let’s go to the discoteca.”

“Why don’t we dance here?” I said, “You guys can teach us salsa.”

Nana smiled, “Yeah! We can push back the table and dance.”

“But the dishes have to be done first,” I said. Gaston and Esteban were at a meeting with Carolina so I was in charge of the boys for the evening. After the nightly argument about whose turn it was to wash the dishes, dinner ended and the girls and I went to our rooms to read. Oscar and Leo went to get their salsa CDs and Juan went into the kitchen and turned on the water over the stack of plates in the sink.

I emerged from my room 20 minutes later to find Oscar yelling instructions at Gabriel, who he had by the hands between the table and buffet. Leo was dancing to one side, and Juan soapy plate in one hand, was dancing on the other. “Come dance,” they said.

“Dishes.” I peered into the kitchen, where there were soap suds all over the counter and floor, water still trickling from the faucet over the plates.

“Ya ya ya ya ya,” Juan said, returning to the sink.

An hour after the preparations had begun Nana, Julia and I were being spun around in the living room, and when Carolina, Gaston, and Esteban walked in they found us dancing, the boys arguing about whose dance partner was better.

A week later we were sitting at the lunch table, nearing the end of our rice, sausage and fried plantains, when the conversation turned to tattoos. Several of the boys had tattoos, and when I asked Juan why he had tattooed a blue dot on his arm, Leo replied that it was a sign of his gang. “Why did you join a gang?” I asked him matter-of-factly. He looked sideways at me, then seemed to relax.

Shrugged his shoulders, “to mess around.”

Some of his friends were in the gang he joined, his cousin in a different one.

“What did you have to do to join?” I asked.

“You have to have muscles.” He flexed his bicep. “We had to carry heavy things across a river on our shoulders.”

Gaston was looking at him, “And how much influence did the ‘king’ of the gang have?” he asked. “If the king said let’s go get that guy, would everyone go?”

“No,” Juan said. “Decisions had to be unanimous. “If one person didn’t want to do something, we didn’t do it.”

The conversation continued; one by one people excused themselves from the table until it was just Gaston, Juan and I talking over empty plates. We eventually started talking about why Juan had left his town to move to Quito – he had shot a man.

“It was an act of revenge,” he explained. “They sent 2 of us, both with guns. I shot him in the side, the other guy in the leg. We didn’t mean to kill him and we didn’t.” He stuck out his chest. “If I’d meant to kill him I would have.”

“Can you imagine how he felt when he was shot?” I asked.

“No, he was just some stupid gang member,” he looked down. Gaston and I looked at each other across the table.

“Do you realize that description could have been applied to you?” Gaston asked. Juan muttered something.

“Are you afraid to die?” I asked.

Juan looked up. “No, I’m not afraid of anything.”

“How long after you shot him did you leave town?” Gaston’s question.

“A week later, I didn’t know if they knew it was me.”

“And so now you can’t go back?” I asked.

Juan´s eyes went to the table again. “No.”

Gaston brought up Juan’s recent conflict with a gang in the Quito neighborhood where he was staying. “You are going to be leaving Quito soon, too, if you keep having conflicts like that."

“Yeah, but I can’t just walk by if someone’s insulting my mother or insulting my friend’s mother.”

Gaston described several different ways it was possible to react, and also how the provoking guys would tire if ignored.

“They don’t know your mother anyway,” I said. “Can’t you try thinking that – it doesn’t matter what they say about her.”

Gaston empathized with Juan´s inability to let someone be disrespectful to him or his family, but emphasized that there are options for how one chooses to react. “You could always sing under your breath, like you do here and keep walking when you feel yourself getting angry,” he suggested. “And you’re behavior’s not going to change from one day to the next, but if you decide you want to start reacting in a different way, you can do it, poco a poco.”

“Do you see how you are letting other people control your life?” I asked. “If you continue just reacting to others you will never be able to make any decisions for yourself.”

“You’ll move from here to Cuenca, then to Guayaquil where you’ll soon have to leave,” Gaston added.

Juan looked at me. “Are you saying I shouldn’t fight?”

I looked back at him. “No, I’m just saying I think it’s a good idea to think about the decisions you have made and are making and how they affect you, to see if this is how you want to live your life.”

I got up from the table, got a roll and the jam, and sat back down. Spreading the jam, I smiled at Juan. “What do you love most? Who is most important to you?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Who’s most important to me? My family. My mother and brothers.”

“And what do you like to do for fun?”

“I love to play soccer, andI love the beach.”

“And for work? What work would you like to do?” I asked.

“I liked being the cobrador on the busses that run between beach towns near my village.”

“It seems to me, Juan, that you have two options. You can keep letting your life be determined by your reactions to other people, or you can work toward achieving this positive thing – to live near your family, where you can play soccer on the beach, work on a bus, go salsa dancing and hang out with your friends. It’s something worth thinking about.” I took a bite of my roll.

There was silence at the table for a minute, then Juan looked between Gaston and me. “Is this conversation finished now?” Gaston and I laughed, we all got up and took our plates to the kitchen.

---------------------------------------------

The Saturday before I left Quito Gaston had the day off, so we packed our cameras, extra film, he put his maté and thermos in his bag, and we headed out the door after breakfast. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

“Let’s get on a random bus headed out of town and get off somewhere pretty,” I said, remembering one of his favorite Buenos Aires pastimes. He smiled, and led the way through the rain to where the busses waited in a smoggy huddle to gain the weight of passengers and follow roads that wind from Quito into or between the surrounding mountains.

The cobrador (man in charge of collecting bus fare) held out his hand, asked where we were going. We paused. He asked, “The Triangle?”

“A little further than the Triangle,” Gaston replied. I giggled.

“80 cents.”

Gaston emptied change out of a film canister and handed the man the sum. An hour later a grassy bank filled the space between the road and a river.

“Let’s get off here,” I said. We did, and spent the rest of the day wandering the village, finding shapes in the clouds, laughing at the flying Super Jesus we encountered in the town’s church, taking pictures, and drinking smoothies made from a mysterious fruit that looked to me like a cactus. We never did find out the name of the town.

When we got back that night we met up with Nana and Julia and went to the restaurant on top of the Panasillo, one of the mountains in Quito. We had drinks, I had the local specialty of hot chocolate with chunks of cheese in it (?!), and we admired Quito’s lights, how they covered the hilly landscape below. From that hight we could pick out the arches of Casa Victoria, illuminated among the street lights and church steeples.

Mom takes over the Blog

2005-04-13T09:53:00.000-05:00

Sitting on the airplane clutching my only remaining Kleenex and chewing on the last, coveted Pepto Bismal tablet in our First Aid kit, I reflected on how hard it is to leave our little Dana behind in a foreign land. And yet it is her spirit of adventure and passion for social justice that has led Mike and me on vacations beyond our wildest imaginings! Ecuador was no exception. :)

We began in Guayaquil, a day late after delays in Tampa caused us to miss our connecting flight in Ft. Lauderdale. The Southwest flight we took from Tampa to Ft Lauderdale should have given us a three and a half hour layover, allowing plenty of time to make our connection to Ecuador on Avianca Air. After being told a pack of lies in Tampa regarding the cause of our 4 hour delay, my hysteria button was pushed when a Southwest Flight to Ft. Lauderdale that was scheduled to leave an hour and a half later than our flight was given priority to take off. In attempting to protest the unfairness of the situation, I was reduced to blubbering and gesturing! Once I settled down, I called Avianca to explain our circumstances. The understanding agent ended up waving the penalty fees for missing our flight and when neither my cell phone nor my phone card would authorize a call to Ecuador letting Dana know we'd be a day late, I called my brother, Terry, and asked him to relay the message to her. That worked and Mike and I resigned ourselves to the situation.

Our first day of exploring Ecuador began on Good Friday in Guyaquil's Iguana Park, where a large iguana with a very full bladder let loose from a tree high above. Instinctively, I jumped and was able to avoid the unexpected shower! Leaving the park, we headed down the riverfront walkway admiring a host of tropical plants before climbing the 500 tiny steps up SanAna Hill for a view of the city. That night, Dana's host family from Guasmo Sur met us at the hotel for a swim and dinner. By the next morning, I could feel the 1000 tiny steps up and down the hill in my calf muscles and walked around like a crippled old lady for the next five days!

Ellie & Dana with Ceci, Dana's Guasmo Mom. Click to see more pics of Family Fun in Guayaquil:

Saturday morning we took a taxi to Mi Cometa and witnessed PAIC in action. PAIC is the children's project Dana's been coordinating and documenting in the barrio where she lives. We played games with the children in their classroom and Mike gave lessons on how to throw an American football in the neighborhood's park. Afterwards, we met the adults who hosted an anniversary party for us that evening under Dana's direction in the Mi Cometa building. Mike and I felt very honored and celebrated by the people who adore Dana and automatically extended their affection to us! Thank heavens music and dancing are a universal language since it was our only method of communication when we lost our translator on the dance floor!

