Lumbisí

La Curli! Oye Curli! Mira, la Curli!
These are the shouts that I hear as I get off the bus each morning
Stepping off the magic green time machine that brings this
slightly out of place,
light haired, light eyed gringa
into their world.
I guess Its just as hard for them to pronounce the hard 't' in my name,
as it is for me to understand the hard truth of their existence.

I'm transported into a world that seems only to exist in the past.
Could it be that my 20 minute bus ride didn't take me 10 miles out of the city
but 10 decades backwards through time?
And every day, like the shock of realizing that you're dreaming
I realize... I'm not in the past but the present and the future
See, they all look the same here
so its hard to tell.

With every advance there seems to be a setback so
what should be a one way, paved road leading forward into development
is actually a winding dirt path dando vueltas
cycling eternally through a heritage of poverty and tradition
Maybe thats the secret of the green bus
Flying through the mountainous roads
circling past generations, loosing track of time as in arrives in the plaza
always back to the same spot where it left me the day before.

I remember thinking that first day, this pueblo smells old.
But now when I get off that bus
I breath in the town and the memories fill my lungs
fill my whole body,
this pueblo smells like Juanito, Kenner-ruscho, Quishpe, Sancancela, like home.
Mountain air, smoke, dirt, wrinkled hands and sweat.

Dirt that defies gravity to permanently rest in mid air
left there by the children who,
with a few marbles, and a warn out soccer ball
have little use for the latest ipod or video game.
Fruit was meant to be picked and trees meant to be climbed
and well, childhood is over as soon as you learn to grind out a dollar
so I stare that sweet innocence in the face just dare it to dissapear.

Sweat dripping off the faces of three generations of women
abandoned mothers caught in the merciless cycle of machismo
as they sweep the dust off their floors,
shoo the dogs out of their kitchens
stir the soup to feed their sons and daughters
daughters upon whom I wish motion sickness
dizzines that gives them the will to battle the endless circles that have left their mothers and grandmothers oblivious to abuse and injustice

Dancing and laughter linger in my head from a late night fiesta
but my smile turns dry when I see that the celebration has left its mark
Old men sprawed out on the street drunk and bloody and
Somehow, still too prideful to take the the water from my hands.
They leave it to their women to wear their shame
Strong women.
Ribbon weaved into their tight braids,
They are adorned with the pride of withstanding.
Without a word she gets him to the bed.
Head on pillow
Body covered with the cobija she made with her very own hands.
She is an expert at forgetting, swallowing, holding her head high.
Hiding the problem like she hides the scars.

Hoping to understand I follow the road, winding, twisting its way downward.
Passing house after house, cement walls,
bright colord paint faded and peeling
My sound track Reggeaton, Salsa, Meregue and Musica National
Blasting from each window comes a new rythem for my Journey
With rock in hand I pass a pack of starving dogs
Like their human counterparts they are Immune to the feel of flys on their faces or the sound of threatening words so
The rocks only purpose I realize is to feed my need for control.
The smell gets stronger the farther I go.
A heard of cattle pass by on my left.
There smell is distinct from the one that drives me on, down, farther.
Eyes catch sight of me, gently hold me with their gaze
One pair handing me off to the next, carrying me, I'm floating on their curiosity.

Downwards I walk, further further until I hear the sound
The noise a perfect fit for the puzzle peice my nose is holding.
And then sight, ironically the last of my senses to register
I see the River, deep in its basin, its movements flawless, swift and poderosos.
It is the sound of life and the smell of death intermingling
As if to tell me that they are kin.
Here exists that line I've heard about, so fine it is missed by many.
Life, it's joy and its suffering, separated from death by a mere breath of air.
A breath I now take in, gulping it down as if it were scarce.
How many lives these waters have taken,
but how many more they have nsustained
To live in recognition of death is to breath intentionally.

