Medicine Men

Chiropractors are hard to come by here in Cuenca, in spite of the fact that nearly 400,000 people live here. In fact, I have heard of only one chiropractor … and she is a gringo who charges North American prices.

So one day Sheri and I were on a walk and passed by a health food store, and we thought: “Maybe this health food store can recommend a local chiropractor?” We wandered inside, and in my best available Spanish I asked the owner of the store if he knew of a local chiropractor. To my surprise and delight, he said that he does spinal adjustments, as well as perform other healings. He called himself a natural “Healer,” and his services include working with the chakras of the body to re-balance and optimize the energy fields of the body. I thought, “Why not?” I´m willing to try anything once (that is within reason and moral behavior), and he only charges $10 for a 30 minute session. So I made an appointment for the following Monday.

In addition to wanting some chiropractic work on my back, I had been battling for 4 weeks some sort of allergy to the local climate, and since I was feeling run-down I wanted to find a local Doctor as well. Fortunately, the school where I am teaching English provides a list of suggested local medical Doctors, so I picked one from the list and made an appointment for the following Monday about 2 hours after my appointment with the Healer. Who knows … maybe the Healer would cure me and I would not need to go see the medical Doctor afterwards?

Two medicine men. Two completely different healing methods.

On Monday I arrived early with Sheri for my appointment with the Healer. He asked us to sit down on the bench behind the counter while he prepared his studio. After several minutes he looked at me and said “un momentito,” which translated means something like “just a moment,” but in Latin America could mean anything from 5 minutes to half an hour. In full view of where we were sitting, he began to clean some dishes that were sitting on the sink in his studio. After several more minutes it became clear that he had a clogged sink, so he unfastened the drain pipe under the sink and water began to pour onto the floor and in our direction. He quickly plugged the hole with his hand, grabbed a pitcher, and motioned for me to come help him. He filled the pitcher with drain water, plugged the hole again with his hand, and asked me to pour the pitcher of water into the toilet that was next to the sink in his studio. After I had poured about 3-4 pitchers full of water into the toilet, the sink was empty and he re-attached the drain pipe to it. Then I took my seat beside Sheri, and we watched while he mopped the floor and cleaned and prepared the studio for my session with him. And actually, the studio was nothing more than another bench (covered with a towel) which was in front of the sink and toilet.

Finally, after about half an hour, he came to me with two jars of ointment. I had my choice of which ointment he would use during the session. I picked one, and he ushered me behind the wall into the studio and asked me to lie down on the bench. Silly me, I only took off my shirt … so he asked me to also take off my shoes and socks, and to strip down to my skivvies. I thought, “What the heck? – I´m willing to try anything once …“ So, he started to work on my back, and legs, and feet, and neck, doing what seemed like a combination of massage and acupressure. At one point while he was working on my upper back, I could feel someone caressing my foot. I thought, “Hmmm … who could that be?” His nephew was also in the store that day, and I knew that he was serving as an apprentice, but it did not feel like a man´s hand. It felt like my wife´s hand, indeed I hoped it was my wife´s hand, but I did not miss a beat and continued to lie motionless while he worked on me. Sure enough, Sheri had moved to the end of the bench where she was sitting because she wanted to observe the proceedings – and she even got to participate in the proceedings! While the Healer worked on me, including hovering his hands over my energy points, he was explaining to Sheri everything he was doing to me. Although it was all in Spanish, he acted as if Sheri could understand everything he was saying. And of course, she kept nodding and acting as if she could understand everything he was saying to her.

He ended up working on me a full 40 minutes, and because he started late, there was not enough time left for him to work on Sheri. We had to hurry to get to my other Doctor appointment … and besides, after Sheri had seen what I got, she decided to pass on getting treated. (Perhaps it was the stripping down to the skivvies that gave her the heebie-jeebies).

So we went to the other medicine man, the Doctor trained in western medicine. After the customary stethoscope trip around my chest … and after a brief but pleasant conversation about my symptoms, about where we are from and why we are in Cuenca … the Doctor wrote me a prescription for both Claritin and an antibiotic, and we were on our way. I was charged $15 for that 10-minute consultation.

I don´t mean to make fun of the Healer or discount his method of helping people. This guy has been doing this work for over 30 years, and apparently has a steady business. Indeed, there was a family waiting to see him while I was still lying on the bench. Nonetheless, the whole scene was a bit comical to us … but we did not chuck and make fun, and I submitted myself to the whole procedure, and then afterwards gladly paid him for his services while thanking him for helping me. I can´t help but think he could do more business with gringos if he was a little more prepared, if he was a little more punctual, and if got himself a longer, wider bench – my big feet and ankles were hanging off the end!

