Fiestas de Dos Mangas

All the cities, towns and pueblos in Ecuador have festivals that mark their founding or independence. Actually, this is a common tradition in most of Latin America. The festivals typically include a combination of religious ceremony, special foods, dancing, drinking, games, sports and traditions unique to the place. They also usually last at least 2 or 3 days. This past weekend was the Fiestas de Dos Mangas, a 3-day party in the small pueblo close to where we live. Dos Mangas is the place where we have made the most friends, including the people who are helping us build our property. They are the people who we see when we ride our bikes or walk into town. A couple of things happened this past weekend that are noteworthy. One, Sylvie and I became God parents. Two, I played in the local soccer tournament. Here, I’ll deal with the latter.

On Friday, when Sylvie and I were paying the guys for the week, Eloy, our maestro, asked me if I played soccer. I said that I had dabbled a bit a few years ago, but that I was bad, especially when compared to guys who’ve been playing the game since they were able to walk. He then asked me if I wanted to play in one of the games on Saturday. I repeated again, that I was “malo”, and that there was really no place for me on soccer field during a competitive game. He said, “no, it’s no big deal. It’s just for fun.” Curious, I said “yeah, really?” And again he assured me that no one involved cared the least little bit about the result of the game. Now, mind you, my Spidey senses were tingling, but I was a little bit interested to see how I would stack up against these guys. I mean, I consider myself a decent athlete. And I had played pretty well back in Philly during those friendly, co-ed pick up games. I’d never played with regulation-sized goals before, but then again that might be advantage.

So, the next morning I’m practicing with our 6-year old neighbor Ariel, who was actually pretty decent. He could be counted on to kick the ball straight every time. He could return the ball to you off a bounce. He was also pretty good at chasing it down. “Hmmm, this kid’s pretty good. Lucky me, I actually get to practice a bit.” Of course, Ariel’s proficiency should have probably served as some sort of warning. Hey, all I knew was that I had to be at the field by 1:30pm.

As we hopped off the pick up truck in Dos Mangas I saw the crowd of people sitting watching the game currently in action. I noticed the covered tents filled with people in their lawn chairs. I saw a couple of coolers. I saw the vendors selling water ice, food, drinks. I saw a group of people sitting isolated behind one of the goals. These were the fans of the team from the neighboring town that had come to play vs. one of Dos Mangas four teams. They were heckling the officials. I noticed the nice, numbered and named uniforms both teams were wearing. There was a band. The only thing missing was a step show. At the end of the games trophies were handed out.

So, now I’m ready to soil myself. I pray and hope that Eloy and the guys were just talking mess; that they didn’t really expect me to play. They had even asked if our friend Chin-Yee wanted to play, and he wasn’t even there. So clearly, rock-solid commitments were not mandatory. As I nervously waited, our friend Manuel comes over to greets us and to introduce his father who was very slick with his gold chain, crisply pressed slacks and full head of gray hair. Manuel asked me if I was ready to play. Not only did I not want to play, I didn’t want to leave Sylvie alone with Manuel Sr. either. Within 15 minutes I’m in my uniform walking over to where the team is warming up. Not only am I clearly not from Dos Mangas, I’m the only guy wearing dark blue shorts instead of royal blue. Not only am I half a foot taller than the other players, but Manuel’s wife decides to give the PA announcer my name. So, while I’m whiffing balls far wide of a humongous goal during practice, I’ve got a guy sitting on a chair with a microphone shouting “Umi…..Umi, Umi, Umi, Umi, Umi !!!!!!!!!!!!” for the crowd of hundreds assembled at this sports complex. By the way, no one else in Dos Mangas is named Umi. Behind the PA announcer is a group of about 7 women cheerleader chanting my name. A couple of them have 3-liter Coke bottles filled with ice that they shake as they scream U-ME..U-ME..U-ME...

I’m not someone who likes a lot of attention. So playing a sport I barely know that happens to be the Ecuadorian national pastime in front of a crowd of three hundred commentators representing the pride of an entire community while my name is chanted incessantly for 90 minutes is not what I had in mind for my Saturday afternoon. Plus, on a deeper level, I have a thing about letting people down. It’s one of my worst fears. It’s up there with being buried alive. So, I’m feeling the pressure so to speak. And I’m missing the goal during practice, and praying to my God that I don’t have to actually play.