Time seems to laugh as I stand in awe Its greatest juxtoposition
Being and then so suddenly not being.
My mind tired from the search for
Answer that exist in such simplicity
I refuse to accept, to understand.
The fight to move forward is stilled by the river’s control
I am powerless against it and yet
I find strange comfort in such weakness, such closeness to death and to life.
This is the secret of my bus.. The story of this pueblo
Winding through the familiar, the safe, stearing clear of the unknown.

“Is crossing the road towards a beloved Other risky? Yes. Inconvenient? Terribly. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. If you leave your car parked on the other side for more than two hours, it can even get costly. And yet crossing the road to meet the stranger is the way we walk when we study and track a d trail- when we follow- the person of Jesus.”

Over the years I, like my friend Margo who wrote the book this quote comes from, have come to the conclusion that Jesus was a ‘road-crosser.’ He loved the unlovable, the neglected, the marginalized, the immigrant, the forgotten, the different and the invisible ‘others’ that live throughout our communities.

John McCain is a good friend of my dad’s. Dad and John are different. Their friendship is the perfect example of what I’m getting at here. John is a tall African American man who assists a lively Southern Baptist church right around the corner from my parent’s namely white, non-quite-so-lively- Prysbyterian church in Downtown Durham. The two men have fostered a relationship by getting meals together, taking uncomfortable yet intentional steps to visit each other’s churches and even planning a join men’s retreat that mixed the two congregations and their two cultures. When John showed up at our doorstep this morning with a few members of his congregation, two asian women and a boom-box, I could almost here God saying ‘This is going to be good. This is my kingdom.’

Lily and her daughter Sunshine are from China. They are third and fourth generation opera singers that found there way to St. John’s Baptist a few weeks ago. After hearing them sing at church on Sunday John asked them if they would mind sharing their gift with a few special friends via Caroling. They came all the way to our house- inconveniently located across town- to sing to us and tell us that God loved us. Sunshine and I are different. She is from China, I am from well, here. She speaks Manderin and Cantonese, I speak Spanish. Her culture is respectful and quite, mine is quite obnoxious and loud. What I did not expect when God brought some of his beloved ‘others’ right into my home is that despite our differences we would also become almost immediate friends! Would I have ever seen Sunshine and ‘crossed the street’ to say hello? Probably not. Would I have ever found out that we both studied Economics, we both love coffee or that she and her mom are actually blackbelt Karate instructors!? Nope.

Is loving someone who speaks a different language or eats different food or wears different clothes uncomfortable? Sometimes Awkward? Usually. Life-giving? Definitly.

Just catch this picture for a second: John McCain, my family as well as the large family of Australians that are visiting us for the holidays (Oh yea did I forget to mention that!) sitting on the couch in my living room listening to Sunshine and her mom belt out Ave Maria and songs from the Chinese Opera for their audience of 12.

I have come to love the street-crossing life and yet I am continually humbled to look out my window and see people crossing over so many levels of social boundaries to arrive on my front door step. If you're not quite sure you believe me check out this picture of sunshine's moves!

Until Thy Kingdom Come....

Its not fair that they break the law and don't have consequences.

Its not fair that they overuse social services and don't pay taxes.

Its not fair that they have jobs while 6.2 million Americans remain unemployed.

Its not fair that Americans are criticized for not speaking their languages when they are in the United States of America.

Its not fair that Criminal Justice and Law Inforcing ICE officials are made out to be the 'bad guys.'

.....Justice?

Luis came to the United States from Peru looking for a refuge from the extreme poverty that left him and his family on the brink of starvation. Without work, social capital or governmental aid services he was told that the best thing he could do for his children was cross the deadly boarder into the ‘Country of Prosperity.’

Rosa came over from Mexico in 2002 to join her husband in Carrboro. There was nothing left for a single women in her pueblo.

Luis works a double night shift cleaning schools and is a full time single dad during the day for his two young children. He struggles to learn English as he works alone at night and speaks Spanish to his children in hopes that they will someday be bilingual.

