The Gringo: A Memoir
Page 21
Some—actually most—thought we should downsize and somehow attract more “highly skilled” volunteers (no one acknowledged the fact that under this requisite, nearly everyone present would have been denied during the application process). Some thought we should forget the ambassadorial stuff and dedicate the program strictly to concrete and sustainable development goals (perhaps forgetting that this already exists and it’s called USAID and it is perpetually disorganized and underfunded). Others thought we should forget the “work” component—you can imagine how their two years went—and focus on volunteers having good times in faraway communities while facilitating cultural exchange and understanding.
Some wanted more of the Peace Corps in every way. A few liked the organization just the way it was but didn’t really expound much beyond that. Almost none, however, thought that as it was currently structured and organized, the Peace Corps should continue in Ecuador.
Some, when I caught them alone and in moments of honesty, agreed that half a century is an awfully long time to be showing people how it’s done. The invariable rebuttal to this is that “there are a few really great projects here and there.” Yes, there will always be those few good projects. But we’re talking about five decades, or two generations—or more—of Ecuadorians being treated to the worldly generosity of the white man. When does it stop?
One morning, the country director informed us that at the end of the year, Peace Corps Ecuador would discontinue its sustainable agriculture program. Although the program had been a staple of the Ecuador post for most, if not all, of its forty-nine years there (and probably the least wishy-washy in its goals), many countries worldwide were under orders to cut one of their programs. He said that lots of the agricultural themes would be folded into the community health program (“food security” was the buzzword now in contemporary international development speak).
The director also talked about their plans in the coming months to implement an English-teaching program, for which they’d secured the funding long before learning that agriculture would be cut. So much for the real development work I’d always associated with the Peace Corps.
In any event, as of December, the agricultural program in Ecuador would be no more. Alas, we were in the waning days of gringos telling poor people how to farm, only to have them smile, turn around, and continue with the way they’d been doing it for hundreds of years.
As with the many injustices before it, my group of departing volunteers absorbed this coup de main as a personal insult, which it kind of was, since the decision to eliminate agriculture was based at least in part on program results. As the director spoke, they were speechless. Later in the day during coffee breaks, each launched into bouts of nostalgia, as if the agricultural program were a dying human, followed by sentimental self-praise at all the remarkable things the program had done over the years.
The next day, I had my final medical checkup in the office. I gave another fecal sample; I got another physical; the doctor listened to my heart, thought I might have a heart murmur, then said never mind; I carried a urine sample of mine across town in a bag and it broke open and got all over me and I just laughed (two years earlier I would have cursed); I took a blood test (all clear!); I got some good food in my stomach but wondered what the point was since in a couple of months I’d be back in the U.S. gorging burritos at an alarming rate.
After another day in the big city, we all returned for our final weeks in site.
CHAPTER 46
At the beginning of my last week in Zumbi, Carlito asked me to stop by the high school that Thursday for a little ceremony they were hosting. The little ceremony turned out to include every student, teacher, and faculty member, in addition to the mayor, all the city council members, and a number of others from the municipality.
They presented me with a large engraved plaque thanking me for all the work I’d done to improve the conditions at their glorious educational institution. The thing was enormous; I could barely hold it in one hand.
After the principal made his introductory comments, thanked me, and presented me with the plaque, it was my turn to speak. The mayor, councilmen, and I were sitting up on a stage facing the rest of the students and faculty, who were sitting on plastic chairs—melting under the sun and squinting from the glare reflecting off the concrete basketball court.
I stepped up to the podium and looked out at them. I saw kids yawning and the makeup dripping off older women’s faces. Some held parasols and pieces of paper over their heads to block the sun. I felt weak in the knees thinking about what I’d say next—in Spanish—to these hundreds of people who came out here. But also, it was times like these that I felt guilty about all the bitterness and resentment I’d harbored and bitched about over the years. I glanced at the politicians and back out at the people.
“First, let me thank you all for this ceremony today. Thank you for coming. But more importantly, let me thank you for the opportunity to live with you, work with you, and be a part of your community these last couple of years. It’s been a pleasure.
