I mentioned in a previous post that at times one of the difficult parts about being deeply entrenched in a community is that one becomes part of its everyday gossip circles. Obviously, I’m not privy to everything people on the streets are saying about me behind my back, but some stuff comes back to me and leaves me quite amused (or bemused—sometimes confused as well.) The immediate women I work with on my corner all know me and don’t have any more questions about why I’m here or what I do. They accepted my presence a long time ago, even though they might not quite understand my “job.” But I don’t either at times. Among this group of women, I feel like an ordinary target of gossip—just like any of them—from what I know of, it’s benign, everyday stuff.
One type of rumor my friends pass along to me is if they hear of people wanting to rob me. In that case, I’m not the object of gossip, per se, they’re just passing along useful information. I was furious when I heard a woman, M. had mentioned during lunch one day that she was going to rob me. The women dismiss M. because she’s a base-head (equivalent to a crack-head, the drug here called base, not crack), and always talks “bullshit.” But one of the women took me aside to tell me this and in my anger, a few days later, I went up to M.’s boyfriend and told him, “You can tell M. she’s never going rob me. Tell her not to even think about it.” Clearly this got back to M., who became furious and began asking all the women, “Which one of you whores told la gringa (the white girl) I’m going to rob her.”
The woman who actually told me, pulled me aside soon after, and said, “Anita, no matter what happens, whatever you do, don’t ever tell anyone that it was me who warned you.” She was shaking as she told me. That’s when I realized the gravity of the situation and realized I had made a big mistake by opening my mouth. Not only did I put myself in more danger by provoking the situation, but I also put my friend who warned me in potential danger too. Obviously I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut, on all matters big and small. Under no circumstances do I start gossiping with the women, even though I now know things that a lot of other people don’t. (i.e. I’m a good source of gossip considering all the things people have confided in me over the past year). When I have one-on-one interviews obviously the women talk to me in confidence and I’d never break these trusts.
I recently found out about the most outlandish piece of gossip circling among another group of sex workers about me. These are not the women I work with, rather, they work a few blocks down from the corner I’m on. Even though it’s just a few blocks away from where I work, they occupy a different world. They stand next to the Marin, the central bus station for the historic center, a bustling thoroughfare where it’s tough to identify them as sex workers. Obviously clients know who they are but for the most part these are new, young girls who have chulos (pimps) whom they are working for. This part of the Marin has never been a hot-spot for prostitution, it’s sprung up over the past year, as these girls aren’t allowed to work where my veteran sex workers solicit. Anyway, as I was leaving work one afternoon, making my way to the bus, one of the women from the Marin called over to me. She said, “Anita, Anita, come here.” I had seen her plenty of times but had never spoken with her before—but it’s typical because even though I don’t know everyone’s name, all the sex workers know mine.
She asked, “Don’t you come from Chile?” I said no. She said, “Well, don’t you send children to Chile?” Again, no. Then she explained how her pre-adolescent son is acting up and she just “can’t deal with him anymore.” It dawned on me that she wanted me to send him to Chile ??? I was dumbfounded. I wanted to laugh. I explained that although I’m invested in the children of the sex workers, and yes, I’ve been helping one family with their special needs’ son, I definitely am not in the business of sending children away. It occurred to me during that perhaps she thinks I traffic in children, and in this case to Chile? I did not take this realization lightly—it freaked me out to be honest. I explained once again to the woman, “No, under no circumstances do I take children from their families—perhaps I can help you find other services for your son if you’d like.” The woman launched into a long story about how her son has always been a trouble-maker and how she thought he’d settle down with age, but just the opposite has happened. As usual, I felt myself slip into a therapist role, but trying just to listen rather than interject my own thoughts. I asked the woman if she had thought about taking advantage of some of the free counseling that exists at the public health centers. She looked at me blankly and said, “No, I think it would be better just to send him away.”