Rosa works part time cleaning hotel rooms. She speaks Nahuatl and Spanish. The $200 she earns each week is split between her aunt and mother in Mexico, her three children and on the occasion, herself. Her husband drinks and hits her if she’s not careful, but she knows that she would never survive without him. Even so, who would she tell?

Alone at the school one night Luis is handcuffed and put into a patrol car. He spends the night in a jail cell before he is driven to a detainment center 6 hours from the city where he lives. He is given one phone call to a neighbor asking her to watch his children until he returned. He has no idea where he is, why he was detained, when or if he is going home.

....Justice?

Its not fair that Rosa, at age 20, has never gone to school.

Its not fair that Luis, with an degree in Accounting from Peru, was seen only worthy enough to clean toilets.

Its not fair that a woman must choose between domestic violence and abandoning her children.

Its not fair that a hard-working, honest man is punished for taking care of his children.

Its not fair that I was born into privilege while billions of children everyday are born into extreme poverty.

Its not fair that white skin, English, and money equate to dignity while brown skin, Spanish, and used clothes are coated with shame.

Its not fair that Jesus, in his perfection, died for this.

Died for me.

Died for Rosa.

Died for Luis.

Died for Americans.

Died for Latinos.

Died to reconcile an unfair world to himself.

Justice.

Thy Kingdom Come Thy will be done on earth here as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.

Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever.

Amen.

Words for my week...

“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful (constant) in prayer.” Romans 12:12

Thoughts on CHRISTmas

Beto, an Ecuadorian friend of mine, recently told me that he "hated Christmas. I is the ugliest time of the year for my country," he said, "the time when you can most clearly see the disparity between rich and poor. It spits in your face. I hate it." At first I was taken aback. As someone who is on the 'richer' side of things, of course I would love Christmas..family, peanut brittle, presents, vacations...I've never known what it would be like to hate the holiday. Later that night, as I kept thinking about his strong words, I reflected on the economic paradox of Jesus- the King that was born in a manger. Christmas, the night that He was born, also reflected a time when disparity between rich and poor was as its highest. Because all of the inns were full, Mary had no other choice but to give birth in a barn, next to donkeys and cows. This realization, however, is not a sad one. The savior of the world was poor..Hallelujah! The king of Kings abides with and loves the poor...Hallelujah! Yes, Christmas is a time when disparity is magnified, but it is also a celebration that Christ came to redefine poverty and to turn our understand of 'wealth' upside-down.

In our modern day, secular society we have transformed the celebration of our saviors birth into a consumeristic hay-day that makes rich children richer and poor children more aware of their depravity. The question I pose is 'How can we transform 'giving,' an act meant to recognize the gift we are all freely given in Christ, into a true celebration of Jesus. I would bet that Jesus does not smile upon parents who buy up Toys-R-Us for their only child, celebrating 'in His name' or on all of the university students at San Francisco who receive new cars for CHRISTmas when their neighbors in Lumbisi struggle to provide daily meals. In this culture, that seems to have perfected the art of celebration, there is something missing, something that has been twisted when it comes to those days at the end of December. What happened to Jesus? How would Jesus want to be honored?

Disclaimer: After writing this except I realize that I have made a lot of strong generalizations. I am posing these questions as much to myself as i am to any other person. Something that can not be overlooked is that Christly giving has everything to do with our hearts and a position of humility. That said, parents showering their children with toys or friends exchanging video games is not an evil within itself. Any gift, if given with a heart of humility and love is beautiful. I myself grew up in a household with parents who have mastered the art of Christly giving. Although what my brother and I received was 'much,' I remember few of the actual gifts we were given. What i do remember is the realization and experience of their unspeakable love for us. It was always obvious that their giving of 'things,' was a physical demonstration of Christ's love and blessing for us all. Having clarified this, I wonder if as Christians we still have a responsibility to recognize the structural sin that has led to such extreme disparity and poverty in countries like Ecuador. Are there ways that we can transform our Christmas celebrations and in doing so redirect our hearts towards honoring Christ- a man who lived with, loved and delighted in the poor?

