Not My War
by Judy Goddess
Winter 2001: Bryna and I flew into Quito, Ecuador, to join our friend Jean in Tigua, a small village high in the Andes. If you’ve travelled to Ecuador, you’re probably familiar with the art from Tigua, and may even have bartered for it in indigenous markets and weekend fairs. Masks, trays, and crosses in vibrant colors celebrate the mountain life with its festivals, legends, and ancient traditions. But unless you have visited the village or happened upon one of the few Quito galleries that exhibit Ecuadoran art, you’ve only seen the pieces mass-produced for the tourist market, not the art produced for sophisticated connoisseurs of native art.
As Director of a research travel program at the University of California, Jean made many trips to Tigua, developing friendships within the community and purchasing art. After years of watching the men leave the village to sell their paintings in Ecuador’s tourist centers, Jean believed that the community should build a hostel/restaurant where tourists might spend several days enjoying the views, hiking, getting to know the families and purchasing art. Bryna and I were invited as representatives of future tourists—our role was to blend in, express curiosity, sample the community’s hospitality, and gently introduce the village to life with tourists.
After landing, Bryna and I took a cab over to the central bus station for the bus to Latacunga. Tigua is about 11,000 feet above sea level, and wisdom suggests that travelers rest several days at a lower altitude before ascending the mountain. A terminal for buses to Tigua and beyond, Latacunga, altitude 9,055 feet and described in tour books as quiet and congenial with a quaint historic center, definitely seemed worth visiting. While some may find this city charming, the rumble of traffic on the Pan-American Highway abutting our hotel, and the unceasing wind blowing ash and pumice from Cotopaxi, the neighboring volcano, persuaded us to leave after one day.
The bus to Tigua travels the only road connecting the central Ecuadoran plateau with the Andean highlands before descending to the Pacific. Our trip cost about a dollar and took an hour and a half. Although the road was bumpy and only part of it was paved, the view more than compensated for the discomfort: mountain slopes and valleys covered in patchworks of varying shades of green and gold, small villages, a few (European) bikers, young shepherds with their sheep—Brigadoon, a million miles from my daily life in San Francisco.
The bus stopped on the outskirts of Tigua, the last scheduled stop before reaching the peak of the Ecuadorian Andes. A church, a small schoolhouse, Jean’s tiny cabin and a two-story adobe were the only visible buildings. Gathering our backpacks and my rolling suitcase, we stepped out into the thinnest air I had ever experienced. Tigua had no phone service, so our arrival was unexpected, but within minutes, we were welcomed by a group of enthusiastic, parka-clad children, a few sheep, Jean’s dog, and a pig.
The children led us to Jean, who was meeting in the church with some of the men from the village. “There’s a problem,” she explained. “A young man from Tigua stole a cow from one of the communities you passed, and they’re threatening revenge. Your introduction will have to wait.” Since Bryna and I were devastated by altitude sickness and could barely walk more than 10 steps without stopping to rest, we were glad they had postponed the party.
The Tiguans are indigenous, Mesoamerican Indians; their first language is Quechua, Spanish their second. But, generously interspersing our minimal Spanish with the universal travel language of gestures and smiles, we were able to communicate.
Most families own sheep, but few own cows and the theft of a cow is serious business. The villagers had begun rolling boulders to block the road and prevent the Tiguans from leaving. Ours was the last vehicle to travel the road. Jean explained that while the men were considering terms for a negotiated settlement, they were also preparing for battle. Exchanging their paint brushes for long sticks which they studded with nails, every adult male in the village was busy.
After a hasty dinner of onions, potatoes and lamb that had been slaughtered last fall and aged in the cool mountain air for the last three months, we were taken to our room, the ground floor of the two-story adobe we viewed from the bus. The floor was made of dirt. Our hostess pointed to a headboard enclosing an empty space, and indicated that was where we were to sleep. Tigua was without most basic amenities: electricity, refrigeration, or running water. Toilets were semi-detached outhouses; ours was guarded by a sheep that obligingly stepped aside when you pushed her.