Obviously no one wants to be mistaken as a child thief, although in this case, I don’t think the woman saw me as a malevolent force, but perhaps someone who works for an international NGO. Or at least I hope that’s the way she saw me. Indeed, I hope the rumor she heard put me in a good light. I’m horrified to think that people have the perception that I’m somehow involved in the trafficking of children! I’m glad this woman approached me to clarify what I do. I’m still not sure she believed me, but hopefully, she’ll find other women who can confirm my role. But it just goes to show that when one is the object of a rumor, it’s completely beyond one’s control…who knows how such a thing started. Perhaps this woman just made it up herself, just assumed my role because she wanted to send her son away. A projection of some sorts….Who knows… However, I do find peace in the fact that a large group of sex workers in the Centro know that at the very least I’m an ally (regardless of what rumors float about).
Monday, August 23, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
History Lesson
Today is August 10th, a national holiday in Ecuador. Like most holidays celebrated here, the commemoration of it, since it falls on a Tuesday, will be celebrated on Friday as part of a long weekend. Wealthy Quiteños head to the beach while the sex workers hope that business will pick up. Rather than analyzing the situation on the streets, I want to review this historical date—I’ve been reading a lot about Quito’s history as background information for my research.
According to historians, Ecuador’s struggle for independence began on August 10, 1809 and finished in 1830 when it separated from Grand Colombia, the large republic created by Simon Bolivar upon the region’s independence from Spain. August 10, 1809 marks the very first uprising and preliminary cries for independence in Ecuador. A new “independent” government, “Una Junta” lasted until October of 1809 but due to lack of public and regional support outside of Quito, it quickly dissolved. Despite only lasting a couple months, this was the first independent government in Latin America and although he is not recognized as such, Ruiz de Castilla, was technically Ecuador’s first President. At this time, Ecuador as a country hadn’t formed as a complete whole. The coastal city Guayaquil, a thriving port, and Cuenca, another large city in the sierra highlands, did not yet consider themselves part of the same region as Quito. Instead, at this time, they expressed more affinity to the cosmopolitan center of Lima, in contemporary Peru.
After Royalist (Spanish) troops from Lima occupied Quito once again, it became a city under siege and all of the early revolutionaries involved in the battle of August 10, 1809 were given death sentences, tortured, and placed in prison indefinitely. Once the Spaniards invaded Quito, the public began to support revolutionary efforts. No longer a theoretical idea limited to elite intellectuals, local Quiteños began to yearn for independence as well as they began to experience oppression from the monarchy. For example, most families in Quito had loved ones in jail, (many times randomly) had property destroyed, or acts of cruel violence committed against them. If they weren’t already against the monarchy, historians note that this occupation after the fail of the August 10 uprising, converted the masses in a fellow sweep, setting the stage for the next battle of independence.
Another event that firmly planted the seeds of independence in Quito’s public, was the massacre of August 2, 1810, when a group of revolutionaries broke into the city’s jails to free the political prisoners from the previous year’s uprising (the original battle of August 10, 1809). Although some prisoners went free, it provoked a bloody massacre in which the monarchy’s army turned against the masses protesting in the streets. The exact number of people killed is not known, but it is thought between 150-300. In the months after this event, the yearning for independence reached new levels—Simon Bolivar proclaimed that, “The massacre of Quito marks the start of this war that we will fight ‘til the death, until we obtain independence.” The “blood of Quito” became a powerful symbol during the struggles of independence throughout the entire region.
Important for my research is the role that San Marcos, the neighborhood where I work with the sex workers, played in Ecuador’s long struggle for independence. San Marcos was founded at the end of the 17th century and has always been characterized as a solidly middle class area where artisans, who still work and live in the neighborhood today, have honed their crafts over the centuries. Due to its isolated geography—it developed between two deep ravines, which were finally filled at the end of the 18th century—San Marcos is one of the historic center’s best preserved neighborhoods. Only one street enters the neighborhood, Junín, which ends in a large cul-de-sac, so there’s no through traffic and no one passes through the neighborhood to get to somewhere else. The sex workers of today work along its peripheral street, Montúfar, which is perpendicular to Junín.