After our team gets announced, and we run out on to the field to the crowd’s applause, we get our picture taken. After that every one sort of stays in place and starts bending and shaking their legs the way players do before a game is about to start. So, I’m on the field wiggling my ankle a little bit scanning the sidelines for my salvation. It comes from our stern-looking goalie who nods in the direction of the bench. God is good and God is great. However, as I walk over to the “bench” (a log on the ground), I hear my name. I didn’t understand everything he was saying because he was using the Spanish soccer announcer pace for his ramblings, but I understood “Umi, come talk to the madrina…Don’t just stand there… She is waiting.” So, I look and see the madrina (basically she’s the beauty queen representative for our team) standing there looking at me, looking away, blushing. And, she’s got 5 or so girls around her looking at me, motioning for me to come stand next to her. She’s got a sash and everything. You see, not only does Dos Mangas have the bravest men, but also the most beautiful women. So, now I’m standing awkwardly by the bench wanting to sit down, but unable to ignore this horrific situation. As I said before, I hate being put on the spot. All types of thoughts flashed through my head. Will the people watching be offended if I reject talking to their madrina? Will I hurt her feelings by not even playing along? Will the PA announcer turn on me and start insulting me through his loudspeaker for the crowd’s enjoyment. In the end, I sat on the bench and hoped for minimal fall out. Sylvie was over on the other side of the field, doing everything she could to fight the nausea of morning sickness while sitting in 90 degree heat. I just couldn’t risk any misinterpretation or hurt feelings. Gotta take care of home first.

Fortunately, the people of Dos Mangas are forgiving and patient people. I blocked out the PA announcer and wasn’t hit with any ice. Eloy, the guy who invited me to play on his team, didn’t arrive until halftime. Fortunately, my number didn’t get called. Here, I thought I’d be playing in a friendly pick up game. Turns out, I had to practice with a complete bunch of strangers who all seemed to be wondering what the hell I was doing in one of their uniforms. I was a ringer, but instead of being the best player on the team, I was the worst. This made no sense to anyone, especially me. So, during the second half Eloy walks over to me and says it’s time to go in. I say “are you sure?!” He says “yes”. I say, “no wait, I can’t”. I’m begging at this point like a kid who doesn’t want his mommy to leave him on the first day of school. I tell him we can swap clothes so he can play. He’s damn-near dragging me by the arm over to the field and telling the ref I’m replacing number 12. I say “what, he’s one of our best players!!” Eloy says “no importa”. So I check in to the game. “U-ME, U-ME, U-ME!!” Honestly, I didn’t play that horribly. Once I got out there I just ran hard and tried not to mess up. I did at some point change positions from offense to defense. I probably should’ve asked or communicated to a teammate about that one, but hey, what’s done is done. I had the ball come my way a few times. I did decent things a couple of times with the ball. Unfortunately, my final touch of the ball led to a goal. The ball came to me on our side of the field. I turned upfield and looked to pass. An opposing player stole the ball, passed it to a teammate and his teammate made a goal. The bad part: it made the game 5-4 with 2 minutes left. I was quickly taken out of the game as my team tried to score the tying goal, but by the time I got to the bench the final whistle was being blown. I think I blew the only chance Dos Mangas had all day to at least tie a game. I haven’t yet fully processed that fact or its ramifications. Nor, have I forgiven myself. It could take years to deal with this trauma. I’m scared to go into Dos Mangas without protection. Here I was trying to have a good ole’ fashioned cross-cultural experience and I think I need a therapist to help me deal with everything that transpired.

Cross Dressing Cookie Salesman

In Ecuador, the majority of people use buses to get from here to there. It’s the cheapest, most regular and accessible form of transportation within the country. Within any town or city, a bus will cost you no more than $0.25. For travel between major cities, it is possible to catch flights throughout the day for $100. A great deal granted, but it doesn’t beat the $12, 10-hour, overnight bus ride between Quito and Guayaquil.

It doesn’t take an anthropologist to realize that the bus in Ecuador is a cultural happening. Most buses have salsa music and ballads blaring through the speakers during your ride. On any trip longer than 30 minutes, the majority of people will be found open-mouth sleeping despite this fact. Babies and small children are immune to the noise and bumps in the road as well.

People lean on you. Unlike in the West where touching people you don’t know in crowded spaces is considered taboo, here you will not only get touched, but often leaned on while riding the bus. People will grab an arm or shoulder and use you as leverage when they are about to fall. You can even have your head touched while it lays on your seat’s headrest. I know, I know. This sounds unimaginable; but here it is acceptable. There are actually times when you’ll feel little fingers rubbing your hair while you lay there. Or, people resting their hands on the top of your chair will bounce their fingers off your forehead when you hit a pothole. I know my cousin Maisha and some other people are gasping out loud right now, but it’s true. When a person is standing on the bus, they will always lean on someone’s seat. I feel like an inordinate amount of the time it happens to be mine, but I could just be paranoid. In the process of leaning on the seat, they inevitably lean on the seat’s occupant. No matter. Here, it is not considered an inconsideration. You will be ruthlessly leaned on and/or bumped in the middle of your R.E.M. cycle without having the person apologize for waking you up or even look in your direction. The rules of engagement here are different, and commonly accepted. As long as I’m not the only one being mistakenly slapped or nudged out of my sleep, who am I to complain?

