Oh my goodness…where do I begin?
I’ve been recovering from my trip to the cold, but oh-so-cold,
Cotopaxi province a couple weeks ago. And since yesterday I regained all feeling in my toes (no joke, hey), I figure that’s a sign it’s time for this flip-flops-and-tank-tops
costeña to tell the story of her trip to the frigid heights of Tingo Pucará.
Background:
One afternoon in late March, I got a text message from my friend and fellow PCV, George. It was something to the effect of,
Hey, I’m doing this really cool project for a week in April and I need some help, wanna come? I thought about it and wrote back to the effect of,
Sounds like fun, but I think I should be at site as much as possible, things at work are kindof in a turmoil. (Which was true, and I will get into that later.) But George, ever persistent, persisted. To the effect of,
Pleasepleaseplease come. Which threw me into a foul temper, i.e., a lot of stomping around my apartment and pouting because I really did want to go but felt like I shouldn’t, as well as a bout of inner grousing about George and his danged persistence and if he really wanted me to come why didn’t he call and ask me personally instead of sending whiny text messages? (A less self-involved person would have perhaps felt flattered at being invited. For the record, I have since come to appreciate the fact that he contacted me by cell phone at all, considering the lack of a cell phone signal at his site high in the mountains – except for that one spot behind the latrines.)
Then George sent out an e-mail entitled “Like a Rave on a Mountain.” I didn’t even need to read it. Rave? Mountain? I am so there.
Fast forward a few weeks, and I find myself chopping my way into the side of said mountain alongside four other PCVs, 30+ Connecticut high schoolers, and a host of shovel-wielding, fedora-wearing,
Quechua-speaking indigenous villagers.
Wait…what?
This merits More Background:
The really cool project was just that: really cool. The goal is to give the villagers of Tingo Pucará access to water for drinking, cooking, and cleaning purposes. George teamed up with
Engineers Without Borders and
Builders Beyond Borders, aka B3, to make this happen. The design for the water system calls for four loops of pipeline, each serving a number of houses and families. B3 sent one group of service-minded high school kids to complete
the first loop a couple months earlier, and another group made the trip in April to dig trenches and lay pipe for loop number two.
Of course, George kinda downplayed the whole manual labor part when he solicited participation from PCV’s Mike, Shantonu, Julie, and me, instead highlighting a week of free food and lodging, the occasional field trip opportunity, and the VIP status we would have as sole translators between the B3 peeps and the villagers (the majority of whom spoke castellano as well as Quechua). Also left unspoken was the subliminal challenge of being thrust once more into the adolescent social circle, only this time as adults having failed to quell the extant and undeniable desire to be accepted as “cool” by a bunch of teenagers.
Except for Mike. Mike, having termed his own brand of coolness, is “so over being cool” – and that’s a direct quote.
Day One found us, PCV’s and Connecticuters and villagers, strewn across the beautiful mountain landscape, hacking and shoveling through sand and soil to form the first stretch of the loop.
We teamed up in pairs of hoes and shovels (many, many jokes were made – we were working with high schoolers, after all – and yet we still yearned to be accepted by them) to first loosen the soil and then clear it out. The trench had to be four feet deep before we put the pipes in. Oh, and do you see that young indigenous girl working in the trench? The one with the fedora hat, skirt, and white stockings?
She is 14 years old and worked about twice as efficiently as the rest of us combined. All the villagers worked that way, actually. They probably could have accomplished in two days what we did in a week. But perhaps more important for them, and for us, was the fact that this project was a collaborative effort. The people of Tingo were motivated and excited by the fact that a group of foreigners valued them and their project enough to contribute a large amount of resources – time, money, and people – to achieve it, and we B3 and Peace Corps volunteers got to be part of a project that will make a big difference in the daily lives of these people. Not to mention benefit from one of the warmest welcomes I have ever received from strangers, period.
But anyway, back to Gloria. Just look at her.
She’s hacking away at the mountain, barely breaking a sweat. When I asked if I could take her picture, she nodded and smiled up at the camera without pausing. Girl’s got rhythm.
And yes, the women jumped into the trenches right alongside the men, skirts and stockings and pumps and all.
