Thursday, September 22, 2011
¡Viva Guapulo!
¡Viva Guapulo!
September 10, 2011
The first thing I noticed was people pushing me. Excited and nervous, the crowd oscillated, jostling each other, unsure if it was better to be on the edge or not. The vaca loca approached, leaving a wake of people screaming from excitement, fear, or both. This wooden creature was about the size of a small table, painted black and white to resemble a cow. It was on a small platform with protruding handles --carried by four men the way one often images emperors and kings to be carried: hoisted laboriously above the crowd. What made this vaca (cow) loca (crazy) were the fuegos artificiales: the fireworks. This wooden statue moved through the crowd emitting fireworks, followed by a tail of white hot sparks dancing maliciously. The vaca moved quickly through the crowd, as people scattered in its wake.
I felt the crowd shift as the vaca moved in my direction. A rush of adrenaline pumped through me as I protected my eyes with one hand and clutched my small purple purse to my chest with the other. I pushed persistently like everyone else, attempting to move safely out of reach of the vaca’s flaming tail.
A few people in our group screamed with a tantalizing mixture of giddy excitement and fear. Andrés shook his head, amused. Juanito, an eccentric character and self proclaimed proponent of “long hair, don’t care,” looked at the group. “Chicos, calm down.”
Kaitlyn gave him a skeptical look. “You know someone’s hair caught on fire last year,” she replied, justifying the mad rush out of the vaca’s reach.
As my heartbeat slowed, I noticed the music, which had briefly been drowned out by the commotion in the crowd. A very energetic singer lead a band of about 20 dark haired, Ecuadorian men with trumpets, guitars, drums, and other instruments. They wore matching white pants and flowing black shirts with golden sparkles that caught the light as the musicians moved to the beat. The three men at the front of the stage were there to dance, leading the band in choreographed movements, encouraging the crowd to join in. The people filling the square were more than happy to comply. It felt like the entire town of Guapulo was there, swaying their hips and moving in the rhythmic steps of salsa, bachata, and other Latin dances.
When the fervent energy of the crowd began to fade, the band leader held the microphone close to his lips, threw back his head, and with a deep booming voice yelled: “¡VI- -VA GUA – A – AP – U – LO!” Inspired by the festivities and a love for their proud little town, the crowd cried “¡VIVA!” raising fists for extra emphasis. Scattered amongst the crowd, the extranjeros joined in, swept up by the moment, happy to be immersed in Las Fiestas de Guapulo, yearly festivals in honor of Guapulo’s patron saint.
As the dancing continued, I pulled out my camera, trying to capture some of the lively insanity and the beautiful, uniquely Latin American chaos occurring around me.
“Tori,” Caroline moved close to me so I could hear her over the noise. “Take lots of pictures. I forgot my camera, so I am going to steal your pictures.” I nodded, happy to comply. “Ohh, and make sure you get pictures of that when it explodes!”
She pointed to the large wooden structure looming over the crowd, several stories high. This tower had been carefully decorated and constructed, a center piece to the festivities toped with a heart. I was intrigued by the tower but also weary, sure after the vaca loca that this giant wooden structure would erupt in fuegos artificiales.
The dancing continued, the tightly packed throng of people pulsated, and I slowly made my way through the crowd, trying to move safely away from the giant wooden structure.
Suddenly, the wooden tower began erupting, sprouting fireworks out of the top and an opening at the bottom, where a group of men pushed the tower in a circle. As the tower rotated, it released hot white sparks in a stream much bigger and more powerful than the tail of the vaca loca. People ran into one another with nervous excitement. I pushed against the chaos until someone bumped violently into my right shoulder, moving in the opposite direction. My small purple purse that I had been guarding so carefully all night fell behind me. Before I could reach for it, a powerful hand grabbed my left arm, holding it below my shoulder. My heart started racing. Out of the corned of my eye I saw an imposing figure behind me. As he held my arm tightly, an accomplice unzipped my bag.
My skin crawled. I knew exactly what was happening. These men were robbing me and amidst the chaotic crowd, the music, the fireworks, no one else noticed. My heart beat rapidly. I tried to calm it, tried not to move. I did not want to these men to think I was protesting. In orientations for every international program I have done, I have been taught to let people rob you. It is not worth the risk of fighting it – that is how you get hurt.
The crowd swelled like a giant wave, pushing me sideways. The grip on my arm slackened. I looked up. For a brief moment, I looked into the dark eyes of a man in a red warm up jacket with white stripes. We both knew that he had stolen my cell phone, and we both knew I was not going to do anything about it. If he wanted it that badly, he could have it.
