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A sultry breeze sweeps in over the river, caressing Guayaquil's skyscrapers as the mournful wail of a fire engine floats back across the watery expanse. A foreign man strides purposefully down the boardwalk, pushing his way through the milling crowds.
His travel guidebook rates the neighborhood a "Must See," and he is determined to do so before the 6:15 flight to Miami. A group of men drink aguardiente and sing boisterously near the water's edge to the accompaniment of a battered guitar. He glances quickly at his watch as he brushes past them. Too bad these jokers have no respect for time, he scoffs; maybe then they could do something with their meaningless lives. The boardwalk dissolves in a soupy, garbage-laden marsh. He swears disgustedly and turns inland, jaywalking across the bustling avenue, a gray-haired motorist squealing his brakes to miss him. He trots to the opposite sidewalk, oblivious to the man's insistent honking. Where do these people have to get to in such a hurry? Looking upward from the base of Las Peņas, he marvels at why anyone would choose to live on such a precipitous slope. The steep stairs are lined by concrete block homes painted in extravagant greens, blues, yellows, and pinks. Two of Ecuador's presidents were born in this neighborhood, and it survived each of Guayaquil's great fires. The guidebook says this was once a dangerous area, but he can see several uniformed policemen, so he shoves his thick wallet deeper into the front pocket of his shorts and begins to climb. Sweat stings his eyes as he tramps up the long hill. He snaps a picture of manicured flowerbeds placed tastefully along the tiled stairway. Barbara would love this, if only he could pull her away from the hotel pool long enough to get out and experience a little local color. She would rather read her Cosmo in the tanning booth than expand her mind. The sounds of traffic and tumult grow fainter as he climbs. A handsomely carved doorway catches his eye, and he stops to read the plaque affixed alongside it: Obra del Ministro del Turismo. A framed photograph shows the home as it looked before its state-sponsored renovation. Like the rest of Las Peņas, it had been a ramshackle eyesore: exposed concrete blocks, broken-down front steps, and a rusty iron door with peeling paint. As he looks back down the slope to the gray city below, he considers how gratified these people must feel to finally be able to take pride in something. He sits down to rest on the house's front steps. Across the way, a carved wooden door swings open, and a two-headed apparition emerges from the darkness. He whistles softly to himself, stands, fumbles for his camera. My grandfather was a firefighter before he became ill, once saving three children from the roof of a burning school. Thirty years of service earned him subsidized health care and a tiny room halfway up Las Peņas. He lost his legs at the knees after his diabetes doctor immigrated to the U.S. I carry him on my back to where he begs for coins in front of the firefighter's museum at the base of the hill. He no longer speaks, but I know he resents being forced to live in a neighborhood of elegant walkways, fresh paint, and carved woodwork where the police give citations for playing your radio too loud, or for "loitering" in front of your own home. They protect foreign tourists during the day, but leave us defenseless when the sun goes down. My grandfather is crippled and alone, his wife dead and most of his family gone abroad in search of work. Now even his neighborhood is empty and cold, like the streets you see in American movies. They told us these changes were for the people of Ecuador, but we know the truth. I carry my grandfather on my back because I have nothing else to give him. His voice is silent, but mine is not. Go ahead, rich gringo, put our picture in your little scrapbook, and I will say a prayer for your soul. |
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He is tall and slender, wearing swimming trunks and sandals, and his normally pallid skin has been scorched an angry red in the tropical sun. Locals gaze up at him as he passes, but he looks away. A jumble of colorful houses beckons from a nearby hill overlooking the river.
