The Ecuadorian Matador

Diego Rivas falls to his knees two feet in front of the bull. He throws open his arms and looks to sky and yells at the top of his lungs. We can’t believe it! The crowd jumps to their feet as the bull stands there panting, glaring at Diego. The Ecuadorian Matador spins on his knees now with his back to bull and again throws open his arms to an approving crowd. Another gasp resounds, applause erupts, and a murmur resonates. The bull, still standing there panting, knows it has been defeated. The dirt at its feet is dark red from its wounds. The bull has six decorated hooks hanging perfectly from its back, three hanging off to one side, three hanging off the other side. They were placed there by an unusual display of courage from Diego.

After a few moments Diego now has full control of the stands. He motions for the band to play louder as he flashes his red cape and draws the bull near for a turn, “Ole!” The Matador spins and again flashes the cape and again the bull charges and again we yell, “Ole!” Diego has perfect form by not moving his feet as the bull brushes past him. Diego goes for a third turn, flashes his cape, the bull charges, and Diego does a reverse spin with his back momentarily to the bull, “Ole!” The crowd gives an approving applause and cheers. The Matador accepts the applause with open arms and a pompous pelvis thrust followed by a yell. We stand and clap in approval. The guy has got charisma. The whole stadium can feel his energy. The trumpets sound signifying that it is time for the Matador to finish the bull.

Diego gracefully struts toward the bull, one pointed foot in front of the other like a male dancer, building anticipation. He now motions for the band to play softer. He holds his cape to his left side. Behind the cape he is hiding his sword. He slowly stops. The bull hesitates, digs its left foot into the dirt, lowers its horns, and narrows its gaze on the cape. Perfectly and slowly and with fluent motion, the Matador lifts his sword from behind the cape and points it just above the horns. The bull doesn’t notice the sword. Perfect execution. The bull charges. Diego charges. The Matador drives the sword into the hump of the bull with perfect aim and timing and is nearly scathed by the bull’s left horn. The crowd again erupts in approval. The bull is then turned a few last times by three or four of the Matador’s workers and it finally falls to its knees, then onto its side, a sign of a perfect kill. No finishing off is needed.

Diego walks to the wall with open arms. The crowd chanting and jeering “Orejas! Orejas!” He places an arm on the wall, lowers his head and begins to weep. He knows he has just given the show of a lifetime and this fight will promote him into a higher status of fame and prestige. For his show of bravery and skill, the judges award him both of the bull’s ears to appease the cheers from the crowd, “Orejas! Orejas!” He is picked up and carried on a set of shoulders for his victory lap. We throw our hats into the ring as a sign of approval and continue to cheer. Diego Rivas is truly a great Matador.

Casinos are guarded by Dementors

In the world of Harry Potter, "Dementors" are the undead guards of a magical prison. Their particular gift is being able to suck the happiness out of a place and, provided proximity, suck out your soul without killing you.

When I turned twenty-one, my buddy Luke took me to one of Shreveport's glitzy casinos. I quickly lost twenty dollars. More quickly, however, I discovered casinos to be what I imagine as my own personal hell.

Therefore, looking back on last Saturday night, I continue to scratch my head as to why I followed the rest of my friends to the casino attached to Hotel Quito, where a visiting friend of Annie's was staying. I walked into the casino and was immediately dizzy - as on the Red River, a flood of noise and lights and smoke and soulless people inundated my senses. I immediately told everyone I was leaving and then dizzily bounded out the side door, inside just long enough for most of the happiness to be sucked out of my body.

My friend John tells me that because of the rapid-fire angle changes on television shows and commercials, Americans are trained to have their occipital lobe overstimulated. That information, plus the fact that I watched about thirty minutes of TV a week as a kid, might go a long way to explaining my aversion to stimulant-suffused casino halls. So, while I understand the potential economic benefits of casinos and have no illusions about their impending disappearance from the Shreveport or Quito skylines, I think I can safely say that I'm finished with them. When I need a scare, I'll just go pick up Harry Potter.

Death in the Afternoon

Last Sunday, I went to my first bullfight - my first real Spanish bullfight, at least. Every year, for the fiestas of Quito, the city brings in from Madrid and Sevilla the world`s best bullfighters to satiate Quiteños´ homicidal palate. What I didn´t anticipate was developing a homicidal palate of my own. Despite whatever tree-hugging and animal-loving tendencies I may have inherited from my mother, I loved it (as soon as the nausea from the first kill had passed).