Another characteristic of San Marcos is that it has always been known as an intellectual neighborhood and indeed, some of the most important thinkers of Independence resided within its streets. The clergy member, Miguel Antonio Rodríguez Mañosca, who is considered one of the fundamental visionaries and masterminds behind Ecuador’s independence, lived his entire life in San Marcos. Due to his active involvement in the struggle for independence, he was condemned to death in 1813. He was able to escape his sentence by choosing to be exiled to the Philippines. Francisco Javier Ascásubi was another revolutionary from San Marcos who had signed the “First Cry of Independence” Acts of August 10, 1809. He was killed in the massacres of August 2, 1810 and was buried in the Church of San Francisco, the first church established in Quito during the colonial period. Among others who participated in the August 10th, 1809 uprising or who were considered some of Ecuador’s most important intellectuals who resided in San Marcos were Juan Barreto, Juan Pablo Arenas, Javier Espinoso, Manuel Ascásubi Matheu, and Carlos Andrade Marín.
Despite the fact that the connection between these revolutionaries and today’s demographic of San Marcos, including the sex workers and robbers of the area, is tenuous at best, perhaps there’s something to be said that neighborhood has a history of attracting some of Quito’s most “rebellious” citizens. In any case, it’s good to review the significance of August 10th and to take into account San Marcos’s early prominent residents. At the very least, it's important to note that the neighborhood continues to attract artists and intellectuals as residents. (The sex workers of San Marcos do not also reside in the neighborhood—they live in other parts of the historic center or in South Quito).
According to historians, Ecuador’s struggle for independence began on August 10, 1809 and finished in 1830 when it separated from Grand Colombia, the large republic created by Simon Bolivar upon the region’s independence from Spain. August 10, 1809 marks the very first uprising and preliminary cries for independence in Ecuador. A new “independent” government, “Una Junta” lasted until October of 1809 but due to lack of public and regional support outside of Quito, it quickly dissolved. Despite only lasting a couple months, this was the first independent government in Latin America and although he is not recognized as such, Ruiz de Castilla, was technically Ecuador’s first President. At this time, Ecuador as a country hadn’t formed as a complete whole. The coastal city Guayaquil, a thriving port, and Cuenca, another large city in the sierra highlands, did not yet consider themselves part of the same region as Quito. Instead, at this time, they expressed more affinity to the cosmopolitan center of Lima, in contemporary Peru.
After Royalist (Spanish) troops from Lima occupied Quito once again, it became a city under siege and all of the early revolutionaries involved in the battle of August 10, 1809 were given death sentences, tortured, and placed in prison indefinitely. Once the Spaniards invaded Quito, the public began to support revolutionary efforts. No longer a theoretical idea limited to elite intellectuals, local Quiteños began to yearn for independence as well as they began to experience oppression from the monarchy. For example, most families in Quito had loved ones in jail, (many times randomly) had property destroyed, or acts of cruel violence committed against them. If they weren’t already against the monarchy, historians note that this occupation after the fail of the August 10 uprising, converted the masses in a fellow sweep, setting the stage for the next battle of independence.
Another event that firmly planted the seeds of independence in Quito’s public, was the massacre of August 2, 1810, when a group of revolutionaries broke into the city’s jails to free the political prisoners from the previous year’s uprising (the original battle of August 10, 1809). Although some prisoners went free, it provoked a bloody massacre in which the monarchy’s army turned against the masses protesting in the streets. The exact number of people killed is not known, but it is thought between 150-300. In the months after this event, the yearning for independence reached new levels—Simon Bolivar proclaimed that, “The massacre of Quito marks the start of this war that we will fight ‘til the death, until we obtain independence.” The “blood of Quito” became a powerful symbol during the struggles of independence throughout the entire region.
Important for my research is the role that San Marcos, the neighborhood where I work with the sex workers, played in Ecuador’s long struggle for independence. San Marcos was founded at the end of the 17th century and has always been characterized as a solidly middle class area where artisans, who still work and live in the neighborhood today, have honed their crafts over the centuries. Due to its isolated geography—it developed between two deep ravines, which were finally filled at the end of the 18th century—San Marcos is one of the historic center’s best preserved neighborhoods. Only one street enters the neighborhood, Junín, which ends in a large cul-de-sac, so there’s no through traffic and no one passes through the neighborhood to get to somewhere else. The sex workers of today work along its peripheral street, Montúfar, which is perpendicular to Junín.