Easter Sunday mass was celebrated in a magnificent cathedral that shared the same city block as our hotel and from there, we headed for the bus terminal to catch our ride to Cuenca, an ancient city teeming with indigenous pride in the south of Ecuador. The 4 hour bus ride on wet, winding, muddy mountain roads was more terrifying than any theme park thrill ride and the need to use the bus' lavatory with its putrid odor, lack of lighting and airtight door, made me feel like a victim in a Steven King novel! We dined along the route on Pepto Bismal, cracker-toast and water trying to settle our queasy stomachs, and I wished with all my might I was the easy going type who could enjoy the incredible scenery whizzing by!

Two and a half days wandering the old, historic section of Cuenca 8,300 feet above sea level was a welcome relief from the heat of Guayaquil. Dana secured a room for us in a bed and breakfast in an old mansion built into the side of a hill next to the Tomebamba River which separates the old and modern sides of Cuenca. We investigated the ancient remains of the Incan city and visited a beautiful cathedral. Mike bought a handmade hat for football season since straw hats are a leading industry in that area. We had a picnic by the river, ate in good and bad restaurants and walked miles and miles of inclined streets, my sore calves screaming all the way!

Stained Glass Windows with Indigenous Faces One of Cuenca's Cathedrals, click for more pics:

On Wednesday morning, March 30, we took a taxi to the airport for our 8:30 AM flight from Cuenca to Quito. What would have been a day long bus ride, took 35 minutes from take off to landing! Dana's friends, Jose and Carolina, picked us up at the airport and housed us in a guest apartment where the program they sponsor for teenage boys operates. We joined their group for a field trip to an exhibit on the frogs of Ecuador, amazed to see live what's photographed in National Geographic magazine! After a home cooked lunch, Jose loaded us into his 4 wheel drive and chauffeured us to the center of the Earth (Mitad del Mundo) where we stood on the imaginary line of the Equator.

Equatorial kiss, click for more Quito pics:

150 meters north of the official Monument on the Equator, we had a wonderful tour of a pre-Incan village displaying a simple, carved pole which was proven by GPS to be the most accurate coordinates of the Earth's center years after the construction of the big monument. Since the pull of gravity is perpendicular to the Earth at that point, Mike and Dana were able to balance an egg on the head of a nail! It was humbling to realize the intelligence of the indigenous people who studied the sun, moon and stars and could determine with such precision what scientists would later confirm with their sophisticated instruments.

Thursday was another packed day, beginning with breakfast with the boys and followed by a walking tour of the city center lead by Carolina. We went into an old monastery, cathedral, government buildings and passed symbolic statues. The tour ended at "Casa Victoria," the once beautiful country villa of a famous Ecuadorian genealogist that fell into total disrepair and housed vagrant squatters in recent years. The house is in what Jose, Carolina and their families see as a transition neighborhood and they, along with the boys are restoring the home to its former beauty so it can be used for their project with the boys. Jose, being an architect, is the director of renovation and Mike was given the job of scraping six coats of paint from the spindles on a balcony!

After a day of work, we made a late last minute decision to brave the rush hour traffic to visit the thermal springs in Papallacta, a small village nestled between two volcanoes that heat the springs. When we stopped to fill the car with gas, Mike went into a convenience store and bought cheese and crackers for our dinner with the little bit of cash he had with him. He used his remaining money for admission into springs. By the time we reached the pools, the outside air was frigid but the water was steaming and as I changed into my bathing suit in the chilly dressing room, I thought my actions almost as daring as using the toilet on the bus ride from hell! After plunging into the water, all was well and we had a relaxing soak for about an hour. On the drive back to Quito, Jose pulled off the road so we could get out of the car and gaze at the millions of stars visible in the night sky. We felt as though we were at the top of the world! The Big Dipper was upside down, the Southern Cross was visible and the white of the Milky Way was clearly evident. It was a truly magical experience!

Arriving back at our apartment, the magic had given way to hunger from a dinner of crackers. Gaston, one of the boys' teachers, was reading when we entered the apartment and asked what was wrong when he saw the pained expression on my face. "I'm so hungry," I whined. "All we had for dinner was crackers!" With that, he started searching for food and put on water for tea. Dana and I snacked on whatever was available, but Mike only had tea and went to bed. When I asked if he'd brushed his teeth, he said he'd done that before we went out. "You mean before we ate the crackers?" I asked. "Yes," he said, "and I don't need to brush them again because I've eaten so many crackers, I feel like a parrot. Just call me Polly."

Revived by the snack, I decided to brave the suspicious hot water contraption in the shower so I could wash my hair. My body felt clean from the springs, but my hair wanted shampoo. Turning on the water which trickled out lukewarm, I wet and lathered my hair. Trying to get the suds out was the real problem and I ended up bending over at such a sharp angle to keep the water from splashing on my body, that I gave myself a horrendous headache. Another hysteria button was pushed and I started to moan, then cry as I shivered and shook and tried to figure out how to get cream on my dry withered skin while my head felt like it was going to explode. Dana tried to offer comfort and Mike kept his distance. Once I was in my pajamas and warmed up, I swallowed some Advil and went to sleep, giving everyone relief from my misery!

Friday morning, we took a two hour bus ride from Quito to Otavalo, another indigenous village known for it's handicrafts. The bus ride through the mountains was another thriller that brought tears to my eyes as I fretted about Julie being orphaned when the bus catapulted over the side of the mountain. Dana suggested I try to sleep, but the scenery was so diverse, I didn't want to miss it. Once we got there, it was all worth it. Our bed and breakfast had the most amazing hot water, along with a really good restaurant. We walked to the market and bought a few things, experiencing a taste of what was to come on Saturday. That night we found a little bar where a six man Andean music group played and sang beautiful, haunting tunes. We were the three lone gringos since it was off season and not many tourists were in town.

Saturday we shopped until we ran out of steam, Dana bartering with the vendors for their beautiful crafts. The only disconcerting experience in the market was the beggars who appeared often; mostly old ladies with no teeth, wizened faces and sorrowful eyes. Forcing ourselves to leave around 1 PM, we went back to our bed and breakfast and picnicked on their grounds joined by a thin dog who accepted any and all handouts. Then we called a taxi to take us to the bus terminal. The taxi driver offered to drive us back to Quito for $40. I wanted to jump at the offer but was overruled by Mike and Dana; so it was back to the thrill of another bus ride!

The first bus we entered had such a strong odor of gasoline, we immediately got off. We then ducked into another one and were industriously stashing our stuff around us since there was no storage when five guys carrying chickens climbed on board. When I took a picture of the man and his fowl sitting across the aisle from me, he asked if I wanted to hold it. Trying not to offend his kind offer, I said, "No gracias," and lightly petted the creature which we suspected was a fighter since "cock fights" had been advertised in the village news. After all the seats on the bus were filled, more people entered and stood in the aisles. Then the vendors arrived trying to sell their food and drinks. Business completed, one stood next to my seat holding onto the overhead bar until the next stop where he could get off. When I pinpointed the source of the stink wafting into my nostrils, I looked up and realized his armpit was directly over my head. I know I asked Mike at least twice why we hadn't taken up the taxi driver's offer to get us back to Quito. Getting no response, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep through the 2 hour journey.

Back in the apartment in Quito, we found the leftover crackers and devoured them while we packed for the trip home. I'd insisted on staying in a hotel with hot water and a shuttle service on our last night there since we had to get to the airport at 4:30 AM on Sunday. At random, I chose the Best Western Hotel Casino, a ten minute ride from the airport in downtown Quito. The $50 price quote sounded more than reasonable! When we were ushered into the Executive Suite on the 5th floor, Mike asked the bellman if we were in the right room. He said we were and I was only too sad that we didn't have more time to enjoy the luxurious accommodations. The next surprise was the 6th floor penthouse restaurant with windows around giving us a view on the entire city. It claims to be the highest restaurant on Earth and had good food and great live music! Gaston joined us, along with Carolina's mom and her husband. Gaston made us laugh by asking if the restaurant served crackers and we had a lovely last evening together!