Manual labor and style are not necessarily mutually exclusive, as evidenced by that sassy pink scarf.
Uh-huh, get it!
“Hey gringa, you think maybe you could put your camera down and help me shovel the dirt out of this ditch?”
Yeah, yeah…okay.
All in all, it was pretty amazing.
Tingo is probably the closest to the top of the world most of us had ever been. Because of the high altitude, we visitors had to be especially careful to stay hydrated and not overdo the physical labor. Otherwise we could end up feeling nauseous, headachy, dizzy, and weak. Or going slightly bonkers and doing an entirely different kind of rave on a mountain.
This is Julie, one example of the sad, sad effects of altitude and low oxygen saturation on a person’s mind and body.
Altitude can make you do things like tie your hat-scarf in a giant orange bow on top of your head.
Wait. Julie lives up in the mountains, not too far from Tingo. She is already acclimated to altitude. So…never mind.
To avoid the negative effects of high altitude, we took frequent water breaks (aka, “hoe downs” – get it, get it?). We also sometimes took breaks just to stare at the world.
After the first day, we fell into a routine. We rose early, breakfasted, and went out on the mountain with hoes and shovels to move some serious dirt. Lunchtime would roll around, and after eating we’d go back out to continue digging and/or laying pipes. Usually in the afternoon, the clouds began to sneak into the valley. Sometimes they played cat and mouse with us, advancing and then whorling back in on themselves. Other times, they folded us up into a fog that could last for hours, or pass over in a matter of minutes. Either way, Tingo Pucará is a cold, cold place. Thank goodness we brought our fleeces. And sleeping bags. And fuzzy socks. And long underwear.
Here are some of the village munchkins during their school recess. Aren’t they cute? The filmy effect in this picture is due to the fact that we were in the middle of a cloud when I took it. Did I mention it was cold? But the kids didn’t seem to notice.
Mike, on the other hand, lives in hot-as-Hades coastal Guayaquil, like me.
Hey, Mike, how ya doin?
"I’m just freezing, thanks."
Excellent! Keep up the good work.
Once a sufficient portion of the ditch was dug to a full four feet, we could start laying and gluing pipe. Here, some of the kids prepare to do just that.
This process requires teamwork and coordination, with people above handing pipe down to those in the ditch…
…who then wipe the ends clean, apply glue…
…and insert one pipe into another with just enough of a twist to make them stick, before moving on to the next pipe.
Changing the subject, the food we ate on this trip was great. The Tingoans served us three meals a day, preparing all manner of entrees, soups and sides in addition to the requisite rice. Despite their hard work and best intentions, however, many of us found ourselves visiting the latrines more frequently than we’d have liked. It’s just something that happens when you travel. Even those of us who have been living in Ecuador for the past 10 months had some trouble, which just goes to show that the stereotype is true: gringos really do have weak stomachs. And because Shantonu is the nicest and most considerate of us, even when it comes to negotiating with amoebas and bacteria, his GI tract was the first to succumb. Poor guy. (I don’t have a good picture of Shantonu from this trip or I would post it here.)
Come to think of it, our digestive woes began soon after the night we gringos cooked dinner… It was meant to be a gesture of thanks and goodwill for all the effort the villagers had been putting into preparing our meals. We made spaghetti with tomato sauce.
About twenty minutes before dinner was supposed to begin that evening, some of the guys pulled me aside, saying, “We need your help in the kitchen.” The water for the pasta had yet to be put on to boil, and they were halfway through chopping up tomatoes for the sauce that was meant to serve about 40 people. I started mincing garlic and freaking out a little bit on the inside.
But then one of the high school kids, who will be heading to culinary school next year, came to the rescue. Sometimes you just need someone to barge in and start barking orders. Here he is overseeing the sauce. And here are all the Ecuadorian women crowding around and watching out of curiosity.
Every time we asked for something, like a spoon or a bit of oregano, it immediately became an emergency. One woman would shout it out to the rest of the group, and they would relay it around until everyone had repeated it and suddenly someone’s arm would stick up out of the crowd of people to hand over the requested ingredient.