“¡SHIT!” I swore violently, frustrated at what had just happened. The odds were against me. In my year of crazy international travel, I was bound to get robbed or pick pocketed at some point. But just because I was expecting to be robbed, didn’t mean I was happy about it.
I looked at the ground, hoping unrealistically that my phone would be there, that is had fallen out of my purse – all the while knowing that it has been taken in a carefully orchestrated, well practiced plan.
I was frustrated. More than anything I felt blonde, very aware how much I stood out, how easy it was to identify me as a foreigner. I moved away from the wooden tower, away from the crowd, away from the fireworks, disenchanted.
From the edge of the square, I watched the tower rotating. People in elaborate costumes jumped among the crowd. The tower blazed brilliantly, a heart lit up against the inky night sky. It really was beautiful. This was a moment of joy, of celebration, of community, and I was here, dropped into what felt like another world. I sighed, releasing my tension and frustration.
I heard the energetic music and people’s laughter. As the flaming tower finally began to die down, our group gathered, slightly breathless, unable to believe what we had just been a part of.
“¡Ahhh, that was incredible!” Caroline said, smiling broadly. She and the rest of our group glowed with happy excitement. “But there is no way anything like that would ever be allowed in the US.”
I laughed. That was certainly true.
September 10, 2011
The first thing I noticed was people pushing me. Excited and nervous, the crowd oscillated, jostling each other, unsure if it was better to be on the edge or not. The vaca loca approached, leaving a wake of people screaming from excitement, fear, or both. This wooden creature was about the size of a small table, painted black and white to resemble a cow. It was on a small platform with protruding handles --carried by four men the way one often images emperors and kings to be carried: hoisted laboriously above the crowd. What made this vaca (cow) loca (crazy) were the fuegos artificiales: the fireworks. This wooden statue moved through the crowd emitting fireworks, followed by a tail of white hot sparks dancing maliciously. The vaca moved quickly through the crowd, as people scattered in its wake.
I felt the crowd shift as the vaca moved in my direction. A rush of adrenaline pumped through me as I protected my eyes with one hand and clutched my small purple purse to my chest with the other. I pushed persistently like everyone else, attempting to move safely out of reach of the vaca’s flaming tail.
A few people in our group screamed with a tantalizing mixture of giddy excitement and fear. Andrés shook his head, amused. Juanito, an eccentric character and self proclaimed proponent of “long hair, don’t care,” looked at the group. “Chicos, calm down.”
Kaitlyn gave him a skeptical look. “You know someone’s hair caught on fire last year,” she replied, justifying the mad rush out of the vaca’s reach.
As my heartbeat slowed, I noticed the music, which had briefly been drowned out by the commotion in the crowd. A very energetic singer lead a band of about 20 dark haired, Ecuadorian men with trumpets, guitars, drums, and other instruments. They wore matching white pants and flowing black shirts with golden sparkles that caught the light as the musicians moved to the beat. The three men at the front of the stage were there to dance, leading the band in choreographed movements, encouraging the crowd to join in. The people filling the square were more than happy to comply. It felt like the entire town of Guapulo was there, swaying their hips and moving in the rhythmic steps of salsa, bachata, and other Latin dances.
When the fervent energy of the crowd began to fade, the band leader held the microphone close to his lips, threw back his head, and with a deep booming voice yelled: “¡VI- -VA GUA – A – AP – U – LO!” Inspired by the festivities and a love for their proud little town, the crowd cried “¡VIVA!” raising fists for extra emphasis. Scattered amongst the crowd, the extranjeros joined in, swept up by the moment, happy to be immersed in Las Fiestas de Guapulo, yearly festivals in honor of Guapulo’s patron saint.
As the dancing continued, I pulled out my camera, trying to capture some of the lively insanity and the beautiful, uniquely Latin American chaos occurring around me.
“Tori,” Caroline moved close to me so I could hear her over the noise. “Take lots of pictures. I forgot my camera, so I am going to steal your pictures.” I nodded, happy to comply. “Ohh, and make sure you get pictures of that when it explodes!”
She pointed to the large wooden structure looming over the crowd, several stories high. This tower had been carefully decorated and constructed, a center piece to the festivities toped with a heart. I was intrigued by the tower but also weary, sure after the vaca loca that this giant wooden structure would erupt in fuegos artificiales.
The dancing continued, the tightly packed throng of people pulsated, and I slowly made my way through the crowd, trying to move safely away from the giant wooden structure.