Another characteristic of San Marcos is that it has always been known as an intellectual neighborhood and indeed, some of the most important thinkers of Independence resided within its streets. The clergy member, Miguel Antonio Rodríguez Mañosca, who is considered one of the fundamental visionaries and masterminds behind Ecuador’s independence, lived his entire life in San Marcos. Due to his active involvement in the struggle for independence, he was condemned to death in 1813. He was able to escape his sentence by choosing to be exiled to the Philippines. Francisco Javier Ascásubi was another revolutionary from San Marcos who had signed the “First Cry of Independence” Acts of August 10, 1809. He was killed in the massacres of August 2, 1810 and was buried in the Church of San Francisco, the first church established in Quito during the colonial period. Among others who participated in the August 10th, 1809 uprising or who were considered some of Ecuador’s most important intellectuals who resided in San Marcos were Juan Barreto, Juan Pablo Arenas, Javier Espinoso, Manuel Ascásubi Matheu, and Carlos Andrade Marín.
Despite the fact that the connection between these revolutionaries and today’s demographic of San Marcos, including the sex workers and robbers of the area, is tenuous at best, perhaps there’s something to be said that neighborhood has a history of attracting some of Quito’s most “rebellious” citizens. In any case, it’s good to review the significance of August 10th and to take into account San Marcos’s early prominent residents. At the very least, it's important to note that the neighborhood continues to attract artists and intellectuals as residents. (The sex workers of San Marcos do not also reside in the neighborhood—they live in other parts of the historic center or in South Quito).
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Dirty Pants
Quite literally, every day when I come home, I realize that my pants are filthy. That should come as no surprise as I spend the day actually sitting on the curb or on the sidewalk with some of the women. Although most of the women stand while working, many of them take a break by either sitting on the curb or on a concrete step outside of a building that as many of us as possible squeeze onto. I like sitting with them on this step. Usually I get pulled into the middle of four women and we all crunch together giggling and laughing. I always feel part of the group when sitting with them there. Some of the down-and-out women (i.e. drug users) find themselves sitting on the concrete sidewalk or sometimes even half-lying across it. I plop down to talk with them, not minding knowing that I’ll get my pants dirty for the day.
Some of the women disapprove of my overly-liberal “sitting on the sidewalk” behavior. They “tsk, tsk” me and say I’m not being a lady. Indeed, most of the sex workers pride themselves on their clean, shiny, sexy clothes. For them, it’s important to maintain their status as “ladies” because their work as prostitutes often automatically negates their attempts at this more dignified identity. But it’s important to them that they try. For me, it’s another defense mechanism I use to detract men and potential robbers. The more I sit on the sidewalk or curb, the less of a gringa I become. Obviously, I’m already “different” from a typical gringa because I’m not passing through as a tourist. I’ve been spending every day on the streets, slowly becoming immersed in its vibrant and dangerous community. When I sit on the ground, I seem reify my position as an insider, rather than an outsider. They expect gringas to behave differently, perhaps with more elegance or decency—just my subject position as a white North American ensures these characteristics in me, but I tend to rebel against them to let everyone know that I AM different. I will sit on the street with the quasi-junkies or on the concrete step (there’s no stigma to sitting on this particular step). Sometimes, it’s just the most comfortable place to be.
I’ve never been concerned about getting dirty or grimy, a personality quirk that aids my fieldwork considering just how dirty I can get during the day. As a typical day involves playing with or caring for a few of kids I’ve become close to—sex workers’ children—I’m used to having that grubby-kid dirt rub off on me. Sometimes I get splattered with ice-cream or find myself with a can of soda dumped on my lap. Sometimes I laugh on the bus heading homeward as I notice a piece of gum or sticky candy stuck to my pants. Perhaps I’m so carefree about my dirty-pants because it’s such a welcome change of pace from my previous four years of academic life on campus. Now during fieldwork, it’s time to get “down and dirty,” I finally feel free, no longer glued to a chair and desk for 9 hours a day. I don’t care if fieldwork means literal dirt, these past four years have been too sterile for my liking. No dirt in the library, just shiny rows of desks and chairs where students pour over computers, only a small percentage of time dedicated to actual working.
