yes, okay, the first thing I’ll just make sure is, do you feel safe in your site?” said Winkler.
I mentioned some of the vague intimidation tactics like the multiple thrown buckets. “But overall,” I said, “I don’t feel really threatened, no.”
“Good, good,” he said. “We don’t need any Rambos out there.”
“The awkwardness,” I added, “is made a little worse with Juan living in the same house.”
“What? He’s still living there?” said Winkler. “All right, I’ll give Juan a call this afternoon and see if we can clear all this up.”
I was too caught up in the spat with Juan to realize this might have been a good time to mention the armed robberies in the neighborhood. The other thing on my mind lately was the somewhat threatening response I’d gotten when I told one of the aunts that it was customary for volunteers to leave their host families after a few months and find their own place to live. “Of course you know if you do that,” she said, “you won’t be with this family anymore. You might be living on the property of a family that doesn’t have as much respect around here as we do. And, well, who knows what could happen to you. Bad things . . .”
I paced around the property all day, avoiding Juan and fighting the giant lump of anger and frustration that had risen in my throat. In the late afternoon when the worst heat of the day was passing, a few of the other guides came over and we used machetes to clear a field where we were supposedly going to camp out later with a group of ecotourism students.
I was bent over scraping away at the ground when Juan’s phone rang; I could tell it was Winkler calling him. He went to the other end of the field to talk. I watched him. He listened. He nodded. He spoke. He used his obscene hands in gestures as if he were speaking in person. By the end, I saw him smiling and laughing. I overheard him saying how great it was to talk.
Soon after, Winkler called me back to recap his conversation with Juan. It sounded like there’d been a lot of misunderstandings, he said. It sounded like Juan was unclear on some things, but now that was all sorted out, he said. “I remain impressed—very impressed—with Juan as a counterpart,” he said. My heart sank.
“So I think he’s going to talk with you tonight and find a way that you guys can start from square one again and get a good working relationship going. I want to salvage this relationship because Juan is a really great counterpart.” He added something else about how we had an opportunity to do important things at this site.
Before signing off, he launched into a speech unrelated to the day’s incident. He talked about why he’d sent a volunteer to this site and what a fantastic resource the wetland was for these communities. It was nearly a repeat of the sales pitch he’d given me during training, after I had received my site assignment. “Oh yes,” he added, “and Juan will be moving back into his parents’ home. That was the agreement.”
That night Juan did indeed apologize. He offered to cook me dinner but I wasn’t hungry. We agreed we’d try to start over on a good foot. He hugged me. It was uncomfortable.
CHAPTER 17
T hat weekend, we hosted a group of students from a nearby university for the campout on the wetland. It was the first time I saw USAID money go to work. Raúl Sanchez, our intermediary with USAID, came up from Portoviejo. I later discovered he didn’t work for that organization directly, but for another group it contracted out to, which had secured an entire bundle of U.S. funds to disperse among projects across the Ecuadorian coast. He used some of the funds to buy the food for the two-day/one-night campout and delivered a truckload of tents and equipment stamped with “USAID: Aid from the American People.”
The few dozen students who arrived all majored in tourism at their university. The day they showed up, Juan took a couple of them out on a
I mentioned some of the vague intimidation tactics like the multiple thrown buckets. “But overall,” I said, “I don’t feel really threatened, no.”
“Good, good,” he said. “We don’t need any Rambos out there.”
“The awkwardness,” I added, “is made a little worse with Juan living in the same house.”
“What? He’s still living there?” said Winkler. “All right, I’ll give Juan a call this afternoon and see if we can clear all this up.”
I was too caught up in the spat with Juan to realize this might have been a good time to mention the armed robberies in the neighborhood. The other thing on my mind lately was the somewhat threatening response I’d gotten when I told one of the aunts that it was customary for volunteers to leave their host families after a few months and find their own place to live. “Of course you know if you do that,” she said, “you won’t be with this family anymore. You might be living on the property of a family that doesn’t have as much respect around here as we do. And, well, who knows what could happen to you. Bad things . . .”
I paced around the property all day, avoiding Juan and fighting the giant lump of anger and frustration that had risen in my throat. In the late afternoon when the worst heat of the day was passing, a few of the other guides came over and we used machetes to clear a field where we were supposedly going to camp out later with a group of ecotourism students.
I was bent over scraping away at the ground when Juan’s phone rang; I could tell it was Winkler calling him. He went to the other end of the field to talk. I watched him. He listened. He nodded. He spoke. He used his obscene hands in gestures as if he were speaking in person. By the end, I saw him smiling and laughing. I overheard him saying how great it was to talk.
Soon after, Winkler called me back to recap his conversation with Juan. It sounded like there’d been a lot of misunderstandings, he said. It sounded like Juan was unclear on some things, but now that was all sorted out, he said. “I remain impressed—very impressed—with Juan as a counterpart,” he said. My heart sank.
“So I think he’s going to talk with you tonight and find a way that you guys can start from square one again and get a good working relationship going. I want to salvage this relationship because Juan is a really great counterpart.” He added something else about how we had an opportunity to do important things at this site.
Before signing off, he launched into a speech unrelated to the day’s incident. He talked about why he’d sent a volunteer to this site and what a fantastic resource the wetland was for these communities. It was nearly a repeat of the sales pitch he’d given me during training, after I had received my site assignment. “Oh yes,” he added, “and Juan will be moving back into his parents’ home. That was the agreement.”
That night Juan did indeed apologize. He offered to cook me dinner but I wasn’t hungry. We agreed we’d try to start over on a good foot. He hugged me. It was uncomfortable.
CHAPTER 17
T hat weekend, we hosted a group of students from a nearby university for the campout on the wetland. It was the first time I saw USAID money go to work. Raúl Sanchez, our intermediary with USAID, came up from Portoviejo. I later discovered he didn’t work for that organization directly, but for another group it contracted out to, which had secured an entire bundle of U.S. funds to disperse among projects across the Ecuadorian coast. He used some of the funds to buy the food for the two-day/one-night campout and delivered a truckload of tents and equipment stamped with “USAID: Aid from the American People.”
The few dozen students who arrived all majored in tourism at their university. The day they showed up, Juan took a couple of them out on a
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