Quechuans engage the One World Futbol

Dispatch by Robert Smith; photos (most of them) by Melanie Wood

At Iglesia Emanuel, an evangelical church, Quechuan-speaking youngsters share and chase after the first One World Futbol they have ever seen.

On Sunday, Melanie Wood and I rode into Quechua country, courtesy of Enrique Tasiquando, a gentleman well connected with the indigenous comunities adjacent to Quito.. Our trip involved distributing One World Futbols to "pueblitos" that represent pockets of poverty around Ecuador's capital city. Today's story represents my understand of what "poverty" can be Ecuador, and how it is expressed. It was different than I imagined.

Germanico Carrion Torres, operator of Jerry's a kind-of coffee shop down the street from the Simon Bolivar language school we attended. Jerry fell in love with the One World Futbol.

The day began with a stop at Jerry's, a coffee shop near our language school. Germanico Torres speaks passable English, having lived in New York for several years. We showed up carrying four gift futbols and Wilson, and waited for Enrique. After a while, Jerry asked about the futbols, and I explained their indestructible nature by slipping a knife into Wilson. That required  no further explanation. Jerry wanted to know how he could obtain these.

Jerry seems to be a shrewd business operator, and on reflection, I realized he was thinking of resale. He clearly saw the value in these balls.Unfortunately for him, I think this isn't going to work for him, because the One World Futbol is donated, not wholesaled. But the conversation was a reaffirmation of the value of this product in the third world.

In Quito, homes often perch aside the abyss.

On the way out of town, Melanie, I and Enrique stopped at a bridge over the deep chasm carved by the Rio Machangara. Then we looked back at the hillside behind us. Atop that almost sheer cliff, homes nestled. It gives you shivers to realize that an earthquake fault runs right under Quito.

In this elementary school, classes are taught in Quechua.

It's only a 30-minute drive from the Simon Bolivar language school in the heart of Quito to Quechua country. It's sort of like heading into the "burbs." One of the first sites we saw that told us things were different was the elementary school pictured above, where classes are taught in the language of the indigenous folk -- the Quechua speakers.

The boundary between the dominant culture and the indigenous culture is not clearly demarcated to the foreigner's eye, but it is there. As Enrique later explained, the difference isn't  expressed in abject poverty. In fact, we came across one pocket of what qualified in my mind as affluence.

However, the difference can be expressed in services. In Quito, there are doctors and optometrists and pharmacies. In the Quechuan "burbs," you don't find these services, Enrique explained.

Laying in the shade (of a kind old tree?) a hog quietly contemplates our arrival.

Once we reached Quechua country, the next step was to locate some local representatives. Enrique stopped at various homes, asking where he might find the president of Cocotog, the first community we visited.

At one home several pigs were lounging around the yard adjacent to the house. Even at 9,000 feet altitude the day was warm, and they were doing what pigs do--rolling in the dust and avoiding getting overheated. After knocking on a few more doors we located Miguel Angel Tipan, the vice president of Cocotog, and Enrique explained our mission. Off we headed for the soccer stadium.

A well-loved sign shows us the way.

The first group of players we found were members of a woman's soccer team.

To our pleasant surprise, the first group of soccer players we found were in a women's soccer team. (In the past I've received comments from readers that the One World Futbol only seems to be reaching male players. But in Cocotog, that's clearly not the case.

The community's vice president receives the One World Futbol on behalf of the team.

Enrique smiles as one team member slips a knife into Wilson.

It's time for Melanie to get into a photo. Along with us are coaches, a player, and Wilson, who I am trying unsuccessfully to crush. The indestructible will flatten, but bounces right back.

As we went in search of the next pueblito, Enrique took a brief side trip to introduce us to a native drink, which is extracted from plants like the ones shown below. They call the drink "dulce de cabuyo," but between his poor English and my poor Spanish I finally gathered the notion that this is the black agave.

A small grove of black agave plants.

Hack one open and hollow out the trunk, and you have a perfect collection vessel for the liquid from the succulent leaves.

Enrique stopped at a home for directions and the man of the house brought out two large plastic soft drink containers filled with the sweet liquid. In the photo below, Melanie and I wrap arms and taste the liquid, with me wondering whether I was going to regret this in the morning. (I didn't.)