I had a funny incident happen two weeks ago when I went out with my friends at night in the historic center, near where I work. There was a free concert in one of the plazas where our friends’ band was playing. Naturally, out of work I dress very differently. I have mentioned in a previous post that while working on the streets I wear my most conservative, “un-sexy” clothes possible to present men from thinking I’m a sex worker. Despite my totally nerdy appearance, with tape recorder and backpack as my most prominent accessories, men still harass me and ask how much I cost. As such, I have a strict no make-up, no tight clothes, always grubby sneakers dress code. But on this occasion, as I was out on the town with friends, I dressed up in a skirt, make-up, jewelry, and boots. I wasn’t surprised to run into one of the women, still working near the plaza. When I went up to greet her she didn’t recognize me at first. Then it dawned on her that I was “Anita”—her friend “Anita”—and she laughed. The first thing she said was “Wow, Anita—you look so pretty! I’ve never seen you like this before—why don’t you ever look so nice on the street?” I explained to her my theory of detracting men and unwanted attention, which she understood—she just couldn’t believe I had this totally separate life, going out with friends and wearing clean, sexy clothes!
It’s true, this Anita, out on the town would never (well, I can’t ever say never) sit on the pavement with my friends. That Anita only exists during the work day when I feel free and open to do as I please—sometimes outside the norms of traditionally “decent behavior.” But goodness, if my rebellion from my constrained academic life only consists of sitting on the pavement when I know I’m not “supposed to” I’d say I’m still pretty wholesome (especially considering what I could be doing, being exposed to so much decidedly unwholesome activities all day, every day). The most negative side effect of my “scandalous” behavior is having lots of laundry to do at the end of the week. Perhaps getting “down and dirty” doesn’t actually make me more “down” with my community on the street—perhaps it’s something I do for myself—somehow making me feel that I somehow “am” more down—but regardless, I like it. I find it part of the release that fieldwork provides, as a stark contrast to the physical position I must occupy in my straight desk and chair at home, poured over books at the library-- sometimes so unbearably rigid and boring. Through fieldwork I’ve discovered that if anything, sitting on the curb getting dirty, comes more naturally to me than the clean monastic lifestyle of academic life.
Some of the women disapprove of my overly-liberal “sitting on the sidewalk” behavior. They “tsk, tsk” me and say I’m not being a lady. Indeed, most of the sex workers pride themselves on their clean, shiny, sexy clothes. For them, it’s important to maintain their status as “ladies” because their work as prostitutes often automatically negates their attempts at this more dignified identity. But it’s important to them that they try. For me, it’s another defense mechanism I use to detract men and potential robbers. The more I sit on the sidewalk or curb, the less of a gringa I become. Obviously, I’m already “different” from a typical gringa because I’m not passing through as a tourist. I’ve been spending every day on the streets, slowly becoming immersed in its vibrant and dangerous community. When I sit on the ground, I seem reify my position as an insider, rather than an outsider. They expect gringas to behave differently, perhaps with more elegance or decency—just my subject position as a white North American ensures these characteristics in me, but I tend to rebel against them to let everyone know that I AM different. I will sit on the street with the quasi-junkies or on the concrete step (there’s no stigma to sitting on this particular step). Sometimes, it’s just the most comfortable place to be.
I’ve never been concerned about getting dirty or grimy, a personality quirk that aids my fieldwork considering just how dirty I can get during the day. As a typical day involves playing with or caring for a few of kids I’ve become close to—sex workers’ children—I’m used to having that grubby-kid dirt rub off on me. Sometimes I get splattered with ice-cream or find myself with a can of soda dumped on my lap. Sometimes I laugh on the bus heading homeward as I notice a piece of gum or sticky candy stuck to my pants. Perhaps I’m so carefree about my dirty-pants because it’s such a welcome change of pace from my previous four years of academic life on campus. Now during fieldwork, it’s time to get “down and dirty,” I finally feel free, no longer glued to a chair and desk for 9 hours a day. I don’t care if fieldwork means literal dirt, these past four years have been too sterile for my liking. No dirt in the library, just shiny rows of desks and chairs where students pour over computers, only a small percentage of time dedicated to actual working.
