The "Tragic" Accident

Imagine this. A tall white woman, five feet nine inches. Curly blonde hair, frizzing like a lions mane in the 85 degree weather with ninety-nine percent humidity. Sweat dripping down her bright red forehead, hitting the group of freckles that sit across her full cheeks. A smile spread across her face, creating three little wrinkles on the side of each of her bright blue eyes, which are shimmering in the sunlight. Doesn’t sound too out of the ordinary, right? WRONG. Let’s put things into context. Imagine all of this amidst the city of Durán. A city where the tallest person hits five foot five.  A city where a majority of the people have jet black, or glossy brown hair. A city where you encounter people who have the most beautiful skin, ranging from silky caramel to smooth dark chocolate in color. A city where you look into the peoples deep brown eyes and immediately feel the presence of God. This visual paints the real image of my life as a  foreign white woman living in a small city in Latin America.

Now these are just some of the differences. This does not even begin to paint a picture of how my world and culture collided with what felt like a completely different planet. This just gives a visual image of some physical differences that made me completely stand out of any crowd.

Each day going to and from work, this gigantic white girl stood amidst a packed bus stop; amidst the noise of honking horns, swerving cars, and salsa music blaring. Amidst the heavy stares of every single person she passed by; amidst the “sssst, ssssttt gringa” catcalls from strange men; amidst the candy vendors forcing candy into her hands. Yet, the funny part is, none of this seemed to be an issue. None of this seemed to even be processed during my first month in my new home, in my new country, Ecuador.

I guess during those first 30 some-odd days, I romanticized where I was and what I was doing. Notice how I do not even mention that fact that I was traveling in an unknown land, and knew a handful of phrases in the native language. “ Hola!” “Como estas?” and let’s not forget the one phrase I mastered, while slowly shaking my head up and down like one of those bobble figures…” Si, Si, Si , Si!” It was not until I had my first tragic accident (And let’s be honest, what only seemed tragic to me at the time, because everything was brand stinking new) that things began to really set in, and I began to recognize that I had no clue about where I was, what I was doing, or what I had gotten myself into.

It was my third week in Durán. It was my first day taking the bus home alone, without my other “gringa” community mate, who helped diffuse those stares, calls and the general discomfort of being a foreigner. I stumbled as I gripped onto the strap of the messenger bag that hung across the front of my sticky, sweat filled Rostro de Cristo maroon polo and boarded the rickety bus that had already begun to move before I fully got on. I remember hearing the bus helper screaming “VENGA VENGA VENGA” having no idea what he was saying to me. I just smiled, did my normal “Si, Si” head shake and paid my bus fare.

 I walked a few rows back and sat next to an elderly woman who simply smiled at me. She began a conversation, and somehow, the same way I always do, I began to have what I thought was a mesmerizing and beautiful conversation—even though I understood none of it. She eventually got up and “bajar-ed” the bus, disappearing into “El Centro”,  the downtown of Durán. I was captivated by the constant hustle and bustle of public transportation; the mother who got on the bus holding her new born baby while trying to pull her three other small children into a seat; the old man who swiftly moved through the bus counter hauling a giant sack of what seemed to be filled with the treasures of his days work of digging through trash; the loud music that was overshadowed by constant WOOSH of speeding cars and beeping horns, or the group of teenagers in their school uniforms fooling around in the last row. These images still strike me.

As I looked out the window, I began to recognize that I was getting close to my “barrio”, or neighborhood. Being the foreigner that I was, and not adhering to the norms, I got up out of my seat, my pants stuck to the back of my legs, and began to walk to the front door of the bus—three blocks before I needed to get off. I was standing there naively looking at the people sitting in plastic chairs outside the front of their homes, the men fixing their cars, the mother’s breast feeding their babies. So it came to me as a shock, when a man in the back of the bus came running towards the front of the bus screaming “Parre! Parre!” And within a matter of seconds, the bus had begun to slow down, and this man who was running jumped off the bus, taking me right with him. SPLAT. Three seconds later, this tall white gringa was face planted on a main road in Duran.

Disoriented and confused about what was going on, I looked up only to see the man who had just pushed me off the bus continuing to run while yelling “ Lo siento!!!!!!!!!!!!” which I did understand at the time. He went on his way while screaming “SORRY!” Then I looked around and every single person within a two block radius was laughing, and staring. A person falling off the bus is worth a laugh for most, never mind the huge foreign blonde haired blue-eyed white American girl who was belly first in the middle of the road. I was completely shocked. I slowly peeled myself off the blistering black gravel, which happens to be one of the few paved roads in the area. I looked down and saw a pool of red. I was bleeding from my hand and my elbow. People from all sides were running up to me and screaming, touching my arm, rubbing my back and I did not have a damn clue as to what they were saying. I walked down the street like a zombie and turned onto my block. I was biting my quivering lip fighting back the tears that formed in my eyes. It was the first time I felt homesick, and a little scared.

I limped down this familiar road and was greeted with a shriek from a man named Gabriel. A tiny eighty year old man, with sleek grey hair parted into a comb over, with a prickly mustache that ran across the top of his lip. His eyebrows were scrunched over, his caring brown eyes gazing at my wounds and his lips pursed tightly together causing his entire mouth to wrinkle.  “Niña, niña, que paso? Ven por aca” “Come here my child, what happened?” He lunged at me and gave me a giant hug, then pulled me into the front door of his home. His wife Theresa, a large gentle woman with soft brown eyes, put me in her arms and got me settled. I sat in their dark home bleeding  and unsure as to what exactly had just happened. I felt like I was going to throw up. And I felt almost annoyed that these two people were forcing me into their home while I was in the middle of what I felt was a crisis.

Then, Gabriel  came out from a back room with a Pepsi in hand. Homesick, tired and in pain, these two incredibly gracious neighbors of mine offered me a taste of home. A taste of home not just through the Pepsi which completely quenched my thirst, but through their hospitality and loving presence. These two people who literally have nothing, gave me everything I needed. Theresa rubbed my back and tried to have a conversation with me, even though we both knew neither of us had any idea as to what the other was saying. Language at this moment did not matter. She softly tried to clean out my wounds, and even though she was not successful, this too did not matter. They both recognized that I was in turmoil, away from home and upset. They recognized that all I needed was their presence and love. These two complete strangers brought me to a place of peace as I opened my eyes and heart to the reality of where I was. To the reality that the year ahead of me was not going to be so easy, and that I had a lot to learn.

So this “tragic” event taught me two things. The first was a more practical lesson—never get up and stand at the door of the bus too far in advance. When riding public transportation in Ecuador, you get up and get off when you are seconds from your destination. The second was much more life changing. The smallest acts of kindness go the longest way. Gabriel and Theresa gave me my first true taste of the meaning of hospitality by opening the doors to their home and the doors to their hearts. Their company moved mountains in regards to the new perspective that they had given me about the power of presence, kindness and love---even from strangers.