Suddenly, the wooden tower began erupting, sprouting fireworks out of the top and an opening at the bottom, where a group of men pushed the tower in a circle. As the tower rotated, it released hot white sparks in a stream much bigger and more powerful than the tail of the vaca loca. People ran into one another with nervous excitement. I pushed against the chaos until someone bumped violently into my right shoulder, moving in the opposite direction. My small purple purse that I had been guarding so carefully all night fell behind me. Before I could reach for it, a powerful hand grabbed my left arm, holding it below my shoulder. My heart started racing. Out of the corned of my eye I saw an imposing figure behind me. As he held my arm tightly, an accomplice unzipped my bag.
My skin crawled. I knew exactly what was happening. These men were robbing me and amidst the chaotic crowd, the music, the fireworks, no one else noticed. My heart beat rapidly. I tried to calm it, tried not to move. I did not want to these men to think I was protesting. In orientations for every international program I have done, I have been taught to let people rob you. It is not worth the risk of fighting it – that is how you get hurt.
The crowd swelled like a giant wave, pushing me sideways. The grip on my arm slackened. I looked up. For a brief moment, I looked into the dark eyes of a man in a red warm up jacket with white stripes. We both knew that he had stolen my cell phone, and we both knew I was not going to do anything about it. If he wanted it that badly, he could have it.
“¡SHIT!” I swore violently, frustrated at what had just happened. The odds were against me. In my year of crazy international travel, I was bound to get robbed or pick pocketed at some point. But just because I was expecting to be robbed, didn’t mean I was happy about it.
I looked at the ground, hoping unrealistically that my phone would be there, that is had fallen out of my purse – all the while knowing that it has been taken in a carefully orchestrated, well practiced plan.
I was frustrated. More than anything I felt blonde, very aware how much I stood out, how easy it was to identify me as a foreigner. I moved away from the wooden tower, away from the crowd, away from the fireworks, disenchanted.
From the edge of the square, I watched the tower rotating. People in elaborate costumes jumped among the crowd. The tower blazed brilliantly, a heart lit up against the inky night sky. It really was beautiful. This was a moment of joy, of celebration, of community, and I was here, dropped into what felt like another world. I sighed, releasing my tension and frustration.
I heard the energetic music and people’s laughter. As the flaming tower finally began to die down, our group gathered, slightly breathless, unable to believe what we had just been a part of.
“¡Ahhh, that was incredible!” Caroline said, smiling broadly. She and the rest of our group glowed with happy excitement. “But there is no way anything like that would ever be allowed in the US.”
I laughed. That was certainly true.
New Names and New Places
New Names and New Places
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Enjoying a view of the mountains on my walk home from class
I bounce forward as a passenger pushed their way into the seat behind me. Its 9:06 on Saturday morning August 27th. I am seated in 19C, watching the other passengers board the plane around me. I’m surrounded by a mosaic of languages: Spanish, English, French, and Creole intertwining with each other as my fellow passengers file by.
“Mama,” a small girl with a head of cascading brown curls and mischievous smile tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mama, ¿adondé vamos?”
“A Miami, mija.” Her mother looked down at her tenderly.
“Ohh,” the little girl crooned, comprehension dawning on her small face. “Me-am-ee.” She said the word slowly, over emphasizing each syllable – Miami, my first step before flying to Quito this afternoon.
----------
I am a jumble of emotions: excitement, nervousness, uncertainty, contentment, anticipation. What awaits me in Ecuador? I hardly know. I will meet Sofía at the airport and then… then the world will be in Spanish. Voy a vivir en el mundo hispano, en américa Latina. The words come rather quickly. All week I have been trying to move rusty cogs, coaxing my brain into remembering the many verb conjugations and vocabulary I have picked up over the years. I love Spanish. The language is so melodic and interesting with sounds that tickle my ears – the growling gre in tigre, the hopeful je in viaje. The pronunciation comes quite naturally now, although I distinctly remember plodding slowly through words in my sixth grade Spanish class, over pronouncing syllables, my tongue and brain working hard to create unfamiliar sounds.
My first Spanish class began as most do. Señor Torres greeted the class in his Columbian accent and walked around the room asking and repeating questions until we all started to understand the pattern. ¿Comó estás? ¿Comó se llama? People answered nervously. Es-toy bi-en. Me lla-mo Mea-ghan. Many English names seemed out of place in Spanish answers. The interplay between native and foreign, comfortable and unfamiliar confused minds and mouths, leading to pronunciation that was somewhere between the two languages. This gray area was not the place to learn. We had to dive into Spanish, enter a red river, the color of a burning sunset, flowing quickly and unpredictably. Students were transformed. Molly became Margarita, James became Jaime, and Harry with his strange combination of letters picked up another name entirely – Raúl, Hernesto, or another Spanish name that to Harry was quite new and exciting.
