Parts one through three are here: Part One; Part Two; Part Three
Mi Casa Es Su Casa
In the first three parts of this substack, I recounted my Peace Corps training (1967), arrival in country (Ecuador) and subsequent arduous plus or minus four-hour off road trip to Bountyless, a town whose real name I do not recall. In my fictionalized account of my time in Ecuador and South America, La Caudilla, I call the town La Vergüenza (Shame).
The biggest shame was that the town lacked electricity. Some businesses, including the most popular saloon in town, El Vaquero (also a fictional name), had loud, diesel generators that made it almost impossible to carry on a conversation in their immediate vicinity. The house of Enrique Guerrero, the principal of the private school that was recruiting me, was no exception. It was without electrical power.
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Enrique and I arrived at his house and shared cold Cokes while awaiting the arrival of the woman rancher and dueña (owner) of a private girls’ school on her property. The ranch and school were located en las afueras—somewhere outside of town. Enrique referred to her as La Directora or La Maestra. She was La Caudilla in my novel of that title.
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La Directora
The sound of a car announced the arrival of La Directora. It was the first car I had seen or heard since leaving the town of Daule, four hours away over trackless, arid, nothingness. Many who arrived in town from the countryside came on horseback and every business in La Vergüenza had a hitching post out front. Many of the less affluent rode donkeys or burros, which along with stray dogs, roamed the streets of the town at will. Most people traveled on foot. From my novel:
“Muy buenas tardes,” a tall, attractive woman said upon stepping out of the Land Cruiser that she had parked in Enrique’s front yard. After his initial shock at her striking appearance, the first thing Rex noticed was that she was armed. A leather belt and holster secured a six-shooter that was reminiscent of something Gary Cooper might have strapped on in High Noon.
A large German shepherd, as physically imposing as his mistress, bolted from the car and went after the turkey. The woman shouted something that Rex did not understand. The dog immediately dropped to the ground, legs stretched akimbo, his head pressed to the earth, a look of shameful dejection on his face. She gave another command, and the dog sat at attention. Then he heeled as she walked toward the house.
Rex and Enrique returned the woman’s greeting. Enrique invited her to come inside. She and the dog climbed the stairs and entered the humble dwelling. Given the fact that she was driving a vehicle that perhaps one percent of the population of Ecuador could afford, he was certain that her abode was infinitely more impressive than Enrique’s small, thatched cottage. The woman, however, gave no indication of being uncomfortable in what had to be for her an unaccustomed setting.
Even without the six-shooter and German shepherd, the woman had an intimidating presence, a perfect persona for a headmistress of a private girls’ academy, I thought. After I parroted my best formal Spanish greeting, the woman told me to call her Dolores. She used the familiar tu form of address which I was to learn was common practice in Ecuador, except when addressing elders or officials.
Enrique and his wife, Marta, showed unquestioned deference toward Dolores who exuded an air of confidence worthy of a high-ranking military officer. It was to be my first experience with the macha woman in a macho culture where women were normally second-class citizens.
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The few women who did hold positions of authority, however, were respected and often feared. Later, when I taught at the Colegio Americano (American School) in Guayaquil, the principals of both the elementary level and the middle and high schools were women. Both were perpetually dressed in black mourning dresses, causing me to wonder if they were actually in bereavement or if the mourning clothes were simply for effect. In any event, if I was having difficulty controlling a student or a class, there was immediate silence and cowering among the male students in partiular if one of the women walked into the room. They did not have to say a word to subdue the class.
Getting To Know You
We sat at a long table that no doubt served as an all-purpose piece of furniture—from dining and work table, to the family desk. I could envision several children seated around the table doing their homework, although at the moment, there were no children in sight.
Dolores sat directly across from me. She wore tight blue jeans with an open jeans jacket and white blouse underneath. An Aussie outback hat hung behind her shoulders secured by a lariat around her neck. I soon learned that Latinas dressed more rakishly than I was accustomed to in our buttoned-up American culture. I tried to avert my eyes from the cleavage display, but if I looked askance, my eyes were met by the framed color portrait of a scantily clad young Latina.
I was also to learn that such a cheesecake display, with varying degrees of top cover—from slim to none—was common in many middle class homes I would visit, often juxtaposed with a picture of Jesus and/or a crucifix, as was the case at Engrique’s. A third framed color portrait—that of JFK—completed the display of art work in the small house. It had been almost exactly four years since Kennedy’s assassination, and the late president was widely loved in South America. USIS (United States Information Service) gave out the portraits of former President Kennedy for free.
Later, when I was teaching at the Colegio Americano de Guayaquil, the school librarian, who fit the librarian stereotype except for her less than conservative dress, explained to me that they had a saying in Ecuador: No puede vender los productos si no muestra la mercancía. (You can’t sell the goods if you don’t display the merchandise.)
Between my wandering mind and the evident distractions, I had become somewhat oblivious to the small talk, waiting to get to the particulars of what my teaching duties were to be. I was somewhat stunned, therefore, when Dolores informed me what she really wanted from her liege.
Básquetbol
We have an outstanding group of girls’ on our basketball team at the moment, she said. She added that she wanted me to coach the team. The implication was that I, el gringo mágico, was the missing link between local renown and a national championship. How ironic, since I was a slow White dude who reputedly could not jump.
