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..3 masses and a whole load of theatrics

Holy week is a big deal here. The saints are taken out, dressed and paraded round the streets in daytime and candlelit rituals. The church in Perucho looks more beautiful than ever.

I have the opportunity to see holy week through the eyes of an Ecuadorian tourist as Michael is guiding some local tours. We first get a tour round the church and up the bell tower where one particularly vocal member of the group who’s been helping Michael remember all the facts, announces ‘80% of my friends are lesbians”. Ok, perhaps I came in late on that conversation?!

We descend in small buses out of Perucho, into the pitch dark, climbing gradually down the mountain on a bumpy track to a beautiful hosteria. We sit down for traditional Holy Week fanesca and follow it by a good dose of ghost stories told by Michael’s cousin the owner of the hosteria. A good old Ecuadorian favourite.. As we sit in the semi darkness, he brings us under his spell. He has us captivated. The very place where we have been eating, there have been manifestations experienced by all of the family for years. The area around us is uninhabited and centuries of local people have been scared away by demons, ghosts and apparitions of the devil as a goat.

The tour takes us back to Perucho, to sit in the mass. The church is packed and somebody has been so kind as to save me a seat on the front row. Yesterday the priest didn’t turn up, today he has made a real effort. He emerges from the back of the church, his clergy in tow, his whites pressed and his hands clasped. It does not occur to me until we are over and hour and a half through the service when he has taken centre stage to sing a self composed song, that he is the spitting image of Robbie Coltrane in Nuns on the Run. After this I notice the row behind me have left. The priest is sweating profusely, he is in full swing. I think he’s been watching too many gospel channels on cable. Michael gives us a nod that signals the get out of jail free card and we leave. Outside are milling many people, the huge doors of the church are open and many people come and go. The mass is a long one and only the dedicated last.

Friday we head to an area to the South of Quito. We are here to watch the Easter Play (more technical name to follow). It’s an amazing production. I am staggered by the scale, participation and the costumes. The ‘stage’ is marked out by branches and the audience surrounds 360 degrees. There must be over 100 characters. The immaculately dressed Roman centurions are key and later after they file through town they take position at the head of each pew in a very packed church. As the different scenes takes place, the dramatisation moves through La Merced, the characters and followers (hundreds) and the microphones are plugged into mobile generator speaker systems least the crowd miss a word. Jesus carries his cross over a mile to the church. Uniquely here in La Merced they also have people dressed with turbantes, huge black and white 5 metre tall hats, the bearers supported by friends and helped under telephone wires and the like. The parade is then swarmed by naughty demons with black gothic boots with spars, long wigs and fantastically elaborate masks. Their role is to play havoc, they have no law, until it is announced the next day that Jesus has risen. They really take to their roles, scaring children and puling at women’s skirts.

All the characters congregate in the church (save the demons). The front part of the church has been completely covered by a wall constructed out of branches and on this placed Jesus on the cross. The small church is brimming with people. The service is the called seven words but it is long, about 3 hours with different speakers, songs and videos presentations and considerably more than seven words. It’s all a little much now that I can’t help but understand nor shut myself off. I leave for outside with the constant stream of people entering and leaving. At 2.30pm the demons arrive again in swarms and enter the church parading up and down making as much noise and disruption as possible. Then I notice smoke coming from the top of the wall of leaves, then fireworks start spraying from the front of the church, there is pandemonium with the noise of the demons. At 3pm every year there is a thunderstorm and precisely on queue there is a torrential downpour. The dark clouds let rip and pound on the tin roof. I can safely say I’ve never seen anything like it!

..a picture postcard from Perucho..

The night is fresh but not cold. We’re sitting outside the old wooden church in Perucho. After the bell rang at five thirty and we hurry down the street, an hour and a half passes sitting in mass, waiting to take photos for the tours the following day and observing from the side wings the small congregation of old rugged faces, hats removed placed on pews, warmed by dusty coloured ponchos. The church is wooden and the roof beams slope at a gentle angle making the space seem very communal. The church is surrounded by elaborate figures of saints. The altar is spectacular and it’s from here that most of the light emanates from the church. The service is long and children wander in and out and I’m left with no doubt that the dog by the altar has fleas. He is in some discomfort wriggling and twisting and turning to try and scratch every part, ending up with his paws wrapped over his nose, scratching scratching.

Eventually I get to take some photographs of the saints and we climb the wooden steps to the bell tower. It’s dark, the light has faded, I need to come back to take photos tomorrow. As we leave the church we go to shake hands with some folk Michael knows. They are in no hurry, there is no urgency in their grip. We stand and talk and I listen to Micheal and the older people chat; firstly locating me in their filed of experience with other foreigners they’ve known, then reminiscing and singing old songs. I like people who know how to talk to people. This village is very small and people are friendly.

