Cultural Exchanges

I am rolling through the Andean Mountains looking at spectacular views of lush green hills and far away mountain tops in a 360-degree panorama. Mark and I just finished a two-week excursion through Colombia and are now busing back to Quito. As I sit staring out the bus window I try to take in the beauty around me and wish there was a way to capture the moment so I can show my friends and family. There is something majestic about these mountains that make them unique from the mountains I know back home. They are grandiose like the Rockies but covered in lush green grass and trees like the Appalachians. They are inviting and warm as the sun reflects the beautiful shades of green. I get the urge to run barefooted up to the top and roll down. They have deep, wide valleys where life is abundant with rivers, lakes, and small pueblos. These wide valleys add to the greatness of the peaks. They create a sense of abundant space as your eyes softly climb the sides of the mountains until they reach the distant top. The land plays tricks with your eyes and creates a false sense of distance. The largeness of the mountains and valleys compared to the tiny houses dotted across them leaves nothing to compare the distance too. That peak over there could be 5 miles or 25 miles away.

But that is not what this journey is about today. I want to talk about Colombia and Ecuador. More specifically, I want to say something about culture. There is an old saying that says you really never know a place until you leave it and then return to it. There is something about experiencing other places that opens your eyes to your own home. That happened in several ways over the past two weeks. Colombians are some of the best conversers around and are extremely amiable. Their pace of life is slower and less stressful. Our first night in Colombia we asked a lady on a bus how to get to a certain part of Cartagena. Her and her husband got off the bus with us and took us where we wanted to go and then proceeded to help us find a place to stay for the night. For about an hour and a half we talked and walked around Old Town Cartagena. This also happened in Cali, Colombia when we asked where we could buy some preroasted coffee beans. A guy about our age ended up spending half the day with us showing us different parts of Cali. Others would simply walk up to us and begin a conversation. I can’t tell you how many times that happened in the course of one day. Across the border, Ecuadorians do not have the same gift of gab as their neighbors. It is part of Ecuadorian culture to stare at foreigners. This took me awhile to get used to. But it still irks me sometimes when I am eating to look up and find a pair of unfamiliar eyes staring back into mine.

These views of the Ecuadorian countryside remind me of how beautiful Colombia is. The land radiates with green mountains contrasted by blue skies and various colored flowers. The people are like the land and radiate with similar beauty. They are black, brown, white and every shade in between. Colombia’s prominent past slave trade mixed with the indigenous people, the indigenous mixed with the European Spaniards, and the Spaniards with the slaves creating an array of colorful people. As a result, only 1% of Colombians still claim any indigenous heritage. In comparison, 25% of Ecuadorians still have strong indigenous blood and continue to practice traditional indigenous religion and language. The rest of the Ecuadorians are in a category called Mestizo (Mixed Spanish and Indigenous roots) and there is a small minority of Afro-Ecuadorians. Most Ecuadorians thus have prominent Indigenous physical features including wider nostrils, strong wide jaw lines, short stature, and similar skin tones.

As we cross the equatorial line I have some relief in knowing that despite all the zigzagging and winding through these mountains we are making our way southward. Quito is on the horizon and my mind is at ease with thoughts of a warm shower, a soft bed, and a hearty meal waiting on me at my home away from home.

The Ecuadorian Matador

Diego Rivas falls to his knees two feet in front of the bull. He throws open his arms and looks to sky and yells at the top of his lungs. We can’t believe it! The crowd jumps to their feet as the bull stands there panting, glaring at Diego. The Ecuadorian Matador spins on his knees now with his back to bull and again throws open his arms to an approving crowd. Another gasp resounds, applause erupts, and a murmur resonates. The bull, still standing there panting, knows it has been defeated. The dirt at its feet is dark red from its wounds. The bull has six decorated hooks hanging perfectly from its back, three hanging off to one side, three hanging off the other side. They were placed there by an unusual display of courage from Diego.