Thanks to Craig, who had been an avid bullfighting fan in Spain, we actually had a clue what was going on. The progression went something like this: first, at the sound of the judges´ trumpets, the bull comes out of the chute to be goaded by a handful of what I took to be the spandex-clad equivalent of rodeo clowns. Those are followed by two picadores, guys on armored horses with long poles that they stick into the bulls´ necks. Thus piqued, the thousand-pound beast faces two more clowns on foot with hooked, flower-covered, meter-long poles. They also aim for the bull´s neck, jumping away from the horns at the last minute.















Then, once the bull is bleeding and panting, out comes the brave torero. He waves his cape around for a while, goading the bull to exhaustion, then finally plunges his sword down through the bull´s neck and into its heart. If he hits his mark, the beast collapses and is finished off by another round of clowns. If he does extremely well, he is gifted with some hacked-off part of the bull - an ear, two ears, or a tail.

Not exactly the Bossier-Shreveport Mudbugs, right?

La Mariscal Beats

We stepped outside into the dark and foggy streets of north Quito. The clouds have descended upon the city from somewhere behind the Andes mountains. We see some headlights fragmented by the smoke-like air and hope it is a taxi. It is peculiar that my hair and jacket feel damp. It is not raining but the moisture from the clouds engulfing us creates a fresh mist that is a relief from the hot sun during the day. The taxi pulls up and we head back to La Mariscal, my home neighborhood for the next month, to begin our night out on the town. As I sit cramped four deep in the back of a three person cab my mind drifts over the experiences of my first week in Quito: the bullfight, the beautiful flamenco dancers, Fiesta de Quito, my impromptu salsa lesson, the food, and the people.

I begin to see colorful lights and people walking on the sidewalk out of the cab window and there is the faint sound of music in the distance. We are back to La Mariscal. The area is one of the most modern areas in Ecuador and is known to have some of the best nightlife in the country. It is appropriately nicknamed “Gringolandia” because it is home to many visiting Americans, Europeans, and Australians alike. My host home is smack in the middle of La Mariscal in area called Plaza la Foch. It is like having a balcony on Bourbon Street in the middle of the French Quarter. I can look down from my balcony here and see a mass of people congregating in the plaza and see the overspill into the conjoining streets most nights of the week

We climb out of the cab a few blocks from Plaza la Foch because the traffic is so backed up it would be faster just to walk the rest of the way. As we walk the guys fill me in on the stories that I missed during the three months I have not been with them. The music is getting louder. Music. Ah the Music. Music is the heart and soul of Latin America. Take music away and Latin America would come to a screeching stop. It is everywhere: the clubs, the streets, the buses, my house all day, the taxies, the café and Internet shops, and every other little shop on the street. The sounds flood the air. There is a reason why Latinos can dance the way they can. The rhythm is a part of their anatomy. From the time their ears can hear at birth they live life moving to the sounds of music. I wouldn’t be surprised if doctors and nurses set up radios in the delivery rooms and slightly moved their hips and shoulders as they delivered the babies.

Ah Music. We walk a little further up the street and I can now hear a distinguishable rhythm above the rest. We are standing in front of my favorite club. They play a good mix of Salsa and Reggeaton. I am looking forward to the dancing tonight. I feel good, I have energy, I learn something new every time. My host mother, Gloria, swears that I have Latino blood in me after watching me dance at a restaurant. While flattering, it’s hard for me to believe because she also tells me I am good at Spanish. It makes me feel good every time though.

We get into the club and disappear into the people and the smoke. This is going to be a good night.

I wish it would rain

I really do. Which is strange, because from the months of September to February, it rains every afternoon in Quito. Or at least five times in a week. Mornings? Beautiful, sunny, warm, stereotypically Latin American. Afternoons? Think Scotland, Seattle, Vancouver, or Nashville in February, depending on your reference point.

So why, do you ask, do I wish it would rain more? A full answer to that question would require a mind-numbingly boring description of Ecuadorian plumbing: electric shower heads, overflowing water reservoirs on our roof, stopped up pipes and leaking sinks. At the moment, however, or liquid issues have nothing to do with the infrastructure of our house, and all to do with Quito's city waterworks. Apparently (we discovered while I was in the shower yesterday afternoon) the city decided to cut off all the water to our neighborhood for an hour's worth of pipe cleaning. That was yesterday. Now it's today. Tonight, to be precise. Even by Ecuadorian math, that's longer than an hour. Yes, we've called. Yes, they've promised to send technicians. Yes, they lied.