At 4:10 AM we showed up in the hotel lobby to check out, a 15 minute process. At 4:28 AM, we sat in the hotel shuttle listening to the sound of an engine that refuses to start when the battery is dead. Numb from sleep deprivation, I started to giggle. Mike sat stone faced. "You don't think this is funny, do you?" I asked. "No." Next thing, our driver jumped out of the van and ran into the hotel for help. Two men in their hotel bellman uniforms rushed out with him and as he got back in the driver's seat, they started pushing the van. They pushed it forward and he tried to pop the clutch. No go. They pushed it backwards and he tried again (almost giving us whiplash). No go. Forward again and the engine cranked!! 10 minutes later, we were standing in the check-in line at the Avianca counter.

At 6:45 AM we were in the air headed to Bogota, Colombia for a layover and connecting flight to Ft. Lauderdale. The first greeting we received in the Bogota terminal was from a flight agent who informed us that our plane would be delayed by an hour and a half. Seems the hotel van experience was foreshadowing for that news! So from 8 AM until 2 PM, we sat in an airport teeming with as many armed military police as airline agents, went through multiple scanning devices, and inhaled noxious jet fuel fumes through the poorly sealed windows of the boarding area. Once inside the aircraft, we helped relocate an elderly heavyset lady with a cane and no teeth to her assigned seat so the man sitting next to me could have his proper seat. It's no wonder my gut needed Pepto Bismal!

As soon as we landed in Ft. Lauderdale, I called the 800 number to Southwest Airlines to explain Mike and I were booked on their last flight to Tampa for the night and were trying our best to meet their check-in deadline. I was told we needed to be there 10 minutes before take off before they gave away our seats and that we should have enough time to make it - but there was no way they could hold the plane for us. Trying to contain my hysteria, I gave Mike the scoop and we raced toward the immigration line which we zipped though. Claiming our checked bags seemed to take forever since they were the last to come out! The customs' official was overly chatty and very slow and by the time we were cleared to leave, Mike was speed hobbling across 5 lanes of oncoming traffic with a backpack strapped to his body and a big, heavy suitcase in hand. I had 3 smaller bags on my shoulders and was pulling my backpack on wheels. Trying to keep up with the crazed man wearing an Ecuadorian T-shirt, fanny pack and Panama Hat 100 yards in front of me brought on that giggling sensation again. Somehow we found our way through the airport parking lot from Terminal 4 to Terminal 1 in about 15 minutes and arrived at the Southwest self check kiosk to find all of their computers out of service! Since all of the agents were dealing with other customers, I called the 800 number again for help and a kind, rational woman suggested I take our printed itinerary to the curbside check in. It worked, we made our connection and when we later arrived in Tampa at 9:10 PM, our checked bags were first out on the carousel!

Mau and Jimmy met us at the airport in separate vehicles (theirs and ours) so we could drive straight home. It was an uneventful trip up the interstate, thank heavens, and we're now trying to debrief from our holiday and get back into our normal routines. Though the travel to Ecuador and back was a work out, it was worth all the hassle and frustration. Our time with Dana in that beautiful country will always be a treasured memory!

Luz y Sombra (Light and Shadow)

2005-04-07T12:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I feel sorry for my mother figures in this world. It was Sunday, March 6, and I stood at Cecilia’s door, smelling of sunscreen, saying goodbye on my way to the bus terminal. My blue backpack was weighty with my journal, book, a few clothes, my camera and lenses. “Now, where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet. I’m going in the direction of Machala.” I laughed. “But don’t worry, it’s in this book.” I pointed to my Lonely Planet Guide to Ecuador.

The Inter-American Foundation, for whom I’m doing the photo essay and impact study of Mi Cometa, recently contracted me to take pictures of another local community development project they fund in Huaquillas, a town on border of Peru. The photo shoot began on Tuesday; I left Guasmo a couple days early to see more of Ecuador on my way. On the bus I pulled out the Lonely Planet. Petrified forest or cloud forest? I decided on the cloud forest. Changed busses at the appropriate intersection, found a seat by the window.

The wind blew my hair dry as the city smells faded to the smell of damp earth. The thick traffic and pastel buildings of Guayaquil trailed off, replaced by a flat landscape with desert-like shrubbery. We passed wooden houses on stilts, clothes lines stretched between them and banana trees, clothes soggy from last night’s rain. We passed a dump. Figures moved through the garbage, bent over as they picked through the trash. Sugarcane fields stretched in rows perpendicular to the road, tall skinny green leaves pointing upwards. Then came corn fields, and then the green leaves of banana trees filled the space between me and the mountainous horizon.

My guide book says “South of Guayaquil (after driving through 200km of banana plantations) is the city of Machala. It’s the capital of El Oro Province and the commercial heart of Ecuador’s main banana-producing region” (The Lonely Planet, 354). The rows and rows of broad-leaved trees made me want to take my camera and follow the irrigation canals through their trunks. What great forts could be made under those leaves I thought. Then my mind moved from my childhood to the lives of the children who do spend their days under those big green leaves. I thought of the articles I’ve read on child labor, and how it is especially problematic on banana plantations in Ecuador. The best information I’ve found is Tainted Harvest: Labor and Obstacles to Organizing on Ecuador’s Banana Plantations, a 2002 report published by Human Rights Watch (HRW).

Bananas are a very important part of Ecuador. Along with plantains, they are an important part of people’s diet, especially in the tropical climate of La Costa, Ecuador’s costal region(where I live... my daily banana smoothie is typical in Guayaquil). In the interest of time, I have largely quoted their report below, and I'm not sure how correct my citations are, but if you want to read the report, click on the links provided.

HRW reports, “Today, Ecuador is the world's largest banana exporter… Bananas are Ecuador's second most important export commodity, following only crude oil, and yield roughly U.S. $900 million annually for the country, accounting for over a quarter of all revenue obtained from trade and approximately 5 percent of Ecuador's gross domestic product.” The US is the largest importer of Ecuador’s bananas, followed by the EU (Tainted Harvest. "Background: Ecuador Banana Production and Exports Today").

The report continues, "The legal minimum wage for a banana worker in Ecuador working a five-day week is U.S. $117 per month or U.S. $5.85 per day, and the law requires all employers to… [provide] public health insurance…The average wage of the twenty adult workers who provided Human Rights Watch with their daily wage information was approximately U.S. $5.44, and the vast majority of the workers stated that they were uninsured.

“According to Minister of Labor Martín Insua, the basic market basket-the cost of food plus other basic needs-for households in rural Ecuador is approximately U.S. $288 per month. Therefore, in the banana industry, the wages of two working and fully paid adults may not be sufficient to provide for their family, in which case, the added salary of a child may be sought to supplement the family's income…The average daily wage for the forty children who provided Human Rights Watch with their wage information was U.S. $3.50, only 60 percent of the legal minimum wage for banana workers” (Tainted Harvest. Background: Ecuador Banana Production and Exports Today).

"Human Rights Watch interviewed forty-five children who had worked or were working on banana plantations in Ecuador. Forty-one of them began in the banana sector between the ages of eight and thirteen, most starting at ages ten or eleven. They described workdays of twelve hours on average and hazardous conditions that violated their human rights, including dangerous tasks detrimental to their physical and psychological well-being. The children reported being exposed to pesticides, using sharp tools, hauling heavy loads of bananas from the fields to the packing plants, lacking potable water and restroom facilities, and experiencing sexual harassment.

"Children told Human Rights Watch that they handled insecticide-treated plastics used in the fields to cover and protect bananas, directly applied fungicides to bananas being prepared for shipment in packing plants, and continued working while fungicides were sprayed from planes flying overhead. Sometimes the children were provided protective equipment; most often, they were not. These children enumerated the various adverse health effects that they had suffered shortly after pesticide exposure, including headaches, fever, dizziness, red eyes, stomachaches, nausea, vomiting, trembling and shaking, itching, burning nostrils, fatigue, and aching bones.

"Fewer than 40 percent of these children were still in school at age fourteen. When asked why they had left school to work, most answered that they needed to provide money for their parents to purchase food and clothing for their families, many of whom also relied on the nearby banana plantations for their income" (Tainted Harvest, Summary: Child Workers).

The bus sped along, salsa music blaring, stopping every so often to pick up people and their bags. Some carried a backpack or a walkman, others climbed on the bus with a burlap sack full of produce, and one man’s bicycle along with several cardboard boxes were tossed onto the top of the bus when it stopped for him.

I told the man who asked if he could sit next to me I didn’t mind as long as he didn’t care that I wasn’t going to talk to him. “I want to think,” I told him.

Mountains appeared on the horizon. They came closer and the bus’ engine strained as we began climbing. The foliage changed. Leaves broadened, and as we came down the other side of a mountain, the air became cold and wet, the old woman behind me stood up and pulled my window closed. I frowned, and wiped the fog from it. Looking across at the next mountainside, randomly spaced thin tree trunks stuck out from the other foliage, carrying their leaves high above the rest of the green. As we went higher clouds settled in around the bus’ winding road.