In contrast, the western Doctor is trained at throwing medicine at the problem straightaway. And the truth be told, a prescription for an antibiotic was exactly what I was after.

So, if you are ever in Cuenca and need medicine men, let me know and I will point you in the right direction.

Catholics Galore

As a non-Mormon living in Salt Lake City, I must confess to being occasionally irritated with the extensive influence Mormonism has over the local community. It has a church building on practically every corner, it has a seminary building next to every public school in the State of Utah, and it has its fingers in just about everything.

Personally, I don´t think like a Mormon, I don´t act like a Mormon, and I will never be a Mormon. But having said that, I have many Mormon friends, and I will probably always have Mormon friends. My chiropractor and dentist are both Mormon, my HVAC guy and Roto-Rooter guy are both Mormon, all of them have given me excellent service over the years, and I readily recommend them to other people. I am non-Mormon, but not anti-Mormon.

So it´s interesting that I am not the least bit bothered by the extensive influence that the Catholic Church has over the local community here in Cuenca, in fact I´ve attended Mass at least two times, and also poked my head into several other Catholic Church buildings. Here in Cuenca the Catholic Church has a building on every corner, it has a school near every public school, and it has its fingers in just about everything.

Why am I not bothered by the influence that the Catholic Church has over Cuenca? Because I was raised Catholic, I went to Catholic schools for 12 years, and the majority of my family and relatives are still Catholic.

Yeah, conversions take place, and some people switch religions, but it seems that for the majority of the people in the world, their religion is determined by the family which raises them. People stay with the familiar … most by choice, but unfortunately some by force.

I have believed for many years that it is not helpful to the soul of the world, not helpful to the spiritual well-being of the universe, to believe that my religion is the one, true, religion. Practice your religion and devote yourself to God, if that is how the Spirit within you is guiding you, but you wander away from the center of Love when you begin to think that your religion is better than the next, when you begin to think that your righteousness exceeds others. I dare say that virtually every religion worth following that has ever existed has warned against judging others, has preached about the supreme power of unconditional love … the same love that does not and cannot include self-righteous judgment of others. If you only ever love, friends and enemies alike will call you Holy, a Saint, an Avatar, a Shaman, a Good Person, Righteous Among the Nations, and any number of other superlatives.

God created a multi-religion, multi-cultural, multi-language, multi-color, multi-whatnot world. Obviously, God loves diversity … and does not favor one stripe over another.

Slow the Gringo Down

I have read that if you get impatient with a Latino service provider that you could aggravate the situation, and today I experienced that very phenomenon.

I was at the grocery store and found what I thought was the shortest checkout line, but after I had emptied my cart on the belt I learned that the family in front of me, after paying for their groceries, wanted to buy multiple gift certificates and do any number of other post-sale activities (including chat with the cashier).

What the hell do you do in situations like this? Normally I have a book or my iPod with me for situations just like this, but alas not this day. So you wait and watch, and wait and try to appear invisible, and wait and review the items for sale at the checkout, and wait and consider moving all of your stuff to another line, and wait …, etc.

Meanwhile, the senorita cashier (maybe 19 years old) can´t help but notice my growing impatience, and apparently, decides to stretch the process even more and Slow the Gringo Down.

Finally, after waiting for what seemed like enough time for a baby to be conceived and born, she´s just about to start scanning my items when some young hombre shows up with his few items and persuades her (without too much prompting) to process his sale before mine. I´m standing there where the bagger would normally be standing, watching this scene. She did not dare to turn around and look at me, and processed his sale while enjoying a chuckle with him in Spanish. And then post-sale, she continues to chat with him like he´s an old friend and they just met on the street.

At that point I lost my cool and angrily said to her in Spanish something like, “Young Lady! A little bit faster please!” Then the hombre looked at me as if to say, “What the F — is the matter with you, Gringo?,” while continuing to stand in the middle of the lane. So then I angrily waved at him to get out, and barked “Adios!” Then he uttered a Spanish word at me that I didn´t recognize, which is probably a good thing. It sounded like a word I´ve heard yelled at soccer games toward members of the opposing team (or at members of your team if they are playing sucky soccer that night).

Then the senorita decides that she does not know the price of the vegetables and fruits that I´ve selected, and dispatches a coworker with them to the produce department to verify the prices. At this point I am standing in the lane where I should be, waiting to pay, and looking at her to see if she will at least look at me. No, she continues to scan the crowd looking for the lost coworker, and, not wanting to make her feel threatened, I too scan the crowd. After another long wait, and just before I was about to give up on the whole process, my produce returned.

When she finally handed me my receipt, I was so pissed that I was the one that could not, or dare not, look at her. It was not my finest moment in culturally sensitivity, and I sincerely hope that in the future I will be able to get out my ego and become the observer in situations like that, to be present in the moment and not be bothered even when it seems that I am being provoked.