As for me, I switched from Tori to Victoria, saying the v with a Spanish softness that almost made it sounds like a b, bic-toria. I loved that my name translated so naturally. It bodes well for people with the travel bug like me. Victoria is like Maria. Both woman could be introducing themselves outside the snowy Kremlin in the cold streets of Moscow, at a decadent wine tasting in Tuscany, or at the feet of the giant Cristo Redentor in Río. The names work across continents, languages, and time, allowing the namesake to move smoothly across borders and find connections in new places.
Earlier in the flight, I had introduced myself to Eduardo, a friendly young Colombian, excited to be going to Bógota, home for his 29th birthday. When his mother arrived a few minutes later settled down between us in seat 18B, he introduced us.
“Mama, this is Tori.” She smiled but looked confused by his quick introduction. He repeated by name slowly, “Tor-ri.”
Grasping my name, she turned to me, “Mucho gusto.”
I thought about this introduction as out place rapidly approached Miami and made a decision. Me llamo Victoria. It makes sense. These four months, this semester in Ecuador is basically an extended Spanish class anyway. Why not translate my name?
Posing near the breath taking mountains at "La Mitad del Mundo" -- The Middle of the World
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Enjoying a view of the mountains on my walk home from class
I bounce forward as a passenger pushed their way into the seat behind me. Its 9:06 on Saturday morning August 27th. I am seated in 19C, watching the other passengers board the plane around me. I’m surrounded by a mosaic of languages: Spanish, English, French, and Creole intertwining with each other as my fellow passengers file by.
“Mama,” a small girl with a head of cascading brown curls and mischievous smile tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mama, ¿adondé vamos?”
“A Miami, mija.” Her mother looked down at her tenderly.
“Ohh,” the little girl crooned, comprehension dawning on her small face. “Me-am-ee.” She said the word slowly, over emphasizing each syllable – Miami, my first step before flying to Quito this afternoon.
----------
I am a jumble of emotions: excitement, nervousness, uncertainty, contentment, anticipation. What awaits me in Ecuador? I hardly know. I will meet Sofía at the airport and then… then the world will be in Spanish. Voy a vivir en el mundo hispano, en américa Latina. The words come rather quickly. All week I have been trying to move rusty cogs, coaxing my brain into remembering the many verb conjugations and vocabulary I have picked up over the years. I love Spanish. The language is so melodic and interesting with sounds that tickle my ears – the growling gre in tigre, the hopeful je in viaje. The pronunciation comes quite naturally now, although I distinctly remember plodding slowly through words in my sixth grade Spanish class, over pronouncing syllables, my tongue and brain working hard to create unfamiliar sounds.
My first Spanish class began as most do. Señor Torres greeted the class in his Columbian accent and walked around the room asking and repeating questions until we all started to understand the pattern. ¿Comó estás? ¿Comó se llama? People answered nervously. Es-toy bi-en. Me lla-mo Mea-ghan. Many English names seemed out of place in Spanish answers. The interplay between native and foreign, comfortable and unfamiliar confused minds and mouths, leading to pronunciation that was somewhere between the two languages. This gray area was not the place to learn. We had to dive into Spanish, enter a red river, the color of a burning sunset, flowing quickly and unpredictably. Students were transformed. Molly became Margarita, James became Jaime, and Harry with his strange combination of letters picked up another name entirely – Raúl, Hernesto, or another Spanish name that to Harry was quite new and exciting.
As for me, I switched from Tori to Victoria, saying the v with a Spanish softness that almost made it sounds like a b, bic-toria. I loved that my name translated so naturally. It bodes well for people with the travel bug like me. Victoria is like Maria. Both woman could be introducing themselves outside the snowy Kremlin in the cold streets of Moscow, at a decadent wine tasting in Tuscany, or at the feet of the giant Cristo Redentor in Río. The names work across continents, languages, and time, allowing the namesake to move smoothly across borders and find connections in new places.
Earlier in the flight, I had introduced myself to Eduardo, a friendly young Colombian, excited to be going to Bógota, home for his 29th birthday. When his mother arrived a few minutes later settled down between us in seat 18B, he introduced us.
“Mama, this is Tori.” She smiled but looked confused by his quick introduction. He repeated by name slowly, “Tor-ri.”
Grasping my name, she turned to me, “Mucho gusto.”
I thought about this introduction as out place rapidly approached Miami and made a decision. Me llamo Victoria. It makes sense. These four months, this semester in Ecuador is basically an extended Spanish class anyway. Why not translate my name?
Posing near the breath taking mountains at "La Mitad del Mundo" -- The Middle of the World
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