La Concordia, motorcycles, pedicures and cancer.

I woke up early Sunday morning to meet my best friend, Niche, at the bus terminal in Quito. Last week his father was diagnosed with lung cancer and not knowing how fast it was progressing, we decided that it was high time I make the trip down to the coast to meet the family and see where my tall, almost-famous, soccer playing friend, grew up.

Once in the bounds of La Concordia you can get into any taxi and ask them to take you to the house of Don Sixto Delgado, Niche's father. They just nod their head and start off in the right direction. That in itself is a sign of respect and legacy. When we arrived the house of full of different people. I had no idea which one's were family and which ones were just neighbors, but overall it was not that important, we greeted everyone the same. The women were in the kitchen preparing lunch and the man who I would come to find out was Niche's father was laying on the couch watching a soccer game. The house was filled with pictures of Chuchu, one of the older brothers who played on the 2007 pan-american team in Brazil. It was obviously a source of great pride for the family and for the whole town. Out of 8 siblings his picture was the only one scene on the mostly barren walls.

I was told by everyone that they had been waiting so long to meet me and that they knew a lot about me. I suppose people in the states might say the same thing about Niche. As we sat down for lunch I was surprised to find out that two of the older siblings requested that we pray together before eating. At first I though that they were trying to be being sensitive to my customs, but it was obvious from the prayer that the town were faithful Jehovah's Witnesses, something I would become much more familiar with in a few hours.

After lunch Niche and I went with his father to the town 'stadium' (a dusty looking soccer field) where he acted as the official for the local tournament games. As we walked up everyone, black, mestizo, young and old, greeted us and asked Señor Delgado how he was doing. I really felt like I was walking around with some important people. Stares were only magnified at the sight of a white girl in the town..something that I imagine is few and far between.

The rest of the afternoon consisted of people passing by the house, a 2 hour long conversation with Eloisa about how I should be interpreting the Bible (you better believe i did some research afterwards on how to converse with JW’s), and my favorite part...motercycle driving lessons! In spite of the immense poverty that exists in a town like La Concordia, EVERYONE on the coast rides around on motorcycles. A friend of Niche’s let us take his out for a spin and, (mom don’t read this part), I have never gone for such a crazy fast ride. As we whipped through the dirt roads and palm trees I have to admit that I was a little nervous, but as the same time I was surprisingly comforted by the fact that my friend, who only recently turned 17, grew up running the bumpy roads with a manual bike. When we reached a more open space we traded places and I learned how to change gears and drive at a comfortable speed. If i thought people were staring before, imagine what it was like for people to see the same white girl driving a motorcycle through theire streets.

As evening came we bought some 10 cents ice cream and sat outside of the house chatting on the typical plastic lawn chairs that are seen outside of every house. Chatting turned into dancing when someone down the block turned up there music, and again everyone was surprised that white girl had a few moves :) I took turns dancing with every person as to give each fair chance to judge for themselves, but in the end they all concluded that I danced ‘like a negrita.’

Sitting around the house with Niche’s family felt like being back at Wheaton. It was a different scene than Quito...entertainment came from our own imaginations rather than the flashy clubs or advertisements. When we were all pretty tired Eloisa came up with the idea to play categories, we broke up into teams of 2 and started with the letter ‘T.’ Further into the game I would figure out that the winner was the one who could cheat the best, but for the moment I was too concentrated in trying to figure out the name of a fruit that started with T in Spanish. (Taxo and Tomate, for those of your who were curious.) I had always known that Ecuadorian geography was pretty bad (no one has ever traveled to anywhere outside of the country) but I was still pretty shocked to see that under the ‘city’ category every single person had put Tailandia.