I had a funny incident happen two weeks ago when I went out with my friends at night in the historic center, near where I work. There was a free concert in one of the plazas where our friends’ band was playing. Naturally, out of work I dress very differently. I have mentioned in a previous post that while working on the streets I wear my most conservative, “un-sexy” clothes possible to present men from thinking I’m a sex worker. Despite my totally nerdy appearance, with tape recorder and backpack as my most prominent accessories, men still harass me and ask how much I cost. As such, I have a strict no make-up, no tight clothes, always grubby sneakers dress code. But on this occasion, as I was out on the town with friends, I dressed up in a skirt, make-up, jewelry, and boots. I wasn’t surprised to run into one of the women, still working near the plaza. When I went up to greet her she didn’t recognize me at first. Then it dawned on her that I was “Anita”—her friend “Anita”—and she laughed. The first thing she said was “Wow, Anita—you look so pretty! I’ve never seen you like this before—why don’t you ever look so nice on the street?” I explained to her my theory of detracting men and unwanted attention, which she understood—she just couldn’t believe I had this totally separate life, going out with friends and wearing clean, sexy clothes!
It’s true, this Anita, out on the town would never (well, I can’t ever say never) sit on the pavement with my friends. That Anita only exists during the work day when I feel free and open to do as I please—sometimes outside the norms of traditionally “decent behavior.” But goodness, if my rebellion from my constrained academic life only consists of sitting on the pavement when I know I’m not “supposed to” I’d say I’m still pretty wholesome (especially considering what I could be doing, being exposed to so much decidedly unwholesome activities all day, every day). The most negative side effect of my “scandalous” behavior is having lots of laundry to do at the end of the week. Perhaps getting “down and dirty” doesn’t actually make me more “down” with my community on the street—perhaps it’s something I do for myself—somehow making me feel that I somehow “am” more down—but regardless, I like it. I find it part of the release that fieldwork provides, as a stark contrast to the physical position I must occupy in my straight desk and chair at home, poured over books at the library-- sometimes so unbearably rigid and boring. Through fieldwork I’ve discovered that if anything, sitting on the curb getting dirty, comes more naturally to me than the clean monastic lifestyle of academic life.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Body Guard
Juan (name changed) is now my official body guard on the streets. It became official yesterday when we acknowledged his role openly. I have been actively looking for someone to fill this role as I start filming on the streets. Up until now, I’ve been filming my documentary, “Working Mothers”, based on the lives of the sex workers, in private spaces—in their homes, in the hotel where they work, at church, etc. I have only once dared to film openly in the street and I put myself in a dangerous situation. It lasted for less than half an hour because all the women warned me that the robbers were beginning to swarm around me like sharks coming in for the kill. I was sufficiently scared to put my video camera away and to never bring it back out in public. But unfortunately, as I continue filming, I can no longer avoid gathering critical footage from the street.
Juan has always “gotten my back.” He has always been one of my bodyguards—many people fill this role simultaneously, including the sex workers and random neighbors, store owners, the boyfriends of sex workers who are often themselves robbers and addicts. An example is A., who I went to visit in prison recently (see the purple plastic beads entry). He makes his living as a mugger but when it comes to me, he won’t let anyone come close. The people who know me on my corner know I’m an “untouchable,” the problem comes when robbers from other neighborhoods spot me, a vulnerable gringa standing with a bulky bag, often tape recorder in hand. I'm prime target for them, until one my bodyguards alerts them to my social position on the corner. Or, one of my bodyguards approaches me to tell me that such-and-such a person is scooping me out and that I should retreat into a lunch cafeteria or the hotel. As such, I always feel safe. In fact, as I’ve mentioned in many previous posts, I feel safer in this very dangerous area of Quito than in my own neighborhood, an elite area, since no one looks after me here.
The topic of Juan becoming my “official” bodyguard came up yesterday when he told me flat out that under no circumstances should I employ A.in this position. I'm still getting used to becoming the object of gossip, as every member of this (and any) community experiences. I guess the word got out that I'm looking for someone. Amused, I asked Juan why. He said that A. smokes base and is therefore unreliable—furthermore, A. is a dangerous man who beats his girlfriend, prone to violent rages and would definitely end up stealing my equipment. I had already come to this conclusion over the past few weeks as I’ve watched A. and his girlfriend, S.’s relationship deteriorate (which is why I was amused at J.’s insistence of A.’s “badness”—because it’s so obvious that A. would never EVER make an appropriate bodyguard!) I’ve become very wary of A. even though he still greets me with the same warmth. I would never want him to know that my feelings for him have changed, that I no longer trust him and now view him as a potential threat. I still believe he wouldn’t ever lay his hands on me, but knowing the details of the beatings he gives S. makes me keep him at a distance. But of course, things have to remain “cool” between us and I must always remain on his good side. Therefore, I never ever talk to him about his violent side, nor about his addiction to base, unless he brings it up, which he often does because he feels such remorse after beating S. or using drugs.