Breaking my rule, the man next to me asked, “Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes.” He gave me the same strange look everyone else had. It is very strange in this culture to do anything by yourself. No one can believe I live by myself, travel by myself. Families often live together their entire lives, and why would I want to travel alone?

I sometimes ask the same question, sometimes wish for company, but traveling alone has its own joys…adventure, new people, time to reflect, and details. My eyes and ears take in more when I am not focused on someone else, and I love the wandering thoughts of my mind. You can’t help but meet new people when alone, and there is inevitably a good story to tell.

When I got to the mountain town of Piñas that evening, there was no-one behind the desk at the hostel. After waiting a while, I asked the elderly lady at the pharmacy across the street if she knew where the people were. She didn’t, but we chatted for a while and she offered to keep my bags in her house so I could go eat dinner. I went through her wooden doors and put my bags on a tree stump sitting on the edge of her living room, and headed down the hill to a restaurant she recommended.

I contemplated my solo travels while eating sketchy grilled chicken and replying to Ceci’s text message, “HOW AND WHERE ARE YOU?” I decided to name my camera, as my ever-present travel companion. I thought how my voyages never lack purpose or adventure as she enables me to try to capture something of life around me. Trying not to watch the man cutting the chicken off the roasted birds circling around the spit over the grill, I went through a list of names. Finally settled on Camera.

The next day Camera and I went to the cloud forest where I emerged with green stickers on the inside of my camera case, in the folds of my pants, and a smile on my face. The foliage was so different from what I’ve seen before, and I chased butterflies and sunlight with my camera along the path.:)

Somehow I ended up on a motorcycle later that morning, on an exhilarating ride through a rain-shower and along curvy mountain roads from Pinas to Zaruma, an old gold-mining town about half hour away. The century-old architecture was beautiful, as were the views of the surrounding mountains and countryside.

Determined to climb something that day, I did a hike to the top of another mountain. I sat at the top for a long time and thought. Also took a self-portrait on the way up...

I was awakend in the early morning hours by a group of loud teenagers in the hostel and I felt like an old women, emerging half-asleep from my room to yell down the hall, probably in terrible Spanish, “You are not the only people in the world! I am trying to sleep.” One guy with a backpack on his shoulders looked over his shoulder at me and laughed. The noise continued and I fell back asleep, to dream my sister was scrubbing the walls of my $6 a night dirty hotel room.

The next day I journeyed to Huaquillas, receiving 2 more phone numbers on the way, where the women of the Federacion Democratica de Mujeres (FDM – The Women’s Democratic Federation) received me as a friend, not just a photographer. Jhohana and Magdelena took me straight from the bus stop, with my bags, to the head table at FDM’s celebration of International Women’s Day. The following day Rebecca, the president of FDM took me around to visit the various businesses that have been started with loans from their organization.

It was amazing to see the confidence and independence of the women in FDM, as well as the creative and brilliant businesses they have started. They expressed not only the success of their businesses and how that has bettered their lives, but talked gratefully about what they learned from pre-loan workshops and the support of the women who comprise their group. All loan recipients are part of a group of women to which they are accountable for loan reception and repayment.

As you will see in the pictures, the women I photographed make clothing, bread, sell school supplies, underwear, food, and jewelry. They are beauticians, restaurant owners, computer technicians, as well as mothers and grandmothers and leaders in their community. They spoke with much respect for the leaders of FDM and with gratitude to the IAF for the loans that have enabled them to make a living to better support their families (click on this picture to see more).

The photo developing was very poorly done and I haven't had time to get my pictures re-done yet, so none of my pictures on this posting are very clear, and heads are cut off, etc. Frustrating, but I wanted to post them anyway so you can get somewhat of a taste for my adventures in Piñas and FDM.

And here (click on the photo) are more poorly-developed pictures from Palmar, the beach town from my last story…

Tables, cows and movie stars

2005-02-28T19:41:00.000-05:00

I cried after Felix left my house. He had invited himself over at 8, and arrived promptly, wearing in a collared shirt and carrying a box of pizza. We spent the evening talking primarily about our work. He’s a great kid, reminds me of many of my friends back home whose combination of intelligence and motivation are making them doctors, lawyers, teachers, therapists.

At age 13 Felix decided to learn a skill that would guarantee him work, and enrolled in a special high school to learn to operate factory machinery. The school is a 2-hour commute from Guasmo Sur, so for the next six years he commuted 4 hours a day, and in the evenings he went to his factory internship before going home. Since graduating, he has been working 12 hour days 7 days a week in a metal can and bottle-making factory. His contract is for an 8 hour work day with 3 hours of mandatory overtime. Because of the machines the factory is well over 100 degrees all the time.

As we were eating dinner told me how earlier that day the metal lid of a tuna can flew off the belt at him. He caught it in his gloved hand before it hit is neck. He laughed, telling me the story, “Good thing I caught it, or we wouldn’t be sitting here eating pizza right now.” There are safety valves on his machinery, but workers get paid based on their production, so he shrugged his shoulders at the idea of using them. He normally makes about $300 a month, which is better than most people here, but still a meager amount. He is happy he has a steady income, and is trying to save money to buy a car, house, to travel, but he complained how he never has time to spend with friends or family as he arrives from work exhausted, to sleep.

Before he left my apartment, he pulled a gift out of his backpack for me. A piggy bank that says in English “Baby’s First Bank.” The price tag was still on, and it was this sum plus the cost of the pizza compared to his salary that made me cry.

He didn’t like my barrel table, and the following week kept asking to bring over an extra table he had for me. I was busy and rarely home, and we never found a time until one evening I got back from grocery shopping to find him sitting on the cement slab in front of my apartment next to a hand-crafted wooden table. “Felix! How long have you been here? It’s raining. And you made me a table?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” he said, “I want to make you a bigger one, and cabinets, but I ran out of material.” I grabbed my head with my hands. “Felix, it’s really beautiful, thank you so much. But you can’t make me more things.” I tried reasoning with him, he kept insisting he would build me more furniture.

I breathed a sigh of relief thinking of him the next day as mud-caked shoes mounted the 3 busses needed to get to the beach. I went to Palmar, a fishing village just off road that runs between the popular beaches of Ecuador’s South coast. The Peace Corps placed my friend Daniel there in el Santuario “the Sanctuary,” a beautiful Catholic church and grounds that sit on a cliff overlooking the ocean.

It is beautiful. Whether sitting in the church, watching the blue of the sea from the edge of the cliff, or floating on the waves in the ocean, an inner stillness invades you. Father Pablo, the priest at el Santuario, moved to Palmar from South Korea 23 years ago, and has done much interesting work there. We had a lively conversation, in which he recruited me first for nun-ship, and then to help him think and pray about a community he is thinking of starting in the US. He is almost 70 years old, now beginning an on-line degree program after just completing a PhD, and he talks about preparing himself for his future. He loves to think, I think, and Daniel was laughing that Padre had recruited me to his think tank to think about things.

I was not just recruited in Palmar for my mind or prayers, however. One afternoon I was given a tour of a quail egg farm and artisan shop, both very promising micro enterprises Daniel helped the youth group in Palmar establish. After the tours and a long meeting with the youth about their projects, we were getting ready to head back to the santuario. One of the guys in the group called Daniel back over. There was some laughter at the table, and when Daniel returned to where I was waiting I asked, “What was that about?”

“Well, Jorge told me that he would trade me all of his women for you.” His eyebrows rose; he looked down at me. “And he has a lot of women. Kids too.”

As I was chuckling, he told me a story of his college travels in Nairobi. After a hassle crossing the border, the tour guide informed the group that the guards wanted to trade one of the women on the bus for 25 cows. As she laughingly asked if that was all and they could go now, the guide looked at her very seriously and said, “Maybe you don’t know it, but 25 is a lot of cows.”

That woman was not traded in the end, and luckily, neither was I, but I arrived back in Guayaquil refreshed, sunburnt, and in time to meet a different sort of man. On Wednesday I accompanied some of my animadores to the “School of Leaders of the New Millennium” (one of Mi Cometa’s projects) in the city center. When I came back after their class to pick them up, there was a good-looking man who was asking a line of girls their names and writing them on scraps of paper, I assumed signing them up for something. He looked at me hard when I walked in and introduced himself, Juan Fernando.