After a few moments Diego now has full control of the stands. He motions for the band to play louder as he flashes his red cape and draws the bull near for a turn, “Ole!” The Matador spins and again flashes the cape and again the bull charges and again we yell, “Ole!” Diego has perfect form by not moving his feet as the bull brushes past him. Diego goes for a third turn, flashes his cape, the bull charges, and Diego does a reverse spin with his back momentarily to the bull, “Ole!” The crowd gives an approving applause and cheers. The Matador accepts the applause with open arms and a pompous pelvis thrust followed by a yell. We stand and clap in approval. The guy has got charisma. The whole stadium can feel his energy. The trumpets sound signifying that it is time for the Matador to finish the bull.

Diego gracefully struts toward the bull, one pointed foot in front of the other like a male dancer, building anticipation. He now motions for the band to play softer. He holds his cape to his left side. Behind the cape he is hiding his sword. He slowly stops. The bull hesitates, digs its left foot into the dirt, lowers its horns, and narrows its gaze on the cape. Perfectly and slowly and with fluent motion, the Matador lifts his sword from behind the cape and points it just above the horns. The bull doesn’t notice the sword. Perfect execution. The bull charges. Diego charges. The Matador drives the sword into the hump of the bull with perfect aim and timing and is nearly scathed by the bull’s left horn. The crowd again erupts in approval. The bull is then turned a few last times by three or four of the Matador’s workers and it finally falls to its knees, then onto its side, a sign of a perfect kill. No finishing off is needed.

Diego walks to the wall with open arms. The crowd chanting and jeering “Orejas! Orejas!” He places an arm on the wall, lowers his head and begins to weep. He knows he has just given the show of a lifetime and this fight will promote him into a higher status of fame and prestige. For his show of bravery and skill, the judges award him both of the bull’s ears to appease the cheers from the crowd, “Orejas! Orejas!” He is picked up and carried on a set of shoulders for his victory lap. We throw our hats into the ring as a sign of approval and continue to cheer. Diego Rivas is truly a great Matador.

La Mariscal Beats

We stepped outside into the dark and foggy streets of north Quito. The clouds have descended upon the city from somewhere behind the Andes mountains. We see some headlights fragmented by the smoke-like air and hope it is a taxi. It is peculiar that my hair and jacket feel damp. It is not raining but the moisture from the clouds engulfing us creates a fresh mist that is a relief from the hot sun during the day. The taxi pulls up and we head back to La Mariscal, my home neighborhood for the next month, to begin our night out on the town. As I sit cramped four deep in the back of a three person cab my mind drifts over the experiences of my first week in Quito: the bullfight, the beautiful flamenco dancers, Fiesta de Quito, my impromptu salsa lesson, the food, and the people.

I begin to see colorful lights and people walking on the sidewalk out of the cab window and there is the faint sound of music in the distance. We are back to La Mariscal. The area is one of the most modern areas in Ecuador and is known to have some of the best nightlife in the country. It is appropriately nicknamed “Gringolandia” because it is home to many visiting Americans, Europeans, and Australians alike. My host home is smack in the middle of La Mariscal in area called Plaza la Foch. It is like having a balcony on Bourbon Street in the middle of the French Quarter. I can look down from my balcony here and see a mass of people congregating in the plaza and see the overspill into the conjoining streets most nights of the week

We climb out of the cab a few blocks from Plaza la Foch because the traffic is so backed up it would be faster just to walk the rest of the way. As we walk the guys fill me in on the stories that I missed during the three months I have not been with them. The music is getting louder. Music. Ah the Music. Music is the heart and soul of Latin America. Take music away and Latin America would come to a screeching stop. It is everywhere: the clubs, the streets, the buses, my house all day, the taxies, the café and Internet shops, and every other little shop on the street. The sounds flood the air. There is a reason why Latinos can dance the way they can. The rhythm is a part of their anatomy. From the time their ears can hear at birth they live life moving to the sounds of music. I wouldn’t be surprised if doctors and nurses set up radios in the delivery rooms and slightly moved their hips and shoulders as they delivered the babies.

Ah Music. We walk a little further up the street and I can now hear a distinguishable rhythm above the rest. We are standing in front of my favorite club. They play a good mix of Salsa and Reggeaton. I am looking forward to the dancing tonight. I feel good, I have energy, I learn something new every time. My host mother, Gloria, swears that I have Latino blood in me after watching me dance at a restaurant. While flattering, it’s hard for me to believe because she also tells me I am good at Spanish. It makes me feel good every time though.

We get into the club and disappear into the people and the smoke. This is going to be a good night.