So, I wish it would rain. Because if it does, then maybe our roof-top reservoir will fill up enough for me to finish washing my sheets. Just maybe.

St. Luke Slava

A post from Shirley Maraman Ivanji, a Shreveport native living in Serbia.

On Oct. 31, my husband and I went to my Kum's house to celebrate his Patron Saint St. Luke's slava. The Kum, in Serbian culture is a combination of what we would call a best man and a godfather. The actual translation is godfather, but he is so much more. This is what I have been told and gathered from the locals: The Kum is someone who is there for you forever. Not just the day of the wedding. The best man can be a man or a woman and the bride has hers and the groom has his. A person whose Kum has died or who is not living close to his Kum is a sad person indeed.

The slava is a Serbian Orthodox tradition. The family celebrates their Patron Saint every year. Each family has their own Patron Saint, taken from the father. A married woman will take the slava of her husband. This tradition has been called the heart of Serbia - it is specific to the country.

Everyone brings a gift. Usually, it is wine or liquor for the host and flowers for his wife. Flowers here are truly beautiful...huge blooms and wonderfully scented.

The family will invite their closest friends and relatives to this party and they feast on traditional dishes. The ceremony begins with the lighting of the slava candle and a prayer. The most important of the foods served are "slavski kolač"-"the slava cake" a yeasty bread that is served by bringing it to the table whole and then tearing it into pieces by hand and Koljivo (also called žito) which is made of boiled wheat flavored with ground walnuts, nutmeg and honey. The Koljivo is served in a bowl which is taken around to the guests on a tray with a small spoon for each guest. You make the sign of the cross and take one little spoonful of the Koljivo. You put your used spoon in a glass of water on the tray. Each guest is approached one at a time. Red wine and rakija (homemade brandy) are served to drink. Red wine symbolizing the blood of Christ.

At this particular slava, we ate sarma (minced meat, rice and spices in cabbage rolls) and a freshly roasted pig. The host's Kum was presented with the pigs head as a token of the respect he has for her:

The pig's head is considered a delicacy and is reserved for the guest of highest honor.

My Kum is not a particularly religious man, so there was no priest at this gathering. From what I understand, many people do have a priest conduct the service at their slava. My Kum's daughter lead the prayers and read from the Bible.

After these ceremonies were completed, it was time to eat, drink and be merry. Music is an important part of the Serbian culture. People here love to laugh and sing. There was even dancing in this small room with 12 guests!

When I was watching all of the goings on, I couldn't help but think of how similar it was to celebrations I've been to in Louisiana...particularly South Louisiana. When I lived in Shreveport, I often visited friends in Abbeville, New Orleans, etc. and good food, laughter, music and dancing are an integral part of those celebrations as well.
Of course, in Louisiana, we feast on crawfish and beer and dance to the Zydeco music of Clifton Chenier!

And the closeness of the family unit is also a part of both of these cultures. My Kum's son lives in Austria, but he made sure to call during the celebration to wish his father well and to send his regards to the guests.

Cultural Erosion

During one sleepless night in Shreveport this summer, I was browsing my dad’s bookshelf when I ran across Bayou Farewell by Post journalist Mike Tidwell. Tidwell wrote about the devastation of Louisiana’s coastline that was taking place long before Katrina and Rita and which continues to suck a football field off of LA's coastline every twenty minutes.

One of the saddest parts of Bayou Farewell deals not with coastal erosion but cultural erosion. In his book, Tidwell points out that along with its coast, much of Louisiana’s cultural heritage is washing away: young people are moving out. Those that stay have little incentive to learn Cajun French. Once those linguistic roots that bind together a culture get washed out, all else - music, art, food - follows quickly.

But this kind of cultural erosion is not restricted to south Louisiana. All over the world, local cultures are losing ground as regions and countries become more interconnected ("globalized") than since before the First World War. In Ecuador, and specifically in the neighborhoods where MPI Ecuador works, community leaders do not speak anymore about preserving local indigenous culture. They speak of rescuing it. Soon, as we Louisianans have to do with our own culture and coast, they will only be able to speak of somehow rebuilding what has been lost.