October 3, 2009: Bienevidos a Ecuador!

Fundacion Amauta, our Spanish School

At the Scarlet Macaw, Guayaquil

Nate and Mark getting their beauty sleep on the plane

My last night at home

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Location: Paseo de los Canaris y Cacique de Chaparra, Casa del Vincente Jerves y Isabel Cordova, Cuenca, Ecuador

Time: 11:23 PM, Central

Weather: Quite cool.

If I expect to be eased into Ecuadorian culture like I was eased into college life--taking a few credits at a time until I worked my way up to a full course load after I graduated from high school--I was wrong.

“¿Habla Espanol?” my host mother asked, after we'd kissed hola on the street in front of the Fundacion Amauta.

“Me Espanol is...muy...malo. Lo siento. ¿Habla Engles?”

“No!”

We both laughed and laughed, probably with thoughts of “My God! How am I going to communicate for 10 weeks???” and “Mi Dios! Todos los Americanos son estupidos!” (or whatever it would be in proper Spanish).

Mama Isabel is wonderfully friendly. If we can't communicate verbally, we'll at least get by with smiles, gestures, and trial and error. She introduced my to Antonia's mother and Nate's mother. As it turns out, Isabel, Olga, and Eulalia are three sisters out of the 14 (!!!) Cordera children.

Mama Isabel lived with her husband, Vincente Jerves and her brother Manuel in a large house on Cacique Chaparra in the Eastern Side of Cuenca. So far I have seen Tio Manuel for a whole five minutes and Papa Vincente not at all. I tried to ask where he was but was unable to understand the answer I received. My room is good sized, complete with a set of drawers and a closet, a large desk, a queen-sized bed, and a tv. The wall facing the street is a solid window with a bit of a balcony outside. I am too afraid of heights to attempt exiting my window because the railing is so tiny. Maybe later.

The first thing I noticed when Mama Isabel pulled into the driveway (through a large gate that is continually locked) was a brick-red feather and a pile of fecal matter that looked suspiciously like something I see every day at my own home. I turned the corner and saw a Red Star putzing about the yard. Several more—and a large Leghorn rooster were further back. I cannot escape chickens, no matter how hard I try.

We all ate lunch at Tia Olga's house: chicken soup (green, unusual, but muy, muy delicioso), roast chicken, salad, french fries, corn kernels which looked like garlic cloves they were so enormous, and—of course—rice. All of it is livened up with ahi, a red sauce made from chilies. I can tell you that without a doubt, it is my favorite condiment on this continent. It livens up even the driest, blandest white rice.

Eulalia's daughter, Leslie, who is 21, took Antonia, Nate, and I on a tour of the city. It. Is. Beautiful. Crazy, of course, with the driving verging on the edge of suicidal and the pedestrians crossing wherever they choose and the one-way streets winding in and out of lights and parking lots and median sections. (Ayiyiyiyi.) She drove us to a corner store where she bought us the first legal drinks of Nate's and my life. The legal drinking age here is 18, so I don't feel guilty about being accepted into Leslie's fold with a bottle of Guayaquil's finest beer, Pelsener. Legal or not, beer is still revolting and I couldn't even finish the bottle.

We drove up a mountain until we came to a place where the entire city lay below us, like a cat curled up in the late afternoon sun. Cuenca means "basin" in Spanish and from there, it was clear why. The entire city is nestled in a hollow of the blueplumb Andes, its rooftops winking orange in the coming sunset. I already knew that Ecuador was the most beautiful place I'd ever seen but that panorama set it in stone. Of course I forgot my camera.

Later, we went with Leslie's friend Pamela to get ice cream on one of the more populous roads in Cuenca. I got Dulce de Leche flavor (I think) for a mere $.80. That's what I call a good deal. Outside the Heladria, we ran into several more of Leslie's friends: three self-proclaimed caballeros who were very fun and very funny and very, very full of machismo. All of the girls had been warned that Latin men were in love with the thrill of the chase—especially when it came to American girls. Did I expect to come face to face with that during my first three hours in Cuenca? Not necessarily. The one boy (man, I suppose) who called himself “The Robot,” or “The Terminator,” or something else automaton-ish told Leslie in hushed Spanish that he liked me and to stay a while to hang out with them.

“My novio would not be pleased,” I warned.

He replied, Leslie translating, “So? You can have two boyfriends. He's not here, is he? You need an Ecuadorian cowboy.”

“I prefer military men.”

“Ah! Good luck! My uncle is—” (shmuckety shmuck) “—of the Ecuadorian military!”

Latin men. It is apparent that the amount of machismo in Ecuador is overwhelming, despite the outward appearance of modernity in the lives of the wealthy. Pamela told me that she did not trust her boyfriend at all, even though they had been dating for five years. I think it is generally accepted that the men can “enjoy life,” as Fernando told me. Women, on the other hand, seem stuck in the woman's sphere of the home life and its responsibilities. Fernando explained the loose actions of those in relationships by saying that one should enjoy life—not let opportunities pass you by just because you're in a relationship. He said that women were treated like roses in Ecuador. Once in a marriage, the man would stop his flirtations and cheating and become monogamous. He said that if you couldn't be monogamous in a relationship, you shouldn't get married. If you weren't ready to be that way, you shouldn't get married. How different from the United States!

The Cuencanos all agreed that I looked like a Cuencana, an Ecuadorian native of the sierra. That made me feel very, very good. The more I can blend in, the easier my time here will be. Sadly, I'm finding that the only way I can blend in is by not opening my mouth.

The group wanted us to go out and party for a good portion of the night, but I made it very clear that I was “muy, muy consada” and wanted to be home at a decent hour. Leslie dropped Antonia and me off at Tia Olga's house because Mama Isabel was at an internet cafe (I think) and was to pick me up later. She and her daughter Maria cooked us “pasta y queso” —macaroni and cheese, straight from the blue Kraft box, for our light dinner. They added bits of chicken left over from our lunch and a dash of parsley to liven it up.

Mama Isabel picked me up and brought me home, where I have unpacked the majority of my suitcase, written a bit, and now plan on going to bed. Maybe I have jet lag, but more so, I feel like my brain is working in overdrive. It's only about 8 but this bed is deliciously comfortable and I'll be asleep in no time.