He talked to me as he wrote, asking me what I do, where I’m from, and when I asked him the same, he replied with a smile that he’s an actor, producer, and film professor. After a few more minutes of him talking about this and showing me his Hollywood key chain, I squinted my eyes, cocked my head, and asked, “Are you really famous and I just don’t know who you are?” explaining that I don’t keep up with movie stars. He shrugged his shoulders modestly, and gave me a list of his work. It seems he has been/is on several TV series and just made a movie with the “Rico Suave” guy. When I left he asked for my number, and we agreed to get together sometime.

I received 5 text messages from him that day, 3 more plus a phone call the next day, and on Friday I met him at McDonalds where he had invited me for an ice cream sundae. I opted not to give my normal I-hate-McDonalds speech in order to get the full cultural experience of going out with an Ecuadorian TV star.

I was sitting on a bench next to a plastic Ronald McDonald when he walked up in a tight sleeveless shirt, swinging his arms in that slightly unnatural way that men do when self-conscious of their muscles. We ate our sundaes, he talking a lot about his acting career and asking me how single I am. He made a comment about how “I am an actor and you are a volunteer,” as we left McDonalds, but then informed me we had something in common, that he spent a month in Kosovo filming a documentary.

As he wanted to stay in air conditioning, we walked through the nearby mall where he would ask me a question, then interrupt with a different topic as his eye or mind caught something else. Astounded to hear that I haven’t been to the malls in Guayaquil, and have only been to the movies once, he promised to show me around. “I’m going to spoil you,” he smiled at me. I bit my lip, and paused to smile at a little girl with pigtails, as he kept his stride.

Exiting the mall, he said he wanted to take me to a certain area of the Malecon, the boardwalk that runs along the river through downtown Guayaquil. We squinted stepping into the sun. “What do you do for fun?” he asked. I was in the middle of listing off things when he interrupted. “Oh, you like the gym. Me too. The gym is my hobby. Yes, the gym is…my hobby.”

As we walked, several teenage girls called out his TV persona’s name at him, and eventually one came over to talk to him. “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“I’m out with my friend…” he looked over at me, raised his eyebrows and his voice deepened, “…with my friend Dana.”

We soon arrived at where he had wanted to take me, a playground. We sat on a bench drinking lemonades. He put his bottle down eventually and said, “I do gymnastics.” He got up, stretched, said, “I don’t know if I can do this any more,” and pulled himself up on the rings, muscles bulging. He dismounted. “I’m too old for this shit.”

I sighed, paused, then said, “I used to do gymnastics too.” I climbed onto the bar and threw myself spinning around its cool metal. I dismounted. He did a handstand. I walked on my hands. I laughed in between acrobatics. I was doing gymnastics in the middle of the Malecon with a soap opera star.

Finally my watch said three o’clock, time for him to go film and for me to go buy art supplies for my PAIC kids. We arrived at his car, parked in the shade, and I pushed my sunglasses back on my head. He looked at me. “I like it better when you don’t wear your sunglasses,” he said. “I like your eyes.”

I replied matter-of-factly, “Yes, they’re a lot like my mom’s eyes.”

“But I don’t like your mom’s eyes, I like your eyes.”

I took a deep breath. “Thank you.” Patting his shoulder I said, “Well, you’d better go, I don’t want you to be late for filming.”

“I don’t want to go,” he whined. I smiled at him.

A block away my phone sounded. A text message. “I had a really great time. Thank you. Juan Fernando.” Once again I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly.

“It will make a good story,” I thought, putting my phone back in my purse and pulling out my shopping list: poster board, staples, glue, and a table cloth.

Introduction to my Blog

2005-02-23T16:03:00.000-05:00

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us – don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog.
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
(Emily Dickenson)

and I’m Dana
who are you?
are you wondering that too?
how lovely to be writing
how public like a frog
to put to words
this thing called life
and post it on a blog
(Dana Hill)

Every time I hear "blog" Emily Dickenson’s poem comes to mind. I memorized it as a child, when my love affair with words began. I love to read, to write. I love the challenge of enticing human experience into a communicable format. Whether this be done through words, dance, visual arts, music, I love the creative process.

I am also fascinated by stories. By how people meet the world. I imagine us inhaling, bringing into ourselves our surroundings to run through the delicate sieve of the mind, silvery criss-crosses woven since birth. Genetics, personality, life events, culture, values and teachings are the shiny material, texture and shape, making it whole and ever-changing. Whether or not we want to inhale, if we are alive our lungs keep breathing, life’s grains steadily sifting, flowing in and somehow through to the exhale.

This blog is about this process; it is about life as it moves through my mind where I am now. I live in Guasmo Sur, a poor neighborhood at the southern end of Guayaquil, a city of 2 million on the west coast of Ecuador. It is about the people around me, about their lives and stories as I see them. It is about Ecuador and the world, the interconnectedness of people and the common humanity we share.

And who am I, Dana? I am a person. A daughter, sister, cousin, a good friend, a lover of children. I am a question-asker, a laugher and a crier. I am passionate about social justice, equality and people knowing love in their lives. I am a social and reflective creature, and draw energy and joy from both inward and outward movement. My life is full of light and beauty; I am grateful for all I have been given and for all the beautiful people in my life.

Reading my friend Bryan’s blog, I guess I should explain how I wound up in Ecuador, which feels like a long story…After graduating from FSU in 1999, I moved to the Dominican Republic for a year where my mind struggled to grasp both the poverty and generosity of the people. I worked with children and youth, and they taught me Spanish, meringue, and so much about life. It was against the backdrop of the rural poverty in which we lived that Fathers John and Andy introduced me to Catholic social justice teachings and the links between my the lifestyle in my country and the poverty by which I was then surrounded.

From there I moved to DC where I experienced another aspect of global poverty working with immigrants. I left DC to wander Europe and wound up spending most of the next year focused inward, living in Taizé, an extraordinary monastery dedicated to peace and reconciliation in France. Then back to DC to study International Development at American University. After 2 intense years there, I again turned in, spending a month in contemplative silence last summer being led in the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. Shortly thereafter, I moved to Ecuador to work for Mi Cometa, a local community development organization in Guasmo Sur, where I am currently.

In the midst of my experience here, I feel a need to write. I write to share the stories of the people who enrich my life here. I write to share my own experience, lighten its weight and spread its joy. And I write because I love the thoughtful and creative process it is.

Cricket in my kitchen

2005-02-16T18:25:00.000-05:00

There is a cricket in my kitchen. I can´t find him hidden among the pots and pans under the cement rectangle that is my counter, but every morning his song pulls me across the barrier from sleep to my day. Winter has finally set in, people say. The rains have begun; there are huge muddy puddles to pick my way around as I walk to buy bread in the mornings or visit my animadores in the evenings.

It was after the first big rain we had that the crickets came out. The gym I go to is on the 3rd floor of a building on a busy road, and through its cement arches enter the evening breeze and city lights. They also let in crickets. The night after it rained I went to the gym with some friends, and the little black insects were zooming around the gym, colliding with my face, arms and legs as I moved between weight machines. My friend Carolina squealed as they hit her or clung to her shirt, we´d laugh and I´d brush them away.

The next morning I woke early, thinking the cricket´s chirp, amplified by my cement walls, was an alarm. I investigated and discovered my kitchen cricket, whose racket soon mixed with the recording of bells being blasted from the church next door. My apartment building is across a dirt road from one of the Catholic churches in the neighborhood. There are powerful megaphones mounted on the roof, and every day the Padre blasts recitation of the rosary, Ave Maria´s, jaunty Catholic church songs or the Mass from his cement tower. You can hear it for blocks and blocks.

I want to tell him God likes silence. I do enjoy listening to the ancient ritual of the Mass, but the rosary reminds me of feeling imprisoned in a rocking chair with the 3 nuns in the Dominican Republic. Leigh Ann and I had to sit with them every afternoon, rocking, sweating and reciting row after row of prayers. My fingers would always loose track of the beads as my mind wandered. Maybe it´s defiance of those nuns and their narrow-minded beliefs that makes me reach over now and crank my music, wondering if Usher or the B52s can be heard from within the church. Friends who come to visit during church-time sit two feet from me, our shouted conversations interspersed with squinted eyes, cocked heads, and "Como?" yelled back and forth as we are sandwiched between competing noises.

In the background of my house there is always the buzz of my refrigerator and the soft whirring of my silver fan. I just got the fan last week, it is bliss in this hot muggy Guayaquil winter. I also just painted my refrigerator, glossy white over rusty off-white. After painting it I walked to the hardware store laughing at myself, my fingers stuck together with oil-based determination. The man working there sold me an old water bottle full of paint thinner, soaking a rag in some of it first so I could unstuck my digits to grab the bottle and walk home.