I learned about the varying conceptions of personal space during my first time in South Africa. The trains are so full that you have to literally push the people bursting out of the doors in, in order to create your space. Sometimes you need a running start, and it always takes more than one try. Inevitably, someone’s bag gets caught outside the door when it closes. It is not a question of whether or not you will be discomforted. The question is how bad and for how long. Usually it’s a combo of someone grabbing the hand bar directly over your head (you know what that means….armpit) and a fellow passenger’s elbow or book bag crammed into the small of your back, disrupting your balance. Sometimes, someone’s just stepping directly on your ankle. Every time the train stops at a station you have to use every muscle in your body to not fall over and have everyone leaning against you collapse. I’ve seen 15 people pileups. Of course, this is just an exaggerated version of what happens on the bus in Philly during rush hour. How uncomfortable your ride to and from school or work is may be the most accurate indicator, we have today, of personal income.

Here, overnight bus trips usually feature one group of young backpackers who got drunk before they got on. This process usually includes some kind of hard liquor. They couldn’t pick tonight to just drink beer, nooo. They need to have something strong since it’s going to be a long ride. They want to get twisted. Minutes after leaving the station they befoul the bathroom. In general, you don’t want to use the bathroom. Take care of your business before you get on the bus. Take your contacts out in your seat, eat a good dinner and bring your water, but don’t drink too much. Need nothing from the back of the bus. Once, and no I’m not lying, somebody broke out a guitar at 12:30 am. The other feature attraction of long bus rides is the movies. Let’s see. Last trip from Riobamba to Guayaquil I lucked out with not only Top Gun, but also some B movie with Jean Claude Van Damme and Mickey Rourke as the bad guy. Who knew Mickey Rourke knew karate? You didn’t. If you want to understand something about the insidious nature of the Americanization of cultures throughout the world, watch Top Gun or a bad Jean Claude Van Damme movie. Yes, I said bad Jean Claude Van Damme movie. We’re not even talking about BloodSport here. This is washed-up Van Damme, with washed Mickey Rourke as his foil.

Like many countries, Ecuador has a long, strong tradition of people selling things on the bus. Men jump on to the bus as it still moves with pans of fresh tortillas filled with chicken or cheese. Or maybe they’ll have coconut water in a bag, or baked corn patties, or roasted pork with corn or pinchos (shishkabobs with marinated, grilled chicken wings stretched to fit on the skewer horizontally). This is the not the worst part of the trip. These guys yell out something like “Corviche!, Corviche!, Corviche!” loud enough to be heard over the music. This is a loud, but short announcement. However, guys selling less appetizing things like packaged cookies or herbal remedies need a little something to help sell their product. So, they spruce up their product presentation with a little speech. A five minute soliloquy most often is the format. Then, they walk around and hand out samples of the product to each passenger. This allows you to touch and feel the six pack of cookies, read its content, and see how good it feels in your hands. It’s as if you were test driving a car or holding a pair leather gloves. Just the smell of the plastic packaging and the hard texture of the cookie inside will be enough to tempt you. When you’re lucky you will get a not-so-serious presenter who tosses in jokes about sexual impotence or children wanting their mother’s milk.

Yesterday, Sylvie and I got lucky. A guy hops on the bus with his hat on sideways to the back (good sign). He’s carrying a small, black gym bag. Don’t worry, this is typical. It’s only after 7 minutes into his routine that we even know he’s selling galletas (cookies). He’s working the crowd really well. Bus riders are used to these presentations, so you’ve got to be good to have the group openly laughing and watching in audience-like fashion. First, he tells us he used to be a criminal, but there was too much competition. Later in his act he tells us he’s actually Noboa’s son (the richest man in Ecuador who recently lost his third presidential bid) and he’s here to give us money. He says sometimes he wakes up, looks in the mirror and wonders if that is a butt or a face he’s looking at. Then, he brings on his “wife”, a man about his same age with a blonde wig on sideways. They do a five minute, R-rated, un-PC version of a Honeymooners skit. Everything but “bang, zoom” was included. At one point, the “husband” asks his wife a question, and his “wife” says one of the passengers knows the answer, but has to whisper it in “her” ear. Who would be the lucky man to have the “wife” leaning over him to share the secret while being watched by the entire bus?!? I don’t have to tell you do I?