That night, overcome by fear and altitude sickness, I dreamt in swirling Technicolor: men brandishing big sticks, children throwing stones, sheep scattering, and a lone cow spiraling to the heavens. Somewhere in the distance, I saw myself lying prostrate, panting for breath.
We woke to an ominous quiet. The women and children assumed their daily chores—caring for the animals, sweeping, bringing the sheep to pasture, and attending school—but everyone’s focus was on what would happen when the two communities met. With our minimal language skills, we understood very little of what was said, but the tensions and ongoing preparations spoke to the seriousness of the situation. Early the next day, having agreed upon preliminary terms, a team from Tigua made its way down the hill to begin the negotiation.
As Bryna and I could now walk about 20 steps before stopping to breathe, it was time to play the tourist. Since we were both involved in education, we decided to visit the school. The new, state-assigned teacher was happy to see us, and suggested we teach the children to count in English so they could assist their fathers at the art markets. (In March 2000, Ecuador adopted the U.S. dollar to provide greater economic stability, although the sucre could still be used in small transactions.) The children were friendly and curious, and after the tensions of the previous day, it was a delight to laugh again. I had never taught non-English speakers, and noticed the children imitated not only my words, but also my gestures.
Two days later, representatives from the two villages reached an agreement. The Tiguans agreed to search for the cow and return it to the village. They also agreed to turn the young man over to the village. Satisfied with the terms of the agreement, the villagers removed the boulders from the road, allowing buses and trucks to pass through. With life returned to normal, a brass band and children’s parade formally welcomed us to the community.
We left after a week. The children had taught us some new games, and could now count to 20 in English and make basic change. I had become friendly with some of them, the sheep moved even before I approached the outhouse, and I no longer invoked god’s name before eating unrefrigerated meat. I promised to visit again—and indeed did return twice over the next two years, once to help dig the foundation for the hostel.
Several bus rides later, Bryna and I arrived at Los Banos (altitude 5,971 feet), a popular resort town. No longer struggling for breath, we frequented the volcano-heated mineral baths, hiked well-marked trails to spectacular waterfalls, and ate some excellent meals.
Three days after our arrival—and days before we were to return to Quito—the innkeeper told us that the young man’s body was found floating in the Pastaza River, just outside Los Banos. She didn’t know what happened to the cow.
As Director of a research travel program at the University of California, Jean made many trips to Tigua, developing friendships within the community and purchasing art. After years of watching the men leave the village to sell their paintings in Ecuador’s tourist centers, Jean believed that the community should build a hostel/restaurant where tourists might spend several days enjoying the views, hiking, getting to know the families and purchasing art. Bryna and I were invited as representatives of future tourists—our role was to blend in, express curiosity, sample the community’s hospitality, and gently introduce the village to life with tourists.
After landing, Bryna and I took a cab over to the central bus station for the bus to Latacunga. Tigua is about 11,000 feet above sea level, and wisdom suggests that travelers rest several days at a lower altitude before ascending the mountain. A terminal for buses to Tigua and beyond, Latacunga, altitude 9,055 feet and described in tour books as quiet and congenial with a quaint historic center, definitely seemed worth visiting. While some may find this city charming, the rumble of traffic on the Pan-American Highway abutting our hotel, and the unceasing wind blowing ash and pumice from Cotopaxi, the neighboring volcano, persuaded us to leave after one day.
The bus to Tigua travels the only road connecting the central Ecuadoran plateau with the Andean highlands before descending to the Pacific. Our trip cost about a dollar and took an hour and a half. Although the road was bumpy and only part of it was paved, the view more than compensated for the discomfort: mountain slopes and valleys covered in patchworks of varying shades of green and gold, small villages, a few (European) bikers, young shepherds with their sheep—Brigadoon, a million miles from my daily life in San Francisco.
