Above: One of the boys who lived near the farm described in this post
“You are Jesus Christ! You are! You understand me, no?” The woman, an imposing figure almost twice my size who somehow had access to eyeliner despite us being miles from the nearest house with electricity, asked me in English that was muddied with a thick accent. She followed her question with a smile that was unmistakably flirtatious. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about (or smiling about, for that matter), but I was afraid to admit it to her directly. Anyone who accuses strangers of being Jesus Christ must be dealt with gingerly.
I let out a nervous laugh.
“Uhh, I kind of understand you. You think I look like Jesus Christ, right?” I asked.
She scrunched her brow and made a face like she’d just eaten a rotten strawberry.
“No, I said different thing. I said you are Jesus Christ. You are he. Not look like. It iss different, no? You are Jesus Christ,” she repeated. I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do. “Translate my words to my family. Tell them in Spanish what I say.” Pause. “Do it. Iss OK, do it,” she ordered.
I looked around. Her family, a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses clustered around two plastic tables in front me, waited in total silence for me to translate. The moment was so laden with awkwardness that time slowed to a quarter of its usual pace just so we could all absorb the weirdness of the scene: An odd white guy who was invited to someone else’s family reunion BBQ was blushing and the name Jesus Christ was being tossed around in conversation like a syntactical beach ball. Chicks and baby ducks jumped about at our feet. The pig that was slaughtered that morning was now being ripped to microscopic shreds in our bellies. Dogs and cats with bloated lice on their ears waited at attention around us for table scraps.
“Uhh, she says that I am Jesus Christ,” I explained in Spanish.
“No, she means you look like Jesus Christ,” the woman’s brother said in Spanish, attempting to correct me.
“No, that’s not what I said,” the woman objected in Spanish. “He is Jesus Christ. You know why I think so? Because I’m Mary.” Pause. “You know, like Mary Magdalene!!”
Everyone burst into laughter.
*****
Above: Ecuador’s mom, the owner of the farm, stirring the world’s biggest pot of soup
I had been invited to join a local bike club on a ride out to the countryside. So few cyclists showed up for the ride that the afternoon post-ride BBQ, something that was originally slated to be a cyclist event at the home of one cyclist’s mother, turned into a family gathering with a few cyclists thrown into the mix. Plates upon plates of plantains, fresh pork, and homemade salchicha (a type of meat-less sausage made with mashed plantains) came and went. We took baths in the river that ran out behind the house, set up our tents, and talked our way deep into the night.
Above: The house as seen from the front. No electricity, no running water. One room.
For me, it was a fascinating night because my company, all Jehovah’s Witnesses, challenged a stereotype I had previously had about Jehovah’s Witnesses. Prior to this trip, I had never spent any amount of time talking to a Jehovah’s Witness and, based on the pushy few whom I had met on my doorstep over the years, people who had hoped to convert me to their faith (or at least get me to commit to attending one of their services so I could convert later) yet showed no interest in my own spiritual beliefs (because they weren’t like their own, and hence, not valid, I can only assume), I hoped to keep it that way. I know, I know. I shouldn’t write off a group of people based on the actions of a select few. But my impression of Jehovah’s Witnesses had been cast. When I heard that I’d be camping out with Jehovah’s Witnesses after the ride, I braced myself for a forceful religious conversation.
Instead, I got friendly talk about politics, life in the countryside, cycling, and a myriad of other subjects. Sure, at one point someone asked me to come inside to ‘take a look’ at a stack of Witness-related books, but the conversation that ensued was neither pushy nor one-sided. Much like a Harley enthusiast shows off his hog to a guest after the BBQ embers die down, so did one Witness show me her books. She didn’t want me to read them, she simply wanted me to admire their well-preserved condition.
*****
Above: A MASSIVE pot of pork and plantains. To give you a sense of perspective, those plates are large, full-size dinner plates.
At one point in the night, one man asked me how I afforded to pay for my trip.
“I worked for 3.5 years and saved my money. For one year during that time, I rarely went out to restaurants or spent money on things other than groceries,” I answered honestly in simple Spanish. “Also, it’s cheap to travel by bicycle. I can live comfortably on $8-10 dollars a day,” I added.
“Oh, it’s good that you know how to save money,” the man responded in Spanish. “Here in Ecuador, not many people live like you. Many people don’t save money. They don’t think about money for the future. If they have food in their hands, they have smiles on their faces,” the man said. “Like here, this pig that we had for dinner. Do you think people here thought about salting some of the pig and saving it for later? Of course not. No, instead they eat the whole pig in two days and give half of it away to neighbors so it doesn’t rot. That’s how we live.”
“Why?” I asked. I was perplexed. I couldn’t understand why people didn’t save a little money or food or whatever if they had the resources to do so.
“Because we don’t trust our government or our banks. Saving for the future is silly if the bank takes all your money one day and tells you to leave, to get lost.” Pause. “I will never put money in a bank again. I had 8,000,000 sucres before dollarization took place in 2001. [In an attempt to stabilize Ecuador's currency, the sucre, the government switched to using U.S. dollars as currency. In the exchange process, many Ecuadorians lost huge amounts of money by submitting to the horrible exchange rate the government imposed on the banks.] That money should have been worth $1,600 U.S. based on the old exchange rate of 5,000 sucres to the dollar. I could have bought a farm twice this size!” The man exclaimed, waving his hand at the property around us. “Instead, you know how much I got? I got $400 U.S. That’s it. My life savings was cut down to $400! No, no banks for me again,” he said, a wild rage buried deep in him flickering up through his eyes.
“So where do you keep your money if not in a bank,” I asked.
“In jars and boxes. I bury them in the ground around my house. Lots of people do that now. No one trusts the banks. What else can you do?” The man took a sip of his limonada.
“After the dollarization, why didn’t Ecuadorians take to the streets and protest? I mean, so many people lost so much money, why didn’t everyone go crazy and refuse to work, to pay taxes, to do anything until the exchange rate was corrected?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t sounding accusatory.
“We did, of course. But here, the government controls us. And also, we have so much corruption and so much illegal activity in our government, we grow used to accepting these types of problems. They are a part of life here in Ecuador. What can you do?” The man asked me with a smile.
I didn’t have an answer for him. The man reached to slap a mosquito on his ankle and our conversation ended with a loud SMACK!
