Berkley Center

To reach the tiny town of Lumbisí, an indigenous community located about 40 minutes outside of Quito, you have to take a bus up a narrow partially paved road, wind around two bends in the path, and cross a small gorge before finding yourself in the main square.

Upon getting off the bus the first thing you notice is the silence. There are plenty of people around and several shops circle the plaza, but the jangling discord of car horns, whistles, and vendors’ calls has dissipated since leaving Quito. The next thing that catches your attention is the breath-taking backdrop behind the town’s church. The Andean peaks, shrouded in verdant green, rise majestically behind the church steeple, casting a soft shadow over the valley in which the town resides.

In contrast, stop for a moment along your walk in Quito and you will quite literally not be able to breathe because of the pollution. As you admire the landscape one of the town locals will likely pass by with a smile and a wave, and a stray dog will probably come up a sniff you. The entire scene is a picture of tranquility and serenity.

Outside of the major cities of Quito and Guayaquil, most of Ecuador is still very rural. Less than an hour’s drive outside of the capital, Lumbisí is a world away from the bustling urban sprawl that is Quito. Like most pueblos beyond the metro area it is small, quiet, and struggles with poverty. But also like most small towns it has furnished a tremendous sense of community characteristic of Ecuadorian culture.

Volunteer work first brought me to Lumbisí about three weeks ago. Twice a week I make the commute from Quito to teach English and work in the community garden. When we gather on Friday mornings to tend the vegetables in the garden, it is in every sense a communal effort. The group normally includes about 10 to 15 people—an eclectic mix of men, women, and exchange students—all working together for two to three hours pulling weeds, trimming trees, planting new seeds, or hoeing soil. With great pride the townspeople of Lumbisí maintain this garden, donating all of its harvest to the elderly dining hall.

In Quechua (an indigenous language of Ecuador) the name for this type of community work is minga. During times of minga the whole community comes together to work collectively on a project. All participate in order to ensure the project’s success. While the word minga originally comes from an indigenous language, I have heard it woven into Spanish as well.

For example, my ecology professor has a small non-profit organization called Minga para Mi Rio, which organizes river clean-up/conservation projects for students. The mere fact that both of these languages include a word specifically describing work done in community speaks immensely to culture tendencies within Ecuador.

Having lived in Ecuador for the past two and a half months, I have noticed that it is much more community-oriented than the United States. Everything is done within a group here, which lends itself to a type of loyalty and intimacy that runs deep within Ecuadorians. Minga is one example, but so is the fact that every Sunday night my host father’s entire family gets together to have coffee and dessert.

Another example: on Sunday afternoons my host family drives out to my host grandfather’s house to spend the day with my host mom’s extended family. While you are in the house, it is not uncommon for everyone to hang out in the same room. Furthermore, in Ecuador it is rare to live outside of the home until you are married. My host mom was shocked when she found out that I go to school on the opposite side of the country from where my family lives. Even simply walking down the street to the bus stop, I normally see groups of people walking places rather than individuals.

These observations leave me with the impression that above all else family and community are most important here in Ecuador. They form the foundation, the base to which one can always return in times of struggle and even joy.