I do not know much about lung cancer and what it entails, but as it got later Señor Delgado seemed to be in more and more pain. His breathing got heavier and it became harder for him to sit still in one position. Eventually Niche’s mother sent everyone home and the atmosphere of the house became solemn. We all sat around the sofa, quite, watching the miserable patient toss and turn. The siblings took turns massaging their fathers chest or running a hot water cooler up and down his back. At one point Niche knelt beside his fathers prostrate body and began to weep. His mother and sister pulled him away knowing saying that if his father started crying he would not be able to breathe. My dear friend groaned ‘Mi papi, Mi papi...’ as he was led into another room to compose himself. I sat with him in the vulnerable state knowing that all I could offer was a shoulder to rest on and my shared tears. An hour or so later the hard breathing had past and everyone went back to their normal routines. On the one hand there is room for mourning and on the other, death and sickness have their place a mist the poor and survival implies the ability to cope and move on. There is talk of an operation and while everyone talks as if this sickness too is something that will pass, the word cancer to my ears has a fatal and tragic ring to it.

As we got ready for bed sweet Eloisa helped me bathe myself in the back yard. There is no actual shower or hot water so we took turns pouring buckets of water over each others heads. It is a humbling experience to realize that i had no idea what I was doing even in something as simple as taking a shower.

Walking back inside she offered to paint my toenails, something it turns out that she does for a living in the small town. We laid on her bed, chatted and I got the best pedicure I have ever had. My toes are now adorned with small flowers and sparkles. :)

Just as soon as we had come one morning we pulling out the next saying our goodbyes...I am amazed by how much one day can change the way we see the world.

Pictures: Family and friends dancing and posing for pictures, Niche with his father, Señor Sixto Delgado, Me with the littlest Delgado, 12-year-old Andres.

“I do,” Lumbisí style.

When I arrived in Lumbisí Saturday morning I was greeted with a ‘Courley! Hi, how are you? Grab those flowers and corra get into the car!’ It was a crazy house of women running around with flowers and food, Ozwaldo, the fiancé driving them where they needed to go and kids playing around with decorations and fancy dresses. After taping the flowers to the pew benches of the church and chopping a lot of tomatos, I was given the honor and responsibility of accompanying la novia, the bride, to get her hair and nails done in Cumbaya. She had been working all day as well and it was nice to see her relax and feel a bit pampered on her wedding day. Getting back I threw on a dress and we all headed over to the church.

Weddings, like most Ecuadorian events, are a familial affair. Everyone contributes and everyone celebrates. The nephew that has a car lends it to the family so that they can run the errands that they need to get done. The uncle that raises pigs brings two to the slaughter for the grand feast. The father that abandoned his girlfriend and family at a young age returns to walk his daughter down the aisle. The aunts and daughters spend weeks arranging flowers, tying ribbons and writing invitations and even the kids help prepare food and set up chairs. It makes me laugh to think of the western notion of wedding planners, caterers and florists.

After the short service deeply affirming Catholic theology and tradition, comes the long party deeply affirming the latino heart of celebration. A ‘Fiesta del pueblo’ is an experience hard to capture in words. At any celebration, be is a baptism, birthday or wedding, guests are fed a traditional three course meal along with lots of alcohol. Chicha is a highly alcoholic indigenous drink made from corn and wheat. I personally think that it smells like hotdogs and can’t down even a sip, but the town loves it! As people drink more and more the songs get longer and the dancing crazier. Cumbia is heard blasting from speakers well into the night.

The following morning it is tradition that the godparents of the marriage, along with the wedding party and guests bring chocolate and bread for the couple’s first breakfast together. The crowd marched through the streets of Lumbisí with a huge pot of hot chocolate and bags of bread, handing it out to people as they made their way down the hill to the happy home. The day long celebration ends with chocolate..what is not to love about this country?

Photos: Glory getting ready for the big event.

Esteban, Maria José, Ozwaldo, Gloria, Fernanda and Matias....my beautiful family.

Leaving the church being attacked by rice.

Jenny and I with her new little girl! (I fit right in with my black hair, right!?)

The first dance with the Mariachi band.

Where the magic happens..serving up the COMIDA!