It’s dark now and the orange glow of the plaza illuminates the front of the church. High up above in the night sky unusually I see the lights of an aeroplane bound surely for Quito. My eyes pass back down to the old people singing. Their features captured frame by frame. In front of me the portrait of a man in his 60’s, a face worn with years of life, but his hair neat, combed and gently gelled in place. The older lady in track suit bottoms and a cardigan, her figure long disappeared in order of importance. Both are singing and filling each other in on words that have disappeared with the years. I am atent but unable to join in the singing and my eyes glance back up to the plane. I think of how many times I’ve been in a plane at night flying over remote tiny pueblos like this one, the little conversations on street corners and millions of individuals lives going on all at the same time.

… and next we have Niki Taigel being broadcast live across Quito…

“So tell me”, the host says “about your experience volunteering with Michael’.

I see the red sign illuminated on the desk in front of me ‘ON AIR”. There’s myself, Michael and the interviewer sat around a large semicircular desk with four mounted microphones. We can see through to the other studio where the host is waiting patiently for my reply. I find that I am not too nervous. Perhaps it is that I have not thought too much about the interview, convincing myself they’d only really ask Michael questions, or that no-one I know would be listening, or perhaps because it’s not my language. But someone clearly believes I can do this. I find words and I speak. I tell it like it is.

Staying with Michael has been incredible. It’s been potluck. I’ve been helping out wherever. It’s not possible to predict what will come up, things don’t work like that. I’d never have guessed I’d have sold fruit and vegetables on a market, harvested beans on the side of a mountain, pollinated fruit trees, painted ceramics or give a radio interview. I can only say that the experience has been a positive one. I understand the relationship between peoplei the city and countryside and so many more things beside. Most of all it’s been great to share time with someone who is such a positive force, has so many ideas and the energy to realize them.

I have come with Michael to Radio Vision, Quito’s largest radio station perched on the top edge of the city, high up with a view over its audience. He has organised the interview to raise the profile of the Organic Market. The city authorities although fine with the idea to begin with, now want a piece of the cake or to close the market.

“So what have I learnt at the market”, the host asks me “I imagine you had lots of admirers”… oh Lord I think, and I try to erase the image of the guy who came up three times just to buy one (albeit rather huge) avocado. “Not at all”, I laugh in an over the top and extended manner hoping the question will go away.

I can only tell it like it is, I try to get some serious points in. The market is a great place. It is refreshing to meet so many likeminded people, to see variety and healthy food options, to see producers and consumers in dialogue and relationships established between producers. To see that organic food can be bought by all. Michael is of course a better speaker than I am and does an excellent job of getting the main points in, although he is cut short at the end with still more to say. The host has just had an email through.. an admirer would like my contact.. am I single?!

I remember, so this is radio and I’m in Ecuador and it’s a show and this is the way it goes.. And I continue the interview. And it’s good and I’m glad I got to do it and actually it appears I did have 1 listener. One dedicated mother listening via the means of internet radio.. laughing across continents.

..Niki learns about how babies erhmmm... and all that jazz

Michael’s wife is a mid-wife. With an imminent niece or nephew coming onto the scene, it’s natural the topic of pregnancy and birth should come up. And what a fascinating conversation it was.

I’d always wondered how women gave birth in more remote areas. Katia accounts to me that conventional medicine in Ecuador is learning from the way that indigenous women give birth, standing up and squatting pulling down on a sheet rather than lying down. This way there is so much more force that can be naturally drawn upon to help deliver the baby. I’m fascinated by her account that many indigenous women will go off to the river by themselves to give birth, their active lifestyle allowing them to give birth much more quickly and easily, them returning to the village with babe in arms.

My knowledge of childbirth, an impression gained mostly through overly dramatic scenes on TV are those of hospital beds, long drawn out labours, vital medical persons on hand, ante-natal classes teaching you the how to and things to remember. We need to learn how to give birth in the right way. Right?

Oh I was so wrong. But am greatly reassured. It’s all about instinct. We need the least medical intervention possible. With medicine and our health generally we have increasingly become not to trust our ability to know our own bodies. The doctor knows best and health information is given to us in a background of fear inducing headlines. But we know that we know our bodies best and rather than overthinking things we need to trust our instinct. In a world where we are trained out of this, often we need activities to help us let go and tune back in to listening to our bodies – free dancing, salsa, swimming. It’s good to be reminded of this. It makes so much sense.

There’s so much paraphernalia you can buy when you’re having a baby. It’s useful living in Tena and seeing how little you need. The babies are carried I sheets tied around the women’s shoulders like a sling and it occurs to me how little babies cry here. And Katia agrees. Of course it makes sense. If you hardly put a baby down, always carrying it against the warmth of your body, prepared to feed it whenever it needs, it really has al it needs.

Whereas babies used to be whisked away to be cleaned and the cord cut, Katia says they now try to maintain the umbilical cord in place for as long as possible, the baby gaining most directly from the mother in this way and bonding at the same time.