In any case, grace appeared in the form of Juan, the young lad who appeared to wheel my groceries out to the bus stop. When he learned I was taking the bus, he dashed back into the grocery store to get me a huge plastic bag that would make it easier to carry all my groceries on the bus. While we walked the 2 blocks to the bus stop, I learned that he had just arrived from Peru to start law school in Cuenca. Maybe he should study shoppers’ rights.

Different and the Same

A visit to a different country is an excellent opportunity to get out of what you think is normal, to see how life is lived differently by other people of the world. Several times since I´ve been here in Ecuador I´ve caught myself saying things like, “Why don´t they have that here?”, or “Why do they do that here?”, or something along those lines. But then I remember that my way is not THE way, and that what I am used to in my country is not what people are used to in other countries.

We all share the same Life, and we are all one in the innermost Self — only the outward forms are different.

With that in mind, I´d like to share some of the differences I have observed in Ecuador … things that are not better or worse, just different.

Eggs are not refrigerated here … in the grocery store you´ll find them on the shelf, generally near the bread section.

Most stores are not open before about 9:30 AM, and most of the same stores are not open on Sundays.

No one wears shorts, except for a few of us gringos that have invaded the area.

Coffee cups max out at about 8 ounces, 10 ounces if you are lucky. (I have a 20-ouncer at home).

Lined yellow legal notepads, the kind I write on virtually every day, don´t exist here.

Vehicles have the right-of-way. If you´re in what looks like a crosswalk, and a vehicle arrives and wants to be in that space too, you better dash for the sidewalk or you could be in for a world of hurt.

As far as I can tell, smokers can smoke just about anywhere they please.

People standing in the middle of the sidewalk and talking will not move to get out of the way of a walker, even when they see a walker approaching … your job as a walker is to exit the sidewalk to walk around them if you want to continue walking in the direction you were walking.

Speaking of sidewalks, if you venture just a few blocks from the city center, sidewalks can be wide, narrow, undulating, or simply not there.

Catholic nuns still wear the habit here. I still remember Sister Stephan, she was the coolest nun ever. She would play softball with us at recess, and after drilling one to the outfield, she would speed around the bases with her habit flying in the wind while she held on to her headpiece. That Sister could hit!

Trash bins are tiny. The apartment building where I am living has 24 apartments, and if I am not mistaken, it is serviced by two tiny trash bins about the size of the one I have at my house in Salt Lake City.

There are no chicken buses here. (Well, Salt Lake City does not have any either). I miss chicken buses.

Extra large as a size is rare … you can look for days before you find extra large clothes. And when you find them, you´ll find them at places that sell to gringos. Yes, the people are of smaller stature here, but also you do not see here the epidemic of obesity that we have in the United States.

Speaking of smaller sizes, the countertops are lower here.

I could go on and one, but you get the picture. When you travel to a different country, you´ll find that many things are different … and that people are the same.

Journey to Cuenca

Por fin … we´re in the air.

I´m on a full Continental Airlines flight that just lifted off from Salt Lake City in route to Houston, and then I´m on to Panama City, finally arriving in Quayaquil later tonight. The airport was packed this morning, and the line to go through security was so long that it nearly reached the exit door. Fortunately, I had my iPod with me, and one 30-minute Pimsleur Spanish lesson lasted me all the way to the passport check desk. Waiting in line is so much more tolerable when you have something to occupy your mind, as opposed to watching anxiously with critical eyes everything that is happening around you. So, I wasn´t one of the people thinking things like:

“Why would anyone wear flip-flops in Utah in December while rushing to catch a flight? Now there´s a big clan of rich spoiled brats. How can you be so oblivious to the dozens of people waiting behind you — move! Why do all the people with anything that looks like a kid get to cut in front of us? Got enough makeup on there, lady? Who the hell travels with a snow thrower? Hmm … I didn´t know that a leopard skin top went so well with plaid pants?”

Actually, I´m exaggerating a bit with regard to the snow thrower, and I must confess that I did wonder about the guy in flip-flops while thinking to myself that that is something I don´t ever see me doing — but who knows?

I´m excited to be on this adventure to Ecuador, and also a bit anxious about the prospect of teaching up to 4 different English classes a day. I´ll get my assignments during Teacher orientation a few days from now. But there´s a fair bit of travel to do before then, as well as new things to experience and new people to meet along the way.

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I´m on the plane in Houston, waiting to take off for Panama. Looks like we´re about 20 minutes late departing — Latin American time has already started!

My final destination is Cuenca, which is increasingly becoming a popular destination for retirees from the United States and Canada. They can live in Cuenca for about half the cost of living in North America, and not sacrifice anything in the way of creature comforts.