Are we, including the retired physician's assistant at my right, really drinking this straight-from-the-used plastic container unknown liquid?

Another plant we were introduced to was growing like a weed in one of those patches of corn that you can find anywhere. It was black amaranth, a highly nutritious food item not unlike quinoa. According to some sources, this food of the Incas is not a grain.

The black amaranth plant was flowering in a corn field.

Look closely. Those tiny, shiny black beads are the food source from this flower. It takes a lot of amaranth to make a meal.

Once Enrique located our next community leader, Mariono Guañuno, the president of the Oyacoto community , we walked some dusty streets to the next soccer field. Along the way, we caught sight of a worker whose job description would give the Department of  Labor the willies. The rungs on his ladder are nailed to the two rails; the ladder is leaning against a utility pole that is being held in place by a man holding a rope and a woman leaning against the pole. Well, you get the picture.

"I am the line man for the county . . ."

Oyacoto President Mariono Guañuno in the red shirt; a soccer player far left; and Enrique

As we presented the ball for the Oyacoto soccer field, we learned something surprising -- we thought there would be a small group to receive the One World Futbol. And we were right, but there are actually 28 teams that use the field. As the photo below illustrates, the players showed a lot of interest, but they would like a lot more futbols like this one, and One World Play Project doesn't yet have a regular pipeline for delivering the balls to the Quito area. Demand clearly outstrips supply.

Oyacoto players give the ball a workout.

Although this community might qualify as poor, it is not extremely poor. There is a soccer field, and there are sponsorships for the  teams, hence the uniforms. Not so for our next destination.

Near Mariono Guañuno's home, a solitary bus makes its inter-pueblo run through lands that are largely undeveloped, except for farming.

Our next stop brought us to Emmanuel Methodist church of Llano Grande, an evangelical church. (Non-Catholic churches are called "evangelical" in Ecuador.) In the photo below, the youngsters discover the wonders of a ball that cannot be deflated. Young people from the church chase the ball in the photo at the top of this dispatch.

One youngster slips a knife into Wilson while the rest watch intently.

It's hard to believe delivering a soccer ball is a big event for a community, but I was invited inside the church during its service, and the next thing I knew I was shaking hands with the pastor and then giving a speech which was translated by a Lisa Renz, an Oregon native who moved to Ecuador after raising several children in Mexico.

Oh, and passing out business cards that contained this blog address and the home page for the One World Play Project.

It's kind of stunning to find out how little it takes to be a rock star in these small communities.

The final location we visited turned out to be a conundrum. In this backwater stretch of country a 30-minute drive from the heart of Quito, with scrub land criss-crossed by an inter-pueblo bus and  lesser bus traffic to the city, there was Tinko Plaza. This is a private school, funded by a community of 3,000. It's as modern looking as anything inside Quito--maybe more so. The young men we met speak a little English as well as Quechua and Spanish.

Freshly washed soccer uniforms dry on the grass near the play field.

The boys get acquainted with Wilson with the help of a jack knife.

Freshly harvested, an avocado tree yields up some remaining fruit to Enrique.

Melanie and I were served up a gracious meal of chicken and fries in a cafeteria as clean and attractive as any in Quito.

A clean, sparkling cooking area behind the service counter.

Right now there's a thunderstorm outside as I write this. But if the weather turns favorable, Melanie and I will visit a different sort of village tomorrow. Its inhabitants are the descendants of slaves who were brought to Ecuador to farm and mine for the Jesuits.

It's not what I was expecting to discover -- that part of Ecuador's history includes slave-driving men of God, but there it is. All I know at this writing is that Valle Chota is a location with many poor communities and it's a 2.5 hour ride to get there. Melanie and I leave Quito on Friday, so we hope to have this dispatch to you before then.


Afterthought--getting in shape: There are 42 steps up the stairway to our classroom, and after two weeks I can climb them without breathing hard. So if you are planning a trip to the Andes, that's an indicator of how long it takes to get "normal."

Thanks for following along.

Love,

Robert, Melanie
and Wilson