The “wife” starts making eyes at me. You know how there are those moments in life when someone is about to be embarrassed, and you pray to God it’s not you, but you eagerly wait to see someone else get embarrassed so you can laugh, and then you get a direct unmistakable signal that verifies beyond a shadow of a doubt that yes, indeed, it will be you? Just as the “dammit, nope, it’s me” realization came, “she” is there leaning over me, saying “ummm hummm, uhhh huhhh, ooohhh”, and everyone is laughing. Thankfully, my wife is there for me to look at and pretend the event is not happening. After that, they finish their routine and the husband verifies for the passengers and driver that his partner is not a homosexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. They then go passenger-by-passenger threatening them with attention as they refuse to take back their cookies instead of the money that’s supposed to replace them. At the first woman who refuses, they stop and the de-wigged “wife” starts making Jerry Lewis faces at her. She was gonna pay, it was just a question of how painful it was going to be (sidenote: Sylvie and I are watching seasons of 24 on dvd. I’m Jack. She’s Chloe. Or, I’m President Logan and she’s his crazy wife.). These guys were fantastic at extortion. They sold 5 times more cookies than any other salesmen I’ve seen thus far. Just the threat of them pausing too long by your seat had people, particularly men, whipping change out of their pockets. I guess that’s one of the small prices you pay for being homophobic. I paid, but it was more out of appreciation and admiration of the show. Anytime someone puts that much thought, time and effort into selling you a snack pack of cookies, you need to come up off your $0.25.

Going Home, Being Home

I’m beginning to believe that the greatest feeling a human being can have is to be surrounded by those who love and care for them. Not just being here, but time is beginning to work this idea into my head. For a while I thought maybe the greatest sensation a person could have comes from the realization of a dream. That’s certainly what I’ve been chasing for years now. But I wonder. Whenever we realize a dream, even a great one, the first thing we usually do after patting ourselves on the back for a while is figure out a new one. Dream fruition is an insatiable desire. But being home….. it’s complete. You want for nothing. In this sense, it’s a more perfect and lasting experience.

It may be for me (now I’ll use some “I” statements instead of sweeping generalizations) that I am in my “happy place”. And it’s a social place. It has to do with the people who surround me. It has to do with place. I still have goals, but I’m finding the butter of contentment to go with the bread of aspiration. For a relatively young, college-educated person this is a profound discovery. Place is the last place most of us are taught to look for happiness. We are mobile in the very definition of our existence. Our communication is mobile and high speed. Our careers are mobile and transient. Our relationships are mobile and replaceable. Families are like luggage. Better job in San Francisco or Nepal or Belize? Pack the kids into their multi-purpose transport units (a new father recently told me about these. They’re like pods. They turn from car seat into bassinette into the cradle of your stroller. Shout out to Preston and his new twins) and hit Expedia for our tickets. I was taught somehow, somewhere to seek out the best opportunities wherever they may be and go forth. Place is a matter of coincidence.

The best memories I have from my childhood almost all relate to summers down the shore. My father’s family is from Atlantic City (an hour from my home in Philly). On Friday nights after work we would load up the car and hit the AC Expressway. The sunroof was always open. We’d get into AC and head straight to the White House Sub Shop (my Pop is fanatical about this place). While I waited in line with our ticket he would call “the house” to get everybody’s order. “The house” was my grandmother’s place; the home where my Pop and his siblings were raised. And when we got there, we’d be greeted and promptly relieved of the heavy bags of White House subs. Of course, we did the same when others arrived with subs. From there, it was basically a free-for-all with 3 uncles, 2 aunts, my Pop and usually 6 or 7 of my 13 cousins sharing four bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen worth of space. My grandmother stood watch over all. For me, this time was strictly about having fun. My cousins and I played, fought and got yelled at and threatened. It’s the best time of my life. During all of it, the feeling was like being in a cocoon. There were all these people around me who showed me stuff, protected me. I never felt alone. I think in this way children experience a type of social nirvana. It really doesn’t get any better than the feeling of comfort provided by being home. Despite the petty squabbles and other issues that every family and community face, being in a place where you feel at home is irreplaceable. In a profound way, you are able to relax.

I watch TV, so I’ve seen this sentiment of “going home” talked about before. Usually it’s someone in the 40’s or 50’s grieving over a lost parent. Not making fun here, but this is the typical portrayal. For me though, I think being far away from home, missing my family and wondering to myself why I’ve come so far have propelled me down this path of thought. In many ways, I’m beginning to feel “at home” here in the boondocks of Ecuador. I’m a stranger and I’m still only learning the language, but there’s something about the people here. There’s something about the land. It just invites you in. Commitment comes a little easier here. No grand schemes are being thwarted by deciding to settle down in one form or another. My family is in Philly so that will always be home, but I’m also finding a home in this new place. That’s something that I think I was searching for, but didn’t realize. It’s this deep-seeded desire that hadn’t been understood, but I’m finding it anyway. It’s one thing to have moments of feeling at home when you see an old friend, or go home for the holidays. It’s another to feel at home when you walk outside your door in the morning. As an adult, that’s a new feeling that takes me back to “my small days”.