“Right now, I’d like to say something briefly to the students who are here.” I turned to where some of the uniformed kids were playing an impromptu game of soccer and some of them paused and looked up at the podium. “I’ve had the experience of a lifetime here: The opportunity to travel to a country far from my own, with different people and a different language, and where I knew nobody. It’s changed my life. And the key to being able to do it was education. I’m telling you right now that education is the most important thing in your life. And you need to value it. There are many people here who value education.” I turned toward the politicians, including the mayor, who’d gone to this high school. I nodded to the principal. Then I looked back at the students. “So if you want to have an opportunity like I’ve had, or if you want to open doors in your life, the answer is education. From here, I hope you all go on to the university and focus on something that will allow you to come back afterward and improve your lives, your families’ lives, and your community. Thank you all again and thank you, Zumbi.”
I had no idea where that came from.
God knows what I would’ve come up with if I’d known I was going to give a speech or had any time to prepare. But that’s what I needed to say. I walked to the other side of the stage and sat down and listened as the mayor proceeded to take the microphone and speak for forty-five minutes about how his administration was dedicated to improving the school, mainly in the form of a large metal covering to go over the basketball court where the audience was currently wilting away in the Amazonian sun.
MY FINAL WEEKS IN ZUMBI were the same as the rest—but just a little bit hotter and a little bit slower. Although I was ready to leave Ecuador, and had indeed been counting down the days for quite a while, I was scared shitless about returning to the U.S.
Sure, things would be nicer and more comfortable and more efficient, but I’d also had conversations with people like my dad, who said such things as, “Grigs, I’m telling ya, I’ve got the greenest lawn in the entire cul-de-sac; it is, literally, the envy of everyone,” and I knew this would present its own problems.
While I walked around town spitting sunflower seeds and talking to people, everything from the previous years came rushing at me in waves. It came in mixtures of nostalgia and disbelief and good old holy shit, I can’t believe it. But every time I tried to think of something profound—a way to sum it up in an introspective climax—the more it just seemed like a lot of lonely nights cooking bad pasta for dinner, soaking my balls in tepid water, and listening to Bob Dylan albums.
On my last weekend in Zumbi—before I rode up out of the jungle to Loja for the final time and flew from Loja to Quito to take care of Peace Corps paperwork and then flew out of Quito once and for all—there was a drive-by shooting in Zumbi, just on the other side of the bridge leading into town. Two men were murdered and their girlfriends, both holding babies, were injured by bullet fragments. The shots were fired in t
he middle of the night. But I didn’t find out about it until the next day, because I’d been busy in my apartment having safe sex with an aerobics instructor from Loja with a seahorse tattoo on her upper back.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people helped make this book happen, but I would like to begin by singling out two who were instrumental in my becoming a writer in the first place. Thank you to G. Brown for being a friend, mentor, and editor all these years, and to Pam Bond-Simmons, the best teacher anyone could possibly ask for.
Numerous others gave their time, endured rough drafts, and lent advice when this was a manuscript—or just an idea. My deepest gratitude goes to my brother, Andrew Crawford. Many thanks to Brenna Mannion and Clare Fieseler, as well as to Robert Bombard, Spencer Beighley, and Leslie Dressler.
And much appreciation to the rest of my family: Kent, Rick, Alison, Claire, Zuma, and Watson.
Before this was even a book, it was a difficult and lonely adventure. I owe another round of thanks to all those mentioned for their love and encouragement during that time.
A few passages from this book originated as emails sent home. Thank you to everyone who tolerated them in their inboxes.
I owe many thanks to my editor, Sandra Jonas, for her professionalism, wisdom, and expertise throughout the editing process and for catching all my errors.
More thank-yous for help, advice, and support go to Ryan Mazin, Amy Herdy, Jessica Case, Justin Schoolmaster, Jason Meininger, and Matt Devlin.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. GRIGSBY CRAWFORD grew up in the American West and graduated with honors from George Washington University. His writing has been published in numerous newspapers, magazines, and blogs, covering everything from politics and sports to men’s fashion and the environment.
In April 2011 Crawford completed his Peace Corps service and returned to the United States. Since that time, his man plumbing has been mostly pain-free. He now lives peacefully in Washington, D.C. The Gringo is his first book. Visit his website at www.jgrigsby.com.