Cañar: A Year in the Highlands of Ecuador

Chapter Six: A Dinner to Honor the Dead, and Us

chapter six o A Dinner to Honor the Dead, and Us josé miguel acero and esthela maynato Earlier this week, Esthela invited us for dinner on Friday night in an offhand manner that suggested a casual get-together. She said they wanted to welcome us back to Ecuador as compadres, godparents, and also to celebrate the Day of the Dead. Friday afternoon, I run into José Miguel and he mentions that before the dinner we are expected at the main church on the 51 Cañar square for a special mass that Esthela has arranged to honor her and José Miguel’s dead fathers, and their baby son who died some time ago. This is only the second time I have heard mention of the child who was the reason José Miguel and Esthela married as teenagers. The first time, years ago, was when Esthela told me only that he was a fine, healthy, five-month-old baby who had died suddenly in his bed. We get to the church thirty minutes late, expecting to find the mass half- finished, but it hasn’t yet begun. The church interior is dark except for a couple of dim lights, and I see only a few people in the front pews. Then I rememberthatthisisanirregularmass,likeaweddingmass,paidforbyvarious families as part of the traditions around the Día de los Difuntos. Maybe it won’t begin until all the main players—or payers—are present. I spot Mama Paula, Esthela’s ancient mother, and Paiwa with her little cousins; we slide into a pew next to them. Paiwa looks sideways at us shyly and smiles a little smile. She is still getting used to these strangers in her life, deciding what she thinks of us. Within a few minutes the lights come up in the sanctuary and I see Esthela on the dais helping the sacristan lay out the altar cloth and light the candles. This is surprising, as I’ve never known Esthela or José Miguel to take the slightest interest in the religious rituals of the Catholic Church. Maybe this is the deal when one pays for a mass, I think—the ‘‘client’’ gets to help with the preparations. Other people drift in, a mix of mestizos and indígenas, until the church is a quarter full. Esthela sits with us, and José Miguel slips in at the end of the pew just as the mass starts. Father Jesús, the gray-haired priest from Spain, begins the mass. He’s been in Cañar as far back as I can remember, and I’ve never liked him, with his condescending, finger-wagging attitude toward his parishioners, especially the rural indígenas. My feeling was reinforced one day a few years ago, when I accompanied Mama Michi to a church office to make arrangements for Zoila’s wedding. While we were waiting, I witnessed Father Jesús outright refuse to marry a young indigenous couple, with both sets of parents standing by. ‘‘Come back when you are twenty,’’ he said crossly, turning to a pile of paperwork on his desk. He must have known the young woman was pregnant, which in indigenous culture is a common and socially acceptable reason for teenagers to marry. Thirty minutes later we ran into the same family group at the civil registry, where theyoung couplewas patiently waiting their turn to say their vows in front of the notary and make their union legal. Although premarital sex and pregnancy are accepted among the indígenas , unwed motherhood is not. Most young couples marry quickly with a civil ceremony, then later—sometimes years later—arrange for a church 52 A Dinner to Honor the Dead, and Us wedding on one of the Sundays each month when indigenous couples marry en masse. Watching tonight’s mass for the dead, I consider the ironic juxtaposition of the rituals we’ve been a part of today. A couple of hours ago, during the limpieza, Michael and I knelt in front of a charcoal brazier, scooping protective smoke over our bodies and touching our hearts and heads, actions not that different from the incense and gestures of the mass. And there’s the connection between Pablo’s alcoholic sprayand holy water—I suddenly remember watching a priest in New Mexico sprinkling water on cars in a chapel parking lot to bless them. I wonder how manyof our...