We told the kids 2:00 pm sharp. If they were late, we’d have to leave without them- that the Guayasamín Museum in Quito was far away, and in order take buses both there and back we’d have to leave right on time.
Sure enough, on that Friday at 2:00 pm sharp, 10 wide-eyed youngsters dressed in their finest waited eagerly to visit the Guayasamín Museum in Quito. The trip to the museum, a collection of works from one of the most famous Ecuadorian painters, would be the first time some of the children had ever left their small rural town of San Francisco. The group of children had earned the trip- they all had almost perfect attendance at our programs during the month of January- and were jumping up and down with excitement as we prepared to leave.
The youngest to go into Quito that day was Marjorie, our sweet, little 6-year-old who can always be seen in her bright red rain boots that reach up to her knees. She comes every day to our programs, but had never before left the Valley where she lives. When her mom dropped her off at the school-house that day, Marjorie, a little nervous but more excited about her dog-shaped purse in which her mom and stored her bus fare, immediately walked toward me and said, “Profe Abbie, can I sit next to you on the bus?” I told her yes, and smiled as she tried to fix the way-too-big-for-such-a-little-girl scarf her mom had draped around her neck, fumbling with a knot at the top. Her hair was freshly pulled back into a high ponytail, smelling like flower-scented styling gel. Once Marjorie finished adjusting her scarf, she looked up at me with her toothy grin (she lost a tooth a few weeks ago) and said, “Ready, Profe!”
Cows chewed grass on the open fields beside us, stray dogs barked, and chickens scattered as our group of 12 (ten kids plus Craig and I) headed down the dirt streets of San Francisco to catch a public bus to Quito.
I sat in the front of the bus with Marjorie, 6-and-a-half-year-old Gregory on my lap. For the next hour, Gregory- who happens to have a slight speech impediment that makes everything he says just that much cuter- told me stories of his past trips to Quito with his brother. About every 2 minutes, Marjorie (whose gaze never left the window) would tap on my arm and say, “Profe Abbie, what is that?” or “Look, Profe Abbie, a big building!”
An hour-and-a-half and three buses after we left San Francisco, we finally reached the Guayasamín museum, the “Capilla del Hombre,” which literally means “Church of the Man.” It is called this because Guayasamín’s art powerfully, sometimes hauntingly, depicts the struggles and beauty of the Latin American people. Rather than worshiping a God, this “church” is dedicated to Man.
Entering the museum, one is immediately taken-aback by the vast, colorful murals on the gaping white walls. The museum is quiet, commanding a hushed deference. The breathtaking depictions of human suffering and life instantly capture the attention of the children. Our goofy, crazy, funny kids have suddenly silenced themselves, and walk slowly and respectfully into the museum toward the murals. It’s as if they know these paintings are important even before they see them. The kids seem to get it, right away. The poverty, the abuse, the laughter and life amongst it all- they get it.
One particularly moving painting, rich with deep blues and yellows, called “Ternura” or “Tenderness,” depicts a mother hugging her child. When our guide, a pretty, college-aged curator, explained this painting to the children (the significance of its warm colors, etc.), she said “Almost everybody can relate to the love and warmth of hugging his/her mother.” Many of the kids nodded in agreement. I looked at Marjorie to see what she thought. She said without hesitation, “Mi mama huele cómo el jabón Dove,” which means “My mom smells like Dove (pronounced “duh-VAY” in Spanish) soap.” Then shot me another toothy grin.
After we left the museum for another hour-and-a-half of the bumpy, crowded, public Ecuadorian transportation system, the kids were back to their silly selves, laughing and talking all the way home. We arrived back to San Francisco after the sun went down. The cows were no longer grazing in the fields. The chickens must have all gone to sleep (where do chickens sleep?) because they weren’t out either. The stray dogs were out (stray dogs are always out), but I'm pretty sure they looked more sleepy than usual. We walked the kids down the dirt roads, back to their homes where they hugged their parents hello and us goodbye. Tired but happy, Craig and I headed home after another exhausting and wholly fulfilling day.