And this is just how it is. The places I go, the things I do, are nothing without the people I meet and talk to. I tell you …it’s the conversations and the people I meet that are priceless. Day after day learning more and figuring (muddling!) my way through. That’s what it’s all about.

..Mucho mejor si es hecho en Ecuador…

From the moment I entered the country, on the luggage carriers at the airport was the propaganda..” Mucho mejor si es hecho en Ecuador’ – ‘much better if it’s made in Ecuador’. And I see this stamp on almost all the food products we have in the house. I’ve been undecided on how I feel about it. Local producing is great right? The government is keen to press it as one of it’s key policies, the reasoning behind it beginning complicated, as I remember the trade laws being fought over when I was last here. Ecuador wants to go it alone and major producers such as Nestle and Coca Cola have their own factories here in order to get round trade restrictions..

And with any policy there are good points and bad points. Quality control on food is not great for products here and the result being that many products that are championed as being Ecuadorian are not as good as those exported to foreign markets. And the imported products are extortionately expensive.

Never more has this policy been so apparent as on this day.

When a girl I met rafting offered to change my opinion of Quito, to show me around and make me like the big smoke, I took the opportunity. Travelling has a way of throwing opportunities at you and when you take them you never know what you gonna get, quoting Forrest Gump there.

Arriving, having gotten very lost, I met V eventually, ready for a weekend of potluck tourist attractions. I had no idea of the line up. We met up with V’s friend who was also hilariously called V, and they both had the same surname.. I tell no lies! We zoomed off in a taxi to get lunch however we first stopped to run an errand. I couldn’t have guessed moments later I would end up in Quito largest (and quietest!) sex shop. Apparently we were here because V2 needed V1’s advice on buying a vibrator. Oh Good Lord, I thought!

I hovered about the underwear and nightwear section trying to keep my eyes of all the incriminating items around me. The one shop assistant focussing on the two V’s and the other took to popping up wherever I was and showing me (and explaining!) various items of clothing that were very small, for instance a bra that wasn’t really a bra at all and a thong that was less than a thong, if that’s actually possible. Wherever I looked she pounced. Oh heavens.. I just glanced at the sexy uniform section… here we go! I had to um and ah a lot whilst wanting to burst out laughing… it was a bite the side of my mouth moment…do I really look the type to wander around with a red PVC bodice and a feather duster and edible underpants?! Do I? Apparently so. Perhaps it’s the tan. I also do not have the incredible amount of money it would take to buy these tiny pants.

Exiting the shop after what seemed an eternal lifetime. V2 proudly showed me her new purchase. $126.00 worth! ‘How much I ask!!! I am reliably informed that these cost a fraction of this in the UK/US. ‘It’s because it’s imported’ - ‘Mucho mejor si es hecho en Ecuador’. But that’s the deal –there are no Ecuadorian producers of sex shop items. These guys have got the monopoly. It pays to think sexy in Ecuador… but I’m just thinking pure thoughts!

…finding home in an unexpected place

On our way back from the terraces and harvesting beans, Micheal’s wife Katia drives across and up the other side of the mountain. The roads are steep and very bumpy. We are going to pay a visit to her sister. We come almost to the end of the lane, high up with a staggering view down behind us over the suburbs of Quito… we park and enter the property through a door in a high wall. I am staggered. There are two houses, well one is a house the other, as is the art studio. Both are beautifully constructed, painted white with dark wooden windows with small square panes of glass, stained glass in parts and flowering creepers blanketing the sides. As we enter the hall it opens out into a sitting area raised up and a series of steps down to an open airy kitchen and dining area all with floor to ceiling views down the mountain. Beautiful pictures and objects hang on the wall, every piece of furniture designed but comfortable and the floor tiles spiralling in accordance with the curve of the stairs. The art studio is of a similar appearance but a two story round design with views out from every side. Perfect for an artist.

And the strange thing, I feel instantly at home in this atmosphere. I have spent so much time in Ecuador surrounded by utilitarian design quite happily forgetting how great good design makes you feel. Perhaps it is this or the fantastically warm welcome that Katia’s sister gives me but I feel like I never want to leave this house, and part of me wishes it was mine. It’s strange, the experience of coming across such luxury in a country where I spend most of my time avoiding the issue of wealth. It makes me realise that for me the whole process of reconciling any wealth I have with the world I see around me I find incredibly hard. I seem to want to be in constant denial of having, wanting or needing anything. I seem to want to live on nothing whilst also knowing the reality is different. I’m rather lost in the middle somewhere between wanting to live on very little but knowing that to deny yourself of almost everything you want is perhaps unnecessary and liable to make you unhappy. There must be a happy medium somewhere, but in this country where I am a foreigner and the culture foreign, it’s hard to know my place. Could I as a foreigner, come here and buy land and build a house with all I could afford whilst seeing people around me with so much less. It’s just the same in the UK, there’s a wealth gap, but here this isn’t my culture and I feel the need to tread everso much more carefully. For me the solution isn’t simple. How can I be happy having things when so many have so very little?