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Dale
Vermillion
Ecuador, 1964 |
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Lying in bed in the dark, we stared at the ceiling. A cool breeze blew in the open window and the silence of an Andean night softly crept in.
Cuenca lay high in the Sierra of Ecuador, just a few miles south of the equator. But at 10,000 feet, when the sun set, it was cold. Most Cuencanos couldn't afford electricity, and those who could used as little of it as possible. The store fronts were soon closed, strong steel shutters pulled down, the worn teak doors bolted and locked with ancient padlocks. People went home and the cobbled streets were soon empty, deserted, only the occasional car rumbling slowly down the ancient stone streets. No radios blaring, no sirens, no people, only dogs barking faintly in the distance. The scattered street lights would come on, their pale orange glow dimly lighting the houses and streets in between.
In the distance, we would hear a soft rhythmical swishing, gradually coming closer, passing by, and then slowly disappearing into the night. At first we didn't know what it was, and looking, discovered an ancient campesino, barefoot, shoulders covered with a warm red poncho, sweeping our street with a broom made of small twigs. Like an old lamp lighter, he came every night, reassuring us that all was well.
On Saturday mornings just before dawn, it was dark, quiet, the street lights still casting long shadows on the houses. In the distance, we would hear soft singing, chanting, coming closer and closer. When we heard this, we always got up in our bed, kneeling on the pillows, our elbows on the window sill, watching a slow procession of Indian women below us. As they passed by, their faces and dark braids were faintly lit by candles flickering quietly in the night breeze, and their bare feet were shuffling softly over the cobblestones. Carried in their midst, their patron saint swayed from side to side as she receded into the night, carried by her faithful back to the church of Santa Teresa del Sur.
Reassured by the regularity of this procession on the now clean and deserted streets, we would lie down again, staring at the ceiling, sure we'd seen a vision of how life was, had ever been, in the Sierra.
Somewhere a cock crowed.