The Gringo: A Memoir by J. Grigsby Crawford Page A

said.
    “Okay,” I said.
    Next I asked him about the other group of guides that had formed years back.
    “Them? They failed,” Ignacio said. “They didn’t do anything right.”
    “What did people say? How come they fell apart?”
    “They just didn’t cooperate with anyone,” said Ignacio. “They thought they could do it all on their own.”
    I nodded.
    “That’s why we—you know, we’ve studied this—and that’s why we know how to do this the right way. And you will help us, of course.”
    “Let me ask you another question.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “What was the original reason you guys wanted a Peace Corps volunteer? I know all the stuff you wrote down on the application, like helping with community tourism projects and environmental education stuff, but what was the number one reason you decided to ask for a volunteer when you guys talked among yourselves—you and Juan and the group?”
    He looked me in the eye and said matter-of-factly, “You’re a gringo. You’re white. You speak English.” I nodded in understanding. “And, well, the type of tourists we hope to get here, they’ll be white people who will speak English. So we wanted you here to be able to tell us the types of things that gringos like to see when they come to a place like this. And, of course, you can teach us English and things like that.”

CHAPTER 14
    T he next week Juan drifted back to the Mendoza farm for the arrival of several hundred bamboo saplings that were to be planted in the wetland. It was part of a province-wide reforestation project, the details of which were fuzzy. This stretch of coast is terribly deforested because several decades back, the government actually encouraged it. In fact, they told people they could have large chunks of land for rock-bottom prices as long as they deforested the property. Clearly, the program was a rousing success: Large swaths of Manabí have been turned into scarred and barren tracts worthy of a National Geographic photo spread, but not in a good way.
    A truck from the government office in Portoviejo dropped off the saplings in the shade of a tree along our driveway. Juan said he’d be off again—on this occasion to visit his parents’ farm an hour away—and I promised to water the bamboo daily while he was gone.
    The next time I was eating upstairs with Homero, I asked him about the bamboo that was going to be planted out in the wetland where he fished every day.
    “Ha!” he chuckled. “Yes, that. I’m going to pull that bamboo out if it’s planted.”
    “How come?”
    “Oh man, you don’t think any of that’s going to work, do you?”
    “Any of what?” I said.
    “All that crap with the wetland—it’s a crock of shit.”
    “Which part?”
    “All of it, all of Juan’s bullshit.”
    “Haven’t you known about these plans for a while?” I said. “You agreed to it all, right?”
    “Yeah, I did. Whatever. It’s a crock of shit. Don’t listen to my nephew. Hey, you wanna go to the whorehouse?”
    Lately, Homero had been somewhat of a personal hero to me. On the floors above me, Sandra’s pregnant fifteen-year-old sister had gotten her hands on a giant set of dance club–grade speakers and started blasting reggaeton music at a high volume. Reggaeton is a pitifully grinding genre that gained popularity briefly on the U.S. club-music scene in the mid-2000s only to be forgotten one or two hits later. Unfortunately, that popularity never waned in Ecuador. After the music blasted for about twelve hours straight two days in a row, Homero cut off the power to our house because the noise was bothering him and his family who lived the length of a football field away.

    LATE ONE EVENING AROUND THIS time, I was in Chone and met a man named Roberto who owned a farm near my community. One of his parents was American and, decades before, he’d lived in the States for a year. He offered me a ride home in his truck.
    As we rattled over potholes in the dark, I asked him if he