My Riobamban Social Life
Social life in Riobamba exists almost entirely on one length of street separated by a median with palm trees, called “10 de Agosto.” There are numerous restaurants and shops, karaoke bars, night clubs, and there is one clothing mall which to an American is like one big discount rack at Ross. There is a lack of recreational facilities like gymnasiums or jogging trails—although there is an Olympic stadium—and there is not a single cinema in the whole city, which is a big disappointment to the natives. On Friday and Saturday nights, the streets become inundated with young people. Where did they all come from? There is a lot of drinking, especially of the native beer, Pilsener, and even more dancing. Clubs blaring the popular Latin dance music, Reggaeton, are packed. Unlike clubs in America, there are five or six different styles of dancing in which almost everyone seems to be proficient. To my chagrin, none of them are the Tango. I really wanted to say to someone, “Let’s Tango!” There is even loud music blaring in the streets due to the upcoming elections, along with dancers waving flags associated with a particular party or candidate. It remains to be seen whether the loud music in the streets will end with the elections, but it seems to me that at least the annoying national anthem will subside.
I am picked up on Friday night by a group of friends to go out dancing. The streets have suddenly been transformed from a colorful daytime marketplace with a palette of different people into a huge crowded sidewalk lit up with the headlights of passing cars and teeming with a surprising amount of young people. A lot of time is spent getting to the place, through heavy traffic, and among the slowest walkers on the planet, as well as waiting for friends at the meeting place. This is expected. Already I have noticed that Ecuadorians are generally snappier dressers than their American counterparts. The fact that there are no Walmarts here may be one contributing factor. They are certainly better dressers than I am. There seems to be a strong Italian fashion influence, especially with the leather shoes and hairstyles, and one could say Ecuadorians are generally greasers. Even the beggars here, with their flashy serapes and bola-like hats, are better dressed than those in America. Nevertheless, Americans can rest assured they have the best showcase of teeth in the world.
I don’t communicate very well yet. I can’t tell which girls are single. The girl I am going out with tonight might be 20 or she might be 30. At least I know she is younger than 50, which is about the age of the last woman who invited me out. But I don’t need to know for sure. All I need to know is that she has a car. I want to dance tonight. I know a girl with a car who wants to dance with me. Bingo. Presto. Bada-bing, bada-boom.
I hope I didn’t leave the other woman hanging. I was invited for the same night, but I neither declined nor accepted. I was very literally at a loss for words. She said, “If you want.” I said, “Okay.” That’s how it ended and I have no idea how it could have been any more ambiguous. She didn’t show up to class the next few days, and I wondered. I was tempted to feel bad.
It appears that it is more customary here for girls to make the first move with dating. Perhaps it is simpler this way, as women are generally pickier anyhow. It has seemed better for me to take the passive approach, at first. Invitations are just happening, and they shouldn’t be. I can’t even speak the same language. You can’t even step up to bat in this game without a few calculated words. But a few ladies at least are willing to overlook this and put us into the curious predicament, whether it is only to be nice or not is difficult for me to discern. At that point, the ball is in my court and it appears the lady takes the typical role as the feminine coquette. So far I have responded to this situation by defining the relationship as friends, and friends that drive each other places. Of course, as I don’t have a car, I try to find ways to compensate for this deficiency, but there haven’t yet been any complaints. I am still largely exploring this unpredictable territory.
Basically, though, girls here are the same as everywhere. If they are pretty, they can get away with being pretty dumb much easier. Also, they don’t typically show signs of an individual personality before the age of 18, and only vaguely or in exceptional occurrences after that. For this reason, I think it is better to find a relatively plain dancing partner with a great personality who can be attentive to you and laugh with you while you face her. Also, if you get closer to her, you can look over her shoulder at all the pretty girls, who, in the case of Latinas, look better from behind anyway. On the other hand, if you have a date with a pretty girl, she will think she has rights to anything she wants, will be much more difficult to please, and probably won’t be worth the trouble. A good general rule of thumb is that if you like her face, look into her eyes as well—if you see nothing but the blank void that is her soul staring back at you, keep a safe distance.
After having been passed around from girl to girl in our group of night sojourners, I finally ended up with the girl who was closest to my height. I think this was a polite gesture as height compatibility seems to be generally observed among dancers. She was scrawny, pretty, young, and seemed very distracted, like a child with too many toys. She was obviously experienced in this medium and showed no intentions of attempts to communicate. I held my own enough to dance with her for twenty minutes, but becoming weary of her distractedness—she was always looking around and looking at her cell phone—she fell victim to my sarcasm as I mimicking her head bobbles in a feigned and exaggerated play of being very interested in what she was looking at, which generally turned out to be nothing. She did not appreciate my sense of humor, dragged me across the dance floor, pointed to a chair for me to sit in, and grabbed a smaller guy to dance with. He gave me a look like, “This wasn’t my idea. Nothing against you.” And I gave him a look like, “Have fun.” This led to a series of pity dances offered me by other girls, and one or two that weren’t pity. I held my own for a gringo, but the difficulty communicating was frustrating.
Similarly to the States, it seems that the short Latin guy will often end up dancing with the tall skinny Latin girl, apparently because they are the most advanced dancers. The tall guys typically show less interest and stand around smoking, occasionally throwing a hand in the air and waving it like they just don’t care. It is a similar situation for the more well-proportioned females standing on the sides holding hands with their friends. These, apparently, are the people with nothing to prove. So, in the dancing arena, it seems the tables are turned. Surprisingly, however, the Latin Salsa dancers in the States are far more advanced than those I have witnessed here. At US Salsa clubs, there are often times when everyone is compelled to stop in order to gape at one or two couples tearing it up on the dancefloor, and at times gush with a few hand-clap offerings to the Salsa gods. It is not so here, which is disappointing. I came hoping to learn all the spinnies and twirlies, but perhaps because of the lack of room, they rarely occur.