The bus stopped on the outskirts of Tigua, the last scheduled stop before reaching the peak of the Ecuadorian Andes. A church, a small schoolhouse, Jean’s tiny cabin and a two-story adobe were the only visible buildings. Gathering our backpacks and my rolling suitcase, we stepped out into the thinnest air I had ever experienced. Tigua had no phone service, so our arrival was unexpected, but within minutes, we were welcomed by a group of enthusiastic, parka-clad children, a few sheep, Jean’s dog, and a pig.
The children led us to Jean, who was meeting in the church with some of the men from the village. “There’s a problem,” she explained. “A young man from Tigua stole a cow from one of the communities you passed, and they’re threatening revenge. Your introduction will have to wait.” Since Bryna and I were devastated by altitude sickness and could barely walk more than 10 steps without stopping to rest, we were glad they had postponed the party.
The Tiguans are indigenous, Mesoamerican Indians; their first language is Quechua, Spanish their second. But, generously interspersing our minimal Spanish with the universal travel language of gestures and smiles, we were able to communicate.
Most families own sheep, but few own cows and the theft of a cow is serious business. The villagers had begun rolling boulders to block the road and prevent the Tiguans from leaving. Ours was the last vehicle to travel the road. Jean explained that while the men were considering terms for a negotiated settlement, they were also preparing for battle. Exchanging their paint brushes for long sticks which they studded with nails, every adult male in the village was busy.
After a hasty dinner of onions, potatoes and lamb that had been slaughtered last fall and aged in the cool mountain air for the last three months, we were taken to our room, the ground floor of the two-story adobe we viewed from the bus. The floor was made of dirt. Our hostess pointed to a headboard enclosing an empty space, and indicated that was where we were to sleep. Tigua was without most basic amenities: electricity, refrigeration, or running water. Toilets were semi-detached outhouses; ours was guarded by a sheep that obligingly stepped aside when you pushed her.
That night, overcome by fear and altitude sickness, I dreamt in swirling Technicolor: men brandishing big sticks, children throwing stones, sheep scattering, and a lone cow spiraling to the heavens. Somewhere in the distance, I saw myself lying prostrate, panting for breath.
We woke to an ominous quiet. The women and children assumed their daily chores—caring for the animals, sweeping, bringing the sheep to pasture, and attending school—but everyone’s focus was on what would happen when the two communities met. With our minimal language skills, we understood very little of what was said, but the tensions and ongoing preparations spoke to the seriousness of the situation. Early the next day, having agreed upon preliminary terms, a team from Tigua made its way down the hill to begin the negotiation.
As Bryna and I could now walk about 20 steps before stopping to breathe, it was time to play the tourist. Since we were both involved in education, we decided to visit the school. The new, state-assigned teacher was happy to see us, and suggested we teach the children to count in English so they could assist their fathers at the art markets. (In March 2000, Ecuador adopted the U.S. dollar to provide greater economic stability, although the sucre could still be used in small transactions.) The children were friendly and curious, and after the tensions of the previous day, it was a delight to laugh again. I had never taught non-English speakers, and noticed the children imitated not only my words, but also my gestures.
Two days later, representatives from the two villages reached an agreement. The Tiguans agreed to search for the cow and return it to the village. They also agreed to turn the young man over to the village. Satisfied with the terms of the agreement, the villagers removed the boulders from the road, allowing buses and trucks to pass through. With life returned to normal, a brass band and children’s parade formally welcomed us to the community.
We left after a week. The children had taught us some new games, and could now count to 20 in English and make basic change. I had become friendly with some of them, the sheep moved even before I approached the outhouse, and I no longer invoked god’s name before eating unrefrigerated meat. I promised to visit again—and indeed did return twice over the next two years, once to help dig the foundation for the hostel.
Several bus rides later, Bryna and I arrived at Los Banos (altitude 5,971 feet), a popular resort town. No longer struggling for breath, we frequented the volcano-heated mineral baths, hiked well-marked trails to spectacular waterfalls, and ate some excellent meals.
Three days after our arrival—and days before we were to return to Quito—the innkeeper told us that the young man’s body was found floating in the Pastaza River, just outside Los Banos. She didn’t know what happened to the cow.