Anyway, I told Juan that I couldn’t agree more—that I had crossed A. off my list weeks ago. I agreed that it would be unbelievably stupid to employ a body guard who is addicted to base and is prone to violence. Juan seemed relieved. He seemed pleased to realize that I’m not THAT naïve as a dumb gringa… We sat in silence for a moment and then I popped the big question, “well Juan, when I start filming would YOU be interested in helping me out.” With a huge grin on his face, Juan replied, “yeah I can do that…I already do that, you know.” I told him that indeed, I did know—he has chased away many potential predators for me over the past 10 months. I fully trust Juan. He is the partner of one of the sex workers and is a house-dad. He takes care of their three children while K. works the streets. He doesn’t smoke base and is an admirable father. We decided that I would buy his children’s lunches as payment for days he guarded me on a shoot. There it goes. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I trust me instincts when it comes to Juan. I’m excited to now have an “official” body guard.
Juan has always “gotten my back.” He has always been one of my bodyguards—many people fill this role simultaneously, including the sex workers and random neighbors, store owners, the boyfriends of sex workers who are often themselves robbers and addicts. An example is A., who I went to visit in prison recently (see the purple plastic beads entry). He makes his living as a mugger but when it comes to me, he won’t let anyone come close. The people who know me on my corner know I’m an “untouchable,” the problem comes when robbers from other neighborhoods spot me, a vulnerable gringa standing with a bulky bag, often tape recorder in hand. I'm prime target for them, until one my bodyguards alerts them to my social position on the corner. Or, one of my bodyguards approaches me to tell me that such-and-such a person is scooping me out and that I should retreat into a lunch cafeteria or the hotel. As such, I always feel safe. In fact, as I’ve mentioned in many previous posts, I feel safer in this very dangerous area of Quito than in my own neighborhood, an elite area, since no one looks after me here.
The topic of Juan becoming my “official” bodyguard came up yesterday when he told me flat out that under no circumstances should I employ A.in this position. I'm still getting used to becoming the object of gossip, as every member of this (and any) community experiences. I guess the word got out that I'm looking for someone. Amused, I asked Juan why. He said that A. smokes base and is therefore unreliable—furthermore, A. is a dangerous man who beats his girlfriend, prone to violent rages and would definitely end up stealing my equipment. I had already come to this conclusion over the past few weeks as I’ve watched A. and his girlfriend, S.’s relationship deteriorate (which is why I was amused at J.’s insistence of A.’s “badness”—because it’s so obvious that A. would never EVER make an appropriate bodyguard!) I’ve become very wary of A. even though he still greets me with the same warmth. I would never want him to know that my feelings for him have changed, that I no longer trust him and now view him as a potential threat. I still believe he wouldn’t ever lay his hands on me, but knowing the details of the beatings he gives S. makes me keep him at a distance. But of course, things have to remain “cool” between us and I must always remain on his good side. Therefore, I never ever talk to him about his violent side, nor about his addiction to base, unless he brings it up, which he often does because he feels such remorse after beating S. or using drugs.
Anyway, I told Juan that I couldn’t agree more—that I had crossed A. off my list weeks ago. I agreed that it would be unbelievably stupid to employ a body guard who is addicted to base and is prone to violence. Juan seemed relieved. He seemed pleased to realize that I’m not THAT naïve as a dumb gringa… We sat in silence for a moment and then I popped the big question, “well Juan, when I start filming would YOU be interested in helping me out.” With a huge grin on his face, Juan replied, “yeah I can do that…I already do that, you know.” I told him that indeed, I did know—he has chased away many potential predators for me over the past 10 months. I fully trust Juan. He is the partner of one of the sex workers and is a house-dad. He takes care of their three children while K. works the streets. He doesn’t smoke base and is an admirable father. We decided that I would buy his children’s lunches as payment for days he guarded me on a shoot. There it goes. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I trust me instincts when it comes to Juan. I’m excited to now have an “official” body guard.
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