The fridge, which died and then revived itself after leaving a lake in my living room yesterday, is actually borrowed from my friend Wilmer, along with my sofa and chairs. I have a rocky table, actually a rusty barrel with a slab of pressboard on top, lent to me by Marjorie, who also sewed my curtins and matching tablecloth. Cesar contributed my desk and bookshelf, Ceci my bed, shower curtin, mirror, and pots. Gladys and Bladys lent me dishes, and Jose´s family the blender with which I make smoothies for breakfast every morning. I look around my little home and I have to smile. Childrens drawings and pictures of my family and friends are taped to my walls, and the stuffed dog that Ana and Daniel saved their money to buy me sits on my bed where he was when I arrived back here in January with his sign Welcome Dana.

Aside from the stuffed pup and my cricket, there are plenty of other animals in my apartment. There are weevils of varying sizes in my oatmeal and my flour, and this morning when I opened my oatmeal container a moth flew out. Hormigitas, little ants, appear instantly whenever food hits on the counter; they are so small you can barely see them. I often realize their presence only when my arm hairs tickle as they climb toward my shoulder. Some days my apartment is full of mosquitoes; the morning I woke up on the outside of my mosquito net I looked like I had chicken pox. Yesterday I spent some time removing from blue bedroom walls the bugs that cling to the painted cement like flounder do to the ocean floor. I dont know what they are, but Wilmer said they don´t bite. I call them flounderbugs. The strangest animal occurrence I have so far experienced, however, was when Cecis kids and I found a little fish swimming around in the water jug of bottled water.

Living in a place where one must buy or boil water to drink it becomes more precious. I have had a fever for the past week, and so craving water, grateful for how it quenches my thirst and cools my body. I stand under the showerhead at night and suck in my breath as the cold water hits my upturned face. It contrasts with the air, my fever, and I think is part of how I make it through the night under my mosquito net. But it is always welcome, as by the end of the day if I scratch my leg the dusty film that coats my body rolls into brown sticky balls on my legs and under my fingernails.

It is so weird to walk around in 90 degree weather and feel hot from the inside out. Though the sun beats on the surface of my skin, a stronger heat radiates from within me, and I sometimes feel dizzy from the combination. I finally went to the doctor yesterday, who said I ate something bad, put me on antibiotics and told me my stomach has a lot of gas. She prescribed something for the gas too; I didn´t bother telling her its just genetic. I decided finally to take a day off, so I stayed home today, and bought a movie for a dollar from the man who walks the streets pushing his cart full of peliculas.

There are many people, who, like Manuel, go out looking for work. There is the man who rides his bicycle around with brooms, mops, and toilet brushes tied on it. I went running after him a few weeks ago to buy a broom for my apartment. There are wooden carts of sandals, pineapple cakes, mirrors, grapes and strawberries that zig zag up and down our dirt roads. There is the man who walks the streets with plastic bowls hung from his shoulders. There are the children who shoulder long sticks, bags of colorful fruit swinging as they walk. There is the man who balances a huge tray of fish on his head and whistles his fish-for-sale whistle every few steps. A combination of laziness and a desire to help local enterprise makes me wait weeks to buy something hoping to catch the right vendedor as he wanders past my house.

There are always noises here. Inside my apartment there is the cricket, fan. From outside: the church, cats and goats crying, vendors announcing their wares, cars and busses, blaring music, and the night whistle of the security guard. One of Mi Cometa´s programs is a neighborhood security program, and at night when my visitors have finally left I often hear the comforting sound of the man walking the streets, blowing a whistle to let the people know he is there.

He is there and I often wonder how I got to be here, in Guasmo Sur, next to a vociferous church on a muddy road trying to get teenagers and kids to take initiative and mold their lives a different shape than they have seen and experienced. Here where after 4 months I have more friends than I have time. Here where I try to keep myself balanced in the midst of everything so I am able to reflect back to these people the generosity I am reminded of whenever I look around my house.

My 100 Children

2005-02-08T15:10:00.000-05:00

(click to see more photos:)

On Saturdays, before the cool morning air turns sultry, more than a hundred children step through their doors onto the dusty roads of Guasmo Sur, hair slicked back, shirts tucked in, excited to join their friends for the weekly meeting of PAIC. PAIC stands for Programa Animacion Infantil Comunitaria – Children’s Community Action Program – and it is this program which defines my days and energizes me and many young people here in Guasmo.

Guasmo Sur is a poor neighborhood at the southern end of Guayaquil, a city of 2 million on the west coast of Ecuador. It is a place where most families spend about 70 percent of their income on food, many lack the resources to provide their children adequate health care or send them to school, and where abuse, gang violence and crime rates are high.

PAIC is one of the programs organized by Mi Cometa (My Kite), the 14-year-old community development organization that is my home here. One of their early programs of Mi Cometa was PAIC, which functioned for several years in the 1990s, then lay dormant until my arrival this past October. Youth who participated in the original PAIC are now university students and directing several of Mi Cometa’s programs, evidence of the potential of this program to build leaders and help children set and meet goals. The primary goal of the program is to develop the potential and abilities of children and adolescents to positively transform their personal and family lives as well as their communities.

PAIC is run by youth for youth in their living spaces. In mid-October we had meetings with participating children and parents, and identified the children’s life challenges and wishes for the program. Their top three concerns were: 1. delinquency and gangs, 2. discrimination and sexism, and 3. the environment. Based on their input, and using a participatory play-centered methodology, we have mapped out our year’s programming which we are attempting to implement through our weekly meetings.

The neighborhood where Mi Cometa works is divided into cooperatives, and every Saturday morning four groups of 20-30 children between the ages of 6 and 14 years come together to be led by a small group of animadores, or youth leaders (12 to 20 years old). The youth leaders work with José Luis, my co-coordinator, and me to plan the weekly encounters for the kids, and they receive leadership and organizational training under our direction. We’ve been working with the animadores since October and it is amazing to see them growing! Yesterday Angelica, who would always squirm in her chair when we asked her input at group meetings, stood up in front of a room full of people and calmly spoke. These young people are full of ideas and energy, and with time are taking over more of the responsibility of running the program.

The Saturday children’s meetings include participatory activities focused on the week’s unit, followed by outdoor and artistic activities. Some of our planned units are: Self Discovery and Goal Setting; Human Rights, focusing on children’s rights and issues of discrimination; Health, including sexuality and sex education; and the Environment. In the next few months we hope to form small weekly groups that offer academic tutoring, theatre, dance, and a children’s radio show. PAIC also organizes field trips, a pen pal exchange with US students, and participation in local leadership training programs.

Every week presents new challenges. Getting parents to buy into the program, finding space for the kids to meet, finding funding for the program, and then there are the more personal challenges. One of our animadores left unannounced to go live in the countryside over the holidays, so we’re trying to reorganize her group. Grades just came out and at 2 of the animadores failed the year and lost their scholarships to study. José and I heard that one of our 12 year olds is sleeping around the neighborhood. Sometimes we just look at each other with disbelief, or sigh and put our heads in our hands. How do we deal with this one? This week we will begin meeting with the kids individually, to talk to them about their lives, and try to understand what’s going on in their minds.

Since getting back from the States, I’ve been trying to focus on developing more personal relationships with the kids, to build trust and a sense of companionship. Having my own apartment has been helpful, some of them visit me all the time, and its just a nice atmosphere for conversation. We also go to play soccer sometimes, and although I’m not sure how my ankle-kicking defense builds good will with the kids, it does make everyone want to be on my team.

Sister

2005-01-29T15:24:00.000-05:00

Sister
i call you
simple word
for
beautiful
person
woman
you are
my little one
best friend

your
24 years of
companionship
have shaped me
in ways
constantly discovered

you give so much
to the people
world
around you

insight
laughter
transparent
honesty
creative
beauty
crazy
fun
compassion
love

constant
you are
in my life

“you’re not my sister anymore”
you yelled
childish rage
countless times
at my freckles
your
big sister
said
too bad
can’t get rid of
me
smug smile

you stomped your
foot
but
it later
warmed mine
under covers
as we drifted to
sleep
made up

grown up
different words
same patterns
but we have
learned to
talk
about
our hurts
heal
lives

made richer
more beautiful
shared
pain
your tears
lessen mine

shared
joy
magnified
we dance
laugh
listen
hope
dream

Sister
my only
simple word
for
beautiful
person
woman
you are
my little one
best friend
i love you.

Busride Contemplation

2005-01-25T15:19:00.000-05:00

You stick your arm out, point your finger, and wave it up and down at the approaching bus. Sometimes it stops completely, sometimes you grab the rail on the door and jump in, handing the chauffeur 25 cents as you pass through the gate. I usually bump into a few people on my way to a seat as the bus lurches forward. I sit by a window, open it wide, and prop my elbow on its thin edge, chin in my hand. There is usually music blaring, and people jumping on and off the bus trying to sell things or begging for money. These half-hour trips to Guayaquil’s center are the most consistently reflective time in my life here. In the middle of the thick texture of the sights and sounds around me, wind in my face, I am still and my thoughts turn inward.