Interestingly, the retired American couple sitting beside me on the plane considered moving to Cuenca, at least for part of the year, but decided against it after seeing 3 of their retired neighbors in Panama move to Cuenca only to return to Panama some time later.

I´m not sure that my wife and I can use that as a guage for the retirement-ability of Cuenca, since this couple (and presumably their friends) want to live where many other expats live in retirement. In fact, seeing expats such as these leave Cuenca might be a good sign for us — we don´t want to go with the expat flow.

The retired gentleman sitting beside me said another thing that indicated how different him and I might think. I asked him what activities he´s engaged in right there in his Panamanian expat hot spot, and he said, “I mostly sit around and drink coffee with my buddies.” Except for the caffeine, in my opinion that type of lifestyle is not very stimulating.

In some respects it´s difficult to believe that retirement is just around the corner, but the reality is that Sheri will complete her 30 years of service to the Government in 5 more years. Life already feels like it is flying by, so the next 5 years surely will fly by as well.

One of our goals in life, which we firest applied to our wedding, and which we seek to apply to every experience that feels like it could fly by, is … no blurage. By that we mean that we are going to focus on preventing the experience from becoming a blur. Stay in the moment … enjoy … take in the sounds, sites, flavors, and feelings … no blurage.

So, right now is the perfect time to apply that goal. I don´t want to wake up 3 months from now having failed to fully live my 3-month stint as an English Teacher to Ecuadorians. And on top of that, there is a whole new culture to experience … different sounds, different sites, different flavors, different people. Sheri will be with me here for the month of February, and hopefully we´ll help each other stay focused on the present.

And speaking of the present, we are now in the air on our way to Panama City.

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I´m in the air again, this time en route from Panama to Guayaquil, Ecuador. We are scheduled to arrive at 11:30 P.M. Guayaquil-time, and at this point I have no idea how that compares to Salt Lake City time — I´m not sure how many time zones I´ve travelled through, perhaps only a few.

When I arrive in Guayaquil I plan to take a taxi to the bus station, and then get on either the 12:30 A.M. or 1:30 A.M. bus for a 4-hour bus ride to Cuenca. I hope that I´ll be able to get some sleep on the bus.

When I arrive in Cuenca I´ll probably have breakfast and then do some exploring before going to the school where I´ll be teaching English. Teacher orientation will be the next day, but I´ll go to the school a day early to get the list of available apartments nearby. I already have a hostal line up to stay in for 4 nights to give me time to find an apartment, and can also stay there for the rest of the month for only $10 a night. For that price I´ll have a private room and bathroom, and have access to a shared kitchen.

I´ve entered a part of the world where Spanish is the default language, and English is an option when available. Another thing I´ve noticed is that I´m starting to tower over people in height; the difference is nowhere near as pronounced as it was in the highlands of Guatemala, but I´m definitely one of the tallest people in the room now. And speaking of differences, when was the last time you the reader received a complimentary meal on your flight? Evidently, that is still the norm once you fly out of U.S. airspace … I received a meal both on the way to Panama and on the way to Ecuador.

We´re about 30 minutes from Ecuador. I think I´ll try to catch a few ZZ´s before we land.

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Wow! What a ride! As I write these words, it´s about 3:30 A.M., and I am sitting in my room in the hostal in Cuenca. I did not expect to be here so early.

Guayaquil was kind of a blur. The passport verification line went fast, and so did the line to go through customs. Next thing I know I´m in a taxi headed for the bus station. I must say that the bus station in not nearly as pretty as it looked in the online pictures. It´s an extremely large, cavernous, building, with dozens of little tiendas inside, most of which were closed at midnight. I fumbled around in there trying to find my way to the ticket office, and after being sent in 2 or 3 different directions, I found myself taking the elevator up one floor. There I spied a bus with the engine running and it was looking like it was ready to leave. I asked 2 guys standing nearby where that bus was going, and they said Cuenca. So I asked if I could get on, and they asked me for my ticket. I said I didn´t have one … and so after paying an under the table $1 fee, they let me through the gate and flagged down the bus with me (as it had started to pull away from the curb). Turns out the guy helping me was the driver´s assistant, so he took my one bag and through it under the bus in storage, and then we both jumped on and away we went.

And boy, did we ever go. Somehow I managed to get on the “midnight express.” Everything I had ever read said that the bus ride from Guayaquil to Cuenca should take at least 4 hours, but we made it in 3 hours and 20 minutes. That bus was barreling down the highway, slinging us all back and forth as the skillful bus driver navigated the curves in the road as we ascended from sea level up to Cuenca which sits at 8300 feet above sea level.

I´m here!