Stories

A relatively spacious ride on Quito's Ecovia Bus Line.

For the first time in my life, I’ve had to use public transportation for something other than getting to a Rams game. I know, I know, it’s pretty pathetic, but better late than never, right? I had to become a big boy someday. 

And in my big-boy experience of taking the bus every day, my stereotypes before arriving have changed to real stories about real people. Instead of meeting pick-pocket masters, I’ve begun to get to know the average Quiteño.

Each day, I ride at least two buses, and on each bus ride, I sit and observe these Ecuadorian people. I listen to them. I empathize with them. I put myself in their shoes. And in the process, we become a part of each other’s story. 

So, I invite you. Hop on the bus with me for a few minutes. Come meet the beautiful people of Quito, Ecuador.  

Experience 1: Life Through His Eyes

Messi and Ronaldo. Xavi and Xabi Alonso. Tarzan Puyol and the murderer Pepe. 

The names raced through my head - I was ready to get home. I was ready for the world to pause with me for the next two hours and embrace what is undoubtedly the biggest soccer rivalry in the world, Barcelona vs. Real Madrid. 

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could distract me from this game.....except...maybe....

A person.

He wore weird, dark shades and sang poorly. Very poorly. I wasn’t too interested in really paying attention to this young man . . . so I tuned him out, and I entered my own world again . . . until . . . 

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. 

He was done singing. He shuffled his feet slowly and approached my end of the bus, bumping into seats and rails as if he were drunk. 

It all seemed very weird to me. I thought to myself, “What is this man’s deal?” I couldn’t quite understand how this guy could possibly think that his atrocious singing and drunken trotting could possibly warrant any donation.

But things became clear as he methodically got nearer and nearer. With every step he took, I stared more intently. I completely forgot about the soccer game and became completely focused on this man. What’s he doing? Why does he have a walking stick?

And then it hit me. This man is blind.  

People give you new perspectives.

Yet the blind man didn’t wait for me to understand. No, he was busy surviving. He was busy begging for his lunch. Some people gave him a few cents. Some didn’t. He continued on. He drew near. He walked right towards me.

And the next few seconds seemed to last an eternity.

Though blind, he knew I was standing right in front of him. I don’t know how, but he sensed that I was there, standing in his presence. And he looked at me. Even though he couldn’t see, he looked right at me.

Then he said it - “por favor.” 

And that’s all that he said - “por favor.”  His please left me paralyzed. My eyes locked with his sunglasses. He waited. I hesitated. And our encounter was over.

As I walked home that day, I was shaken and confused.  Why didn't I give him money? Where is his family? Who abandoned this man?

I didn't have any answers - I just knew that I was going home to watch a soccer game...and that he would never watch a soccer game in his life.

Experience 2: Beating the system

The Ecuadorian youth are wonderful.
But they are sneaky too..

He was only 11, but he knew exactly what he was doing. With a deep breath and a small smirk, the young boy began to allure his audience..

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” the boy squeaked in his high-pitched 11-year old voice. “Unfortunately, I can’t be in school at this point in my life, so I’m here with you today. I don’t want to bother you, so please excuse me - I am going to sing a little song for you. If you enjoy it and can spare a little change, I would really appreciate it. God will pay you back.”

The kids here really know how to tug on your heart strings. He played the God card. He wore raggedy old clothes. He had a little dirt on his face. But his teeth were pretty white. I wasn’t sure if he was really poor or not . . . after all, he had enough money to buy a little speaker to play his beat. 

It was a “50 Cent” instrumental; he was one of the many rappers that I adored in grade school with my best friend Zak Caldwell. I got sentimental for a second and smirked as well. 50 Cent in Ecuador? I don’t mind. 

Of course, 50 Cent didn’t start rapping; the little kid did. And he was simply incredible. It seemed like the most unchallenging thing he had ever done. It came naturally, effortlessly, intuitively. After three minutes of listening to this little boy, I was thoroughly impressed. . . 

But something seemed very odd about his demeanor. He rapped well, but he didn’t even look at his audience. He was good, but he wasn’t even trying. 

He stared out the window, looking for something or someone. It was like the kid thought that the taxi driver in the next lane was going to be the one dropping a coin in his hand.  

But I was that person. I was the one with his money. I was the one digging through my pocked for a 50 cent coin in gratitude for his 50 Cent rap, not the taxi driver! 

What in the world is he looking at?

But his rap then ended, and he went about collecting his money. Now I’ve seen guitar players, singers, and heck, even bands that have tried their trade on the buses...but this little man was the one that took the prize. 

Finally, he got to the back of the bus. He grabbed my 50 cents, muttered a small gracias, and stepped off with a handful of coins. 

And waiting for him near the bus behind me was his 11 year old friend. They embraced, with mini-stereos in one hand and a stockpile of nickels, dimes, and quarters in the other. 

At only the age of 11, they were probably the most crafty bus performers that I had seen in all of Quito. They were skilled. They were smart. They were savvy.

And they knew how to work the system, 50 Cent at a time...

Experience 3: A Mother’s Life

I remember her eyes more than anything. She stared bleakly out of the window into the dimly lit streets of Quito that are so often unfair to the people that walk them. Her eyes told a story that must have been painful. Perhaps it was marked by injustice. Maybe abandonment. Possibly rape. I have no idea what her experience is, but I do know that she was suffering in that moment.

She looked hopeless.

"A mother who is really a mother is never free."
- Honore de Balzac

This woman that I encountered, she sucked the joy right out of me. It was so weird...but so contagious. Like a young boy that is paralyzed at his grandfather’s funeral, I was mesmerized by this woman’s quiet despair. In contrast to all the bored, tired people that surrounded us, this woman was absolutely demoralized.

But blessed are those who mourn. I repeated it to myself over and over - Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are those mourn. I whispered it unceasingly. It seemed like the most pertinent sentence that I could think of. You made a promise, God. Keep it.  

I continued to stare at her, and she continued to stare into the darkness of the night. In that moment, it seemed like that’s how the rest of the bus ride would go, with both of us wondering about the depth of life’s pain. 

However, that’s not how it went, not at all. Our eyes were gently pulled away by the sound of a hiccup.  It was the sound of a content baby. Her baby. Her content, hiccuping baby.

I smiled. 

But she didn’t. 

And so I was left to wonder. I wondered if the baby might be part of the pain in her life, if maybe she was struggling to make ends meet, if perhaps breastfeeding in public was just too embarrassing...

As the lonely mother pulled down her shirt to cover her breast, the world smacked me in the face. It can be so cruel. But it undoubtedly had already beaten her down with a cruelty that I simply do not know. All I knew in that moment was that her pain was real. 

Who will meet this woman in her pain? Who will incarnate in her life? Who will weep with her? Will anyone have the guts to come sit by her during the lonely bus rides?

She needs an answer today.