Change, maybe one of the few constants in life, has been on my mind. My first couple days back in Guasmo were full of hugs and happy reunions with all my friends here. One of the first things everyone commented on was how I had changed in the month I was gone. Most people told me I was paler or fatter than when I left. But one of my animadores looked me hard in the face last Friday night at a party and said, “You look different.”

“I’m wearing a little makeup,” I told him.

“No,” he said. “You look happier.”

I smiled. “I am happier,” I said, realizing as it came out of my mouth that earlier that day I had been climbing trees and monkey bars and sliding down cement slides with the kids in PAIC, something I never did my first 3 months here.

I feel like I have unwound, woken up somehow. I am more able to feel the texture of life around me now, smell the fragrance of rain and wet earth, loose myself in music, to really listen to those talking to me. On the bus today I was contemplating this change, and I realized something so interesting. I think I am happier now because when I was home for the holidays I worked through a lot of internal stuff, weights I’d been carrying but had been to afraid to feel when I lived here before. I feared falling into a downward spiral to much to let myself feel the depth of my emotions very often. But there is something so freeing about unconditional love, and I was so surrounded by it when I was home. I think in this atmosphere I subconsciously gave myself permission to feel, knowing when I fell I’d be caught, and I was. So I guess in summary you could say I arrived back in Guayaquil physically fatter and emotionally slimmer.

I am really hoping I can hang onto this balance. When I was home I also realized I’m ready to plant some roots, and to plant them in the US, closer to my family. I am exhausted by the constant starting over of my life, and am ready to live closer to family and good friends for a while. The hard part of figuring this out was that I had to come back here, where I so often feel lonely and as though I work too much.

There are a group of college students here right now doing health workshops for the community, and last Wednesday they had a cultural night. Zophia, from Trinidad, started the evening talking about the Caribbean, a map on the wall behind her. The crowd wanted dancing, though, and they clapped and chanted until she and I “walked up” (well, I tried anyway). Then I put on my dance music, and a group of us stayed for hours and danced. I had one of those wonderful nights where I completely lost myself in the music and just moved. I danced a lot with Leo, Jose Luis’ brother, who was just as crazy as me, dancing between stacks of plastic chairs and the kitchen counter of Mi Cometa. We moved from meringue to salsa to do-see-do-ing (sp?), to tango, the Macarena…then I busted out some dance moves to the Backstreet Boys, and then dated myself attempting the MC Hammer. The kids said we did a rain dance, because when we walked outside raindrops washed the sweat from our upturned faces.

I have moved into my apartment. It’s almost completely settled after SO many people have helped me! I love it, and I love living alone after my days are so crammed full of people and noise. It’s so nice not to share a bathroom with 5 other people, to be able to dance around my living room while I cook, sit uninterrupted at my computer, and walk around in this incredible heat in my underwear. Saturday mornings I buy my food at the market across the street, and I’m getting to know the kids on my new block. Friends always stop by, as well, which I (usually) enjoy, even if I do have to go running for clothes at their call.

My social life has also improved, although I still miss the beautiful and well-established friendships that are not here. In addition to my ever-growing friendships with the Ecuadorians at Mi Cometa, I found the Peace Corps people here finally. I met a PC volunteer in the airport, and she put me in touch with Eddie who works here in Guayaquil, and through him I’m meeting more North Americans. Eddie teaches Hip Hop, so Justin Timberlake step back.

Life seems once again to be mocking me re. men. Since getting back here, I’ve actually met some nice guys, but they’ve all been between 19 and 21 years old. Strange. When I was that age, all the guys said to me, “where will you be in 10 years?” and now that it’s almost 10 years later, the 20-year-olds seem interested in me and guys my age… ?

(click the photo to see more):

Whining for water

2004-11-08T15:04:00.000-05:00

He knocks on the metal door of the house usually around 2:00 in the afternoon, blue ball cap low over his eyes, blue tool bag over his shoulder, covered in dust and sweat. It is always hot here, and when the sun is not behind the clouds, you can’t help but notice that it’s closer to the earth here than in the rest of the world. If there’s no water in the refrigerator Manuel whines; if I close my eyes it is the voice of a child, I’m reminded of the hurt child trapped inside each of us. His voice is always loud, whether whining or simply talking to his family. They protest the noise. His wife Ceci says, “I’m not deaf,” the kids, “Pa, we’re right here.” He does not hear, keeps yelling.

(click the photo to see more:)

Manuel repairs appliances, and every day he leaves the house to walk the rocky unpaved streets looking for work. “Work doesn’t come to you, you have to go find it,” he tells me. According to surveys done by Mi Cometa, Manuel is not unusual. The average monthly income of 67.7% of families in Guasmo is $100, and almost half of the working population is unemployed. I don’t know what Manuel’s monthly income would be, but I would guess it’s in line with those figures.

Most days recently he has found no work, and so arrives at the door whining for water and sits at the table where Ceci serves him his lunch. Sometimes instead he sits on a wooden chair in front of the television with his plate, watching and at times talking to the television while his 3 kids, Ceci and I eat at the table. Or he sits in his bed, in front of the other television in the house. When he is home the TV is always on. When he is not home it is usually on too, as the kids watch TV virtually all the time.

There’s not a lot to do in Guasmo Sur. It is a neighborhood of dirt roads, some of which are lined by canals of sewage, also filled with trash, plants and unbelievably, fish. Little tiendas (stores) are often connected to the houses which line up, walls of cinder block next to cane next to cement, row after row, street after street. My house has a heavy metal door and bars over the windows, other houses have wooden doors and windows that lock shut. There are a few cement soccer fields nearby, but one is usually flooded with sewage water, and the other in a park not considered safe at night. A few houses have video game machines on their front porches, and as I walk by the one across the street from Mi Cometa, “Hello, gringa”s follow in my wake.

Approximately 425,000 people live in Guasmo Sur, which is part of the neighborhood that sprang up 20 years ago as poor people from other parts of the country migrated here, a trend typical of urbanization globally. The neighborhood lacks clean water and a sewage system, and El Guasmo is often ignored by government authorities and non-profit organizations. The lack of attention is speculated to be due to the poor environmental conditions, the flooding that often occurs in the winter months (El Guasmo is actually part of the flood plane of the river Guayas), and the reputation for violence in the area.

Mi Cometa was born in this neighborhood when the adults involved in a mentorship program for neighborhood kids realized the potential of such action for the children. Fourteen years later, it is well known in the city, has a steady trickle of volunteers from various countries, and is in the news constantly. Its programs touch upon many aspects of life here, and are slowly expanding to reach more people. There are programs for family development, women’s empowerment and counseling, youth leadership, and there is a micro credit and exchange network. There is also an early childhood development program for kids 0-5 years old, a community safety and neighborhood watch program, health and housing program, a communication project which by the spring will include a community radio station.

The College of Leaders of New Millennium and the Children’s Congress are two more programs that grew somewhat from the program I’m coordinating. This program is called El Programa Animacion Infantil Comunitaria, the “Children’s Community Animation Program,” commonly referred to by its initials “PAIC.” It was one of the first projects of Mi Cometa, but was dormant for the past 6 years or so. It aims to raise the self esteem, teach leadership and critical thinking skills to the children who live in this neighborhood, teach them their rights, and empower them to transform themselves, their families, and their communities. Many of the leaders of Mi Cometa, like José Luis, were part of the early groups of children and youth in PAIC, and it is hoped that a new generation of leaders will be created from the reborn project.

All three of Manuel’s children are part of the group of youth leaders in PAIC. The weekends, when we have our meetings, they turn off the TV, the radio, and walk the block to Mi Cometa. I am there already, setting up chairs, talking to Jose about which ice-breaker we will use, greeting the youth with besitos and handshakes as they arrive. Isaac, Ana and Daniel inevitably arrive carrying some item I’ve forgotten, and we laugh and they take their seats. I see in each of them the imprint of Manuel, of Ceci. They are beautiful children, people, and in their dark eyes and easy laughter the day is brighter. I also see the wounds of their childhood being formed, and I hope they do not stay dormant to one day emerge in a listless posture facing the television with their backs to their family, whining for water.

Have you eaten all your soup?

2004-11-01T15:03:00.000-05:00

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. You’ve grown. Have you eaten all your soup?” Little kids and adults alike giggle at his greeting. José Luis Echeverria has been involved with Mi Cometa for the majority of its 14 years of existence.