After spending time with 18-year-olds for an evening, I wished to meet some people more my age. The following evening, I spent some time with other professors, 30-year-olds. Despite the increased age gap, they were more my kind of people, but the fact that the evening centered on conversation made it a little difficult for me to become engaged. Also, I was tired as it was my fourth straight evening out. But we enjoyed a good American shish kebob together. (The place is called El Pincho Americano, which means American Shish Kebob and sounds like El Pinche Americano, which is Mexican for “The F***ing American.” This caught my attention.) Victor is a very easygoing and upbeat guy who always raises his eyebrows in rapid succession along with his toothy grin. Lucilia keeps asking me if I am cold, unable to believe that I am comfortable. She is the epitome of the Latina concerned with beauty, which always seems to include too much makeup and flashy jewelry, but she does a fine job as far as that goes. She asks me how I like everything, how long I will be staying, how I could decide to come here for six months without knowing Spanish, whether I am bored, and what kinds of things I like. Her eyebrows wrinkle at my answers and my American mannerisms with different mixtures of surprise and concern, but I can tell she can’t help but think I am cool. “Que chebere,” how cool, she says as her frown resolves into a smile. In contrast, my good friend Yesi, is completely down-to-earth, helps me and Lucilia understand each other, and is always amused with my sense of humor and facial expressions. I get the sense that I am on some unlikely Latin production of Friends, and I am undoubtedly Ross, with my similarly awkward manner of comedic relief.
Victor, along with his eyebrow acrobatics, suggests that I will marry an Ecuadorian girl while I am down here, but Lucilia immediately protests. She has already married and divorced an Ecuadorian and it seems she would rather go to Italy and marry an Italian. I simply shrug in American-like expressiveness and drop my comical calling-card “Todo bien.” It’s all good. Everyone laughs, just like Friends.
Sundays seem to be a time to visit extended family. I take a ride with Danilo’s family to Guano, where high-quality leather products and other crafts make up a large part of economy. It is a pretty little community with grand surroundings. Almost everyone seems to have a garden with flowers and vegetables. Next to a quaint church where prayers can always be offered to the Virgin Mary, there is a nice garden and small farm where cocks are raised for fighting, and large guinea pigs, called cuy, are raised for eating. The tall palm tree drops tiny coconuts which can be broken with a rock to reveal a delicious nut-like meat. A plant in the garden has pods containing a cherry-sized fruit which provides a tasty, tart snack.
I quickly meet everyone present in the extended-family gathering, and there is no possible way for me to remember everyone’s names. I am offered food one course at a time, starting with soup. The traditional meal continues, and it is my second of the day, so I struggle to get it all down. The crazy old grandparents are there and they are brash with their opinions. The old man tells a crass joke, some laugh, some shake their heads, and the old man’s wife throws a food wrapper at him. She doesn’t think I can understand her when she remarks at the fact that the University has hired me to come down here even though I don’t speak a lick of Spanish. Others look at me to gauge how much I understood. I play dumb. I think it will be interesting to understand everything without anyone thinking I can, like listening in on secret conversations.
Danilo likes to retell all the funny things I have said or done since I arrived to all the family and friends we meet. A few more are to occur. Danilo’s daughter Yovanna kindly gathers my plate and scrapes the food off onto her own so she can stack them. I am quick to say, “Oh, do you want to eat my food as well? It’s fine.” Everyone laughs, especially Danilo when he says, “good one” and especially Yovanna when she says, “No. It was very bad!” Later I am given a self-retracting yo-yo toy to play with. It doesn’t seem to work very well for me, and the young ladies laugh at my attempts. “Harder,” says Danielle. So I give it a stronger flip of the wrist, sending it all the way to the floor where it smashes to pieces. I didn’t know the string was that long, and the surprised look on my face only adds to the laughter. “Too hard,” laughs Danielle. In all the laughter and commotion, the girls quickly and surreptitiously gather the pieces and hide them under the couch cushion. What a cheap toy.
After this, I take a walk with the two sisters and their friends to the outdoor basketball courts for a pickup game. Due to my increased relative size, I am able to secure a lot of rebounds, block shots, and clear myself easily for the jump shot. The two girls basically stay in the same place and make bank shots—kind of a secret weapon. Daniella’s boyfriend is tall and skilled, and good under the hoop. But we are playing a group of “ballers,” as far as that goes in Ecuador. Without the girls being physical, it is hard to guard the all-boys opposing team. They start playing harder when they start losing. “Ay, El Americano!” wails some of my opponents when I go up for a shot. They put their most aggressive guy to guard me and take me out of the game a bit. We keep each other tired. But when I score the winning jump shot while he was guarding someone else, he throws his hands in the air, saying “Oh no! El Americano.” It was a good spirited game where fouls were rarely called. I had a very good time and got some needed exercise. Apparently, the qualifications for a good basketball player are lower here. Luckily for me we didn’t play soccer.
On the walk back home, our position on a hill outside of the city allowed for a beautiful sunset view. We moseyed along through the streets where kids played and adults shouted for them to look out for cars. An arcade sidetracked the boys, and we went in for a few rounds. By the time we returned to the humble home, I realized I had no track of time all day. Only the Earth turned.
Tags: Riobamba, Travel
Aaron Baldassare