Excuse me, do you have any oregano?
“Oregano!”
“Oregano!”
“She wants oregano!”
“Quickly, quickly! Oregano!”
“OREGANO!”
…etc., etc.
Another evening, the female population of Tingo requested a women’s volleyball game. Volleyball is a popular sport here in Ecuador – for men. But these intrepid gals were ready to take a swing at it themselves.
The large thatch-like structure you see behind the game is a chosa. It is round, with a wooden frame and covered in the thick, downy grasses that blanket the mountainside. Originally, the Tingoans lived in chosas like these. Now, many of the houses are made of cinderblock. The villagers
built this giant chosa to serve as a meal hall and general gathering place while we were there. We slept in dormitories made possible by generous contributions from B3. These buildings will be useful to house future groups of volunteers as the project continues, and will be a lasting asset to the community.
By Day Three, we had completed the turn of the loop and were digging back uphill towards the chosa.
And look who decided to join us.
Don’t be fooled. Although the shovels were too big for him, he put that spoon to good use. Menchie knows how to knuckle down.
Of course, we didn’t work all day, every day. The field trips George promised us were not pure fabrication. One afternoon we headed out to
Quilotoa, supposedly one of the most beautiful spots in Ecuador. I wouldn’t know, because it was way too foggy and wet to see anything, much less think about hiking down to the lake. Let the crazy teenagers do that; we Smart ’n’ Savvy Adults cozied up to cups of canelazo – a hot drink made of
naranjillo juice plus cinnamon plus sugar cane alcohol – in a café. That was a lovely afternoon.
Even when we were working hard, there was laughter and games and the occasional moments of deep discussion.
“Listen Mike, there is absolutely no way I am going to watch the
Justin Bieber movie. It’s not an option. I’d rather be turned into one of those sheep over there.”
Hey guys, smile for the camera!
Then George resumed his tirade.
By Friday, we had successfully dug the trench, laid and glued pipes, and covered back over the entire loop. That day we also hiked down to the valley to see
the water source for the system. What we helped build is known as a nascent water system. I’m not sure exactly what this means, although it was explained to me multiple times. Suffice it to say, it’s a pretty cool system, and I think the high school kids would agree. In fact, I'm pretty sure it ranks higher than I do on the teen-approved coolness hierarchy.
Another detail that’s also cool are these nifty little guys:
I forget what they’re called. (Sorry, George. You explained so much, and I retained so little.) They are vertical pipes installed at various points along the loop. You can open them up…
…and reach down to open or cut off the water flow to certain parts of the loop. So if there’s a leak or something in one spot, it’s relatively easy to isolate and fix the problem section while still allowing water access to the rest of the loop.
Some Tingoans accompanied us on our walk down to the water source. And just to rub it in, they brought their instruments to sing and play as we panted and gasped our way back up the mountain.
We had to make a rest stop at one point.
Peace Corps Ecuador: a llama and an indigenous child. And a girl badly in need of a haircut.
Unfortunately, there were not enough llamas to go around, or else I would have slung myself over the back of one and let it haul me up the rest of the way.
That last day was memorable, especially when we got to test the water. A tap had been installed into the loop we’d completed, and villagers and volunteers alike gathered round for the occasion: the turn of a knob, and clear, cool, running water. It’s a magical thing.
The Tingoans had already seen this happen with the first group of volunteers, who came in February, but this time around seemed to be just as momentous for them. It was definitely gratifying for us. Later that night there were games and dancing, and then the gringos left to return to their respective homes in the USA and other parts of Ecuador.
Something the B3 kids did every night of the trip was gather to share thoughts and reflect on the day’s work. The last gathering, someone asked what each of us would leave behind and take away after being a part of this project. It didn’t take me long to pinpoint what I’m taking away, which is a renewed sense of encouragement and purpose for the work I’m doing at my own site after having worked alongside such enthusiastic, dedicated people for a week.
And now that I’m back in Guayaquil, having successfully battled a nasty bout of PT3D (Post-Tingo Toe Tingling Disorder), I’m making good on it. More to come on this, but I have waxed eloquent for too long now. Over and out.