He was first involved in the neighborhood children’s groups that were central to the formation of this community development organization. He later participated in the “School of Leaders of the New Millennium,” one of Mi Cometa’s programs that now provides leadership training to youth in different regions of Ecuador. He was part of the “Children’s Congress,” and traveled the country with 30 other young people gathering data on the needs and desires of children all over Ecuador. Using this information, the group wrote and then successfully lobbied Congress to include children’s rights in Ecuador’s constitution, and helped write the “Code of Children and Youth,” passed by Congress in 2003, which further elaborates and codifies the rights of the child.

It is hard to describe Movimiento Mi Cometa. In its title it is called a “movement,” and that seems accurate. When I try to put its energy into words, I find I cannot separate the organization from the people. They are energetic and determined, and clearly guided by a vision. Cesar, the president of the organization, articulates most precisely what these 14 years have been about. The objective of this development organization in his words is to develop a generation of citizens who exercise their rights. Over the years, this vision has led young people like José Luis to work with children in his neighborhood, in the country, to bring their voices to the ears of the powerful, both in Ecuador and outside her borders.

In 1999 José went to Columbia representing Mi Cometa and Ecuador for the “Encounter of Social Actors of the Century XXI,” a meeting organized by Ashoka. In 2001 he traveled to Chile to represent Ecuador at an Organización de Estados Americanos (the Organization of American States) meeting, where he made a presentation on Children’s Rights to the group, which included people such as Colin Powell. In relating this experience, he tells of how he felt so out of place at first; he was17, and surrounded by foreign dignitaries used to such meetings. That feeling soon faded; he describes how warmly he was received, how those same seemingly intimidating dignitaries gathered around him after his presentation to talk to him further about his ideas, and to invite him to dinner. His eyes glow when he talks about the meeting; it was a beautiful experience in his life.

Around Mi Cometa, José’s friends call him “Flaco” (Skinny), greeting him with a handshake or the traditional besito (little kiss) on one cheek. His gelled hair like brown grass reaches up; long eyelashes frame dark eyes, transparent windows to his thoughts. His crooked teeth are usually involved in a smile, laugh or conversation, and his sincere goodness and charming humor get him out of the hot water he sometimes gets himself into. Kids call out to him when we walk through the barrio, and he often scoops up some little one to question her about the status of her soup consumption. A black leather bracelet wraps each of his wrists, concealing underneith a strip of lighter skin, evidence of the strength of the Guayaquil sun. Although usually in a t-shirt and jeans, teasing people and asking if they’ve eaten their soup, there is something special about this 20-year-old vice president of Mi Cometa.

José graduated from high school last year and hopes to begin school soon to become a lawyer focusing on human or civil rights. Right now he’s working at Mi Cometa full time for the Head start-type program they do, and with me on the Children’s Community Animation Program. He calls me “Jefa” (boss), and I return the nickname, “Jefe,” and we often talk about how lucky we are to be working together. We have the same vision for this project, and I imagine I light up the way he does when he talks of the transformative potential of children. When we discuss the youth in our group of animadores (youth leaders) he often identifies with the shy young ones, saying, “I was like that when I first came here; and they taught me.” We have great hope for the youth leaders who will organize the 3 community groups in the various zones of Guasmo Sur, and after our weekly meetings with them we walk away brainstorming how to draw on their strengths and present them opportunities to grow.

Beyond our common vision, passion for this type of work and direct communication styles, our skills compliment each other. We can both draw on past leadership training and children’s development work, and I get to organize to my heart’s content, as he is a pile-maker. I draw daily on what I learned in my master’s program, analyzing the environment in which we work, gathering input from the community here, defining our program’s objectives and trying to figure out how to measure if we are effectively meeting our goals. I work together with Jose and the animadores to complete these steps as we attempt to create a strong base for this program and empower the children and youth of Guasmo Sur.

José’s depth of experience with human rights and children’s organizations in Ecuador is invaluable, and his sense of humor and friendship have helped lessen the loneliness I usually feel when I go abroad alone. I still feel it, but not as often as I have in the past. My silent retreat this summer, José, Ceci (my “mom” here), the warm community that is Mi Cometa, the kids, and the fulfillment I feel from this work have all helped with the transition. I am amazed at how much my work here taps into my passions and draws on all I’ve studied and done for the past 10 years.

My job description and title has been explained in various ways to me since I began planning to come here, and so when at our last staff meeting Cesar, the President of Mi Cometa, said that I am the coordinator of this Children’s Program, and Jose is my assistant, who will learn much from me, we laughed. Jose began calling me Master Jedi, and himself Luke Skywalker. May the force be with us.

As a Child I Collected Bandaids

2004-10-30T13:58:00.000-05:00

As a child I collected bandaids. Muppet Babies, Cabbage Patch Kids, shiny rainbows adorned the topside of the adhesive strips in my bandaid box. I never used them, though. As with the cute purple elephant-shaped soap my sister got one Christmas which I never let her use (how could you tell it was an elephant any more, if you used it?) I saved them for a special occasion. And so somehow, 20 years later, those bandaids ended up in my first aid kit in Guayaquil, Ecuador.

In the evenings I love to sit on the ledge in front of my house, between the gray of its cinderblock wall and the orange of the dusty rocky road that runs in front of it. It is cool and breezy in the evenings, a welcome relief from the equatorial sun of the daytime. I began sitting there in an attempt to read my book away from the constant blare of the television, but within minutes I realized the children who live on my street were to be my entertainment.

Wilson is six years old, and lives directly accross the street. I often hear my name and have to look around for a while before I see him, perched on top of a fence or waving at me through a crack in his closed door. He’s got the quickest wit of any six-year-old I’ve met, constantly provoking his friends with crazy nicknames and taunts, responding instantly to whatever they say. They call him “cat eyes,” for their light green-brown color, but they are most noticable for their mischievous twinkle.

Wilson’s zest for life is always visible on his person. This week he has a black eye; two weeks ago his leg had several gashes from where he’d fallen off his bike. When I saw his wounds I was horrified, they were infected and not healing. I asked if I could doctor them, and he agreed, so every night he, surrounded by the neighbor kids, would sit on the ledge by me. There was always a running commentary on the status of his wounds as the hydrogen peroxide bubbled, and often Wilson winced at its sting. But then he would grin as I opened my bag of bandaids. The kids pressed closer, what would it be today, and pretty soon Wilson would be standing upright once again in their midst, Neosporin and Kermit the Frog or Garfield now sticking to his skinny leg. As I packed up my first aid kit once again, I would smile that the bandaids still stuck, and at the special occasion.

October 16 2004 Journal Entry

Last night I came inside after playing doctor on the front ledge, and as I pushed back my shower-curtain door to put my Band-Aids back in my room, Manuel told me, "You should not waste your resources on those kids." I began explaining that Wilson has infected cuts on his legs and that simply need to be cleaned, but he cut me off. "Those kids, their parents don't take care of them, they´re always in the streets. You shouldn't waste your supplies on them." I felt my face growing red, my I-hate-to-be-bossed-around button pushed.

"They´re my things, I can do what I want to do," I told him.

"Those kids are like dogs in the street..." he continued, indignant. Anger shot straight up my body, hit my brain, I lost it.

"He´s not a dog, he´s a child!" I screamed.

Manuel backed away into the kitchen, muttering. I strode past him into the bathroom and slammed the door (the only door in the house - good thing it´s there, I needed to slam something). My shaking hands brushed my teeth with more vigor than usual, and when I emerged from that little blue room, I said goodnight to the 5 silent people in the house, pulled my shower curtain over the entrance to my room, and burst into tears. I lay in my bed staring through my mosquito net at the tin roof for a long time last night.

Why was I born into a beautiful family where I was loved, cared for?
Into a world where I have known more equality than women have in much of the world, where I have been free from poverty, want?
Into a world where there have always been Band-Aids?

This morning over breakfast I told Manuel I wasn´t able to listen to him the last night because I was too angry but wondered if there were something important he was trying to tell me. Ceci, his wife, told me it was okay that I was angry and okay that I give the kids on my street love; they need it. Manuel didn´t say anything about that, but laughed telling me I had turned as red as my shirt.

I wonder about my time with this family. My conscience will not LET me be a pacific inhabitant of this house. I was shocked by my confrontation with Manuel. It is rare I feel so out of control of myself. But it is part of me. I know I cannot stand by and watch Manuel hit the kitten, I cannot let Cecilia run around and do all the housework by herself while everyone else sits in front of the TV and expects to be served. And I cannot be told to ignore the infected mess on Wilson´s leg.