It later became apparent to me that a tall, blonde, blue-eyed American Peace Corps Volunteer from a previous group and who played club basketball for the best team in Guayaquil (EMELEC—Empresa Eléctrica del Ecuador—literally, The Electric Company), set the standard and expectations for those gringos who fit the stereotype. Later, I would occasionally be mistaken for Richard (REE-chard) on the street and asked for my autograph by starry-eyed kids. (All those blonde gringos looked alike.)
When I, myself, was asked to play for EMELEC, a banner headline on the front sports page of a Guayaquil newspaper asked if the mysterious gringo, professor en el colegio Americano, rumored to be joining EMELEC, was to be el próximo Richard. Unfortunately for them and me, I was not so destined. But I digress.
To say the least, I was taken aback by the coaching offer. Here we were sitting in a house that was in a town that was stuck somehwere in the late Nineteenth Century and lacked the basics of modern civilization, yet they seemed more concerned about having a winning girls’ basketball team than having indoor plumbing and electricity. I thought I was in the middle of nowhere. The townspeople seemed to think that they were at the center of the universe.
Then, I thought of my own high school situation in suburban Chicago. We also thought that we were at the world’s epicenter. Surely, the earth revolved around us and our obsessive concerns over sports, the opposite sex and getting into college. It did not take me long in Ecuador to realize how little the broader world cared about my personal problems and how little I really knew about the broader world.
I explained to Dolores and Enrique that I had played high school varsity basketball on a decent team, but that was that. I did not play college basketball as Richard had, nor was I trained as a basketball coach. Furthermore, I had no coaching experience. That fact did not seem to bother Dolores. She was convinced that I would turn out to be their version of UCLA’s John Wooden, winner of ten NCAA national championships.
The conversation soon wrapped up with little mention of any of my responsibuilities aside from coaching basketball. Dolores and I agreed to meet the next morning for coffee at the local café. She would then drive me out to the school for a tour of the facilities.
El Bar El Vaquero
Enrique and I bid farewell to La Directora, then walked to El Vaquero for a bite to eat and several rounds of beers with some local dignitaries. The bar had a roll-up door about the size of a two-car garage door. I recall the bar being air conditioned courtesy of the diesel generator. I also recall that I was freezing to death in my short-sleeved shirt. I had gone from one extreme climate to another when I walked over the bar threshold.
As things began to get rowdy, I began to get worried. The locals told stories of some of the vaqueros and their Saturday night drunken revelries. On occasion, I was told, a cowboy or two would ride their horses into the bar and even fire a few shots in the air for amusement. I had not yet heard tales from my colleagues of machete duels breaking out in similar establishments, but I sensed trouble. Enrique must have felt my anxiety, for he told me he would walk me across to the hotel.
We exchanged hasta mañanas. It was already dark. A hotel employee, kerosene lantern in hand, escorted me upstairs to my berth. Mosquito netting had been placed over the hammock. He brought me an enameled pitcher of water and a matching wash basin. El señor also left a galvanized pail for my nocturnal necessities.
It did not take long as I reclined in the hammock to feel a distantly familiar but worrisome sensation. I had childhood asthma but had mostly outgrown it. My last attack had been a good six years earlier during high school, but now, I felt one coming on. It must have been the extreme dust and the cool, damp night air. Soon, I was having a full-fledged attack, which meant wheezing and extreme difficulty breathing.
Adiós Bountyless, Hola Guayaquil
When having an asthma attack, I would have to sit up to breathe. I sat up most of the night, perhaps getting a few winks of sleep, but I was totally exhausted in the morning. I was early to the café. I probably ordered a Coke, not yet accustomed to strong Ecuadorian coffee.
Neither was I yet accustomed to la hora ecuatoriana—Ecuadorian time which was usually at least fifteen minutes late. It could also be never. In the extra time I had to ponder the events of the last twenty-four hours, I began to wonder if I could ever adjust to a routine of commuting between Daule and La Vergüenza, even if it was just once a week. And how would that mesh with coaching a basketball team? With games and travel time, coaching seemed like it would be a full-time job in itself.
There was commotion outside as a mixto lurched to a halt in front of the hotel. The usual rugby scrum formed as people scrmabled to get off or on the vehicle. (Think JFK baggage claim.) I asked someone its destination. Daule and Guayaquil, I was told.
Espere! I called out instinctively. I’m going to Guayaquil. I asked the waiter in the café if he knew la directora de la escuela. Of course, everybody knows la señorita, he told me. I told him that I was supposed to meet her there for coffee. I asked him to tell her that I was not feeling well and was returning to Guayaquil. Then I boarded the mixto, feeling relieved but also a bit guilty for leaving without thanking Dolores and saying a personal adiós.
Back in Guayaquil, I told the Regional Peace Corps Director of my experience and that I did not think I could be stationed in Daule, given the asthma attack. He agreed and changed my assingment to working with a committee that was tasked with community development in the squatter encampments that were springing up on the outskirts of the city. The committee had a mouthful of a name: El Comité para la Rehabilitación y Urbanización de los Barrios Suburbanos de Guayaquil. Mercifully, it went by the acronym CRUBS.
Of course, I always wondered what if. What if I had stayed in La Vergüenza. So, I decided to write a book whose plot took the what if fork in the road that diverged in the yellow wood. I became fascinated by the Jeffrey Epstein and NXIVM human trafficking cases and knew that parts of Latin America played a major role in child-trafficking operations. Realizing that Epstein Island could just as well have been in the isolated countryside of Ecuador, I decided to plot accordingly.