Down there, near the border, lives El Churito; in fact, if there were a direct road, the border would be very close, but there isn’t a direct road, nor could there be, because the area where La Paz is nestled is extremely mountainous. Only a third-class road connects them with Yacuambi, the canton’s capital to the north, and with Zamora, the provincial capital to the south.

Along the way, several communities, without welcome signs, quietly watch travelers pass by: Napurak, Chapintza, Curiaca, El Kiim, and Muchime are just a few examples of Shuar communities that live in a constant struggle to maintain their way of life in harmony with nature, challenging the relentless temptation of “Western development.”

Down there, as I was saying, is La Paz, the parish seat and therefore the most important town in the parish; its extension of about 10 blocks hasn’t prevented them from having a small but dignified community center, with a basketball court and everything, as well as a picturesque boardwalk along the Yacuambi River.

Down there, “La Presidenta” governs, a young woman full of life and courage who knew how to face the adversities of an infamous trip to Italy, from which she returned even more determined to do good things for her land. Alongside her are her tireless lieutenants: Doña Mary and Doña Julia. After greeting them for the first time, seeing them so attentive and sweet, you wouldn’t believe their stories of struggle and resistance, all the more remarkable considering that this is a land mostly led and dominated by men.

And down there, as I believe I’ve already said, lives El Churito.

He’s about 5 years old, with black hair falling over his forehead, and he’s Doña Mary’s son. When we pass by on the dusty road, he runs out of his house and starts running as fast as his small, barefoot feet will carry him.

—Hi, Pedrito! —he shouts with a big smile.

And Pedro manages to stretch his long arm out of the old jeep he’s driving and shouts:

—Hi, Churito!

I didn’t want to mention anything at that moment, but the next day, when I ran into Doña Mary, I said:

– Doña Mary, I understand you might have financial problems, but please see how you can get some shoes for El Churito. If you don’t mind and won’t be offended, I can help, but see, that poor child could hurt or cut himself; besides, he’s walking around in the puddles without shoes, and he could get sick.

– Oh, Engineer, she said, though I’m not an engineer, I feel so ashamed, everyone tells me the same thing, but you see, This little rascal of mine has shoes, he has several pairs, but he doesn’t want to wear them.’

– It’s true, said Manuelito “Jack-of-all-trades,” who was passing by; They get Churito into his shoes, and he falls…

The comment amused me, and still a bit skeptical, I greeted them and got into the jeep, where Pedro was already waiting for me to continue our work.

The following Saturday, La Paz was in full celebration because there was a wedding in town, and they were celebrating in grand style. La Presidenta warned us that we couldn’t miss it; the party would be at Doña Mary’s house, and the whole town was invited.

We arrived early to offer our help, and there, among the people bustling about with chairs, moving tables, and setting up decorations, I recognized El Churito. I say I recognized him because he was unrecognizable: his hair combed with a part on the side, a shirt, and a new pair of very well-polished dress shoes. I couldn’t help but be surprised and said to Pedro:

—Look at Churito, he’s wearing shoes and isn’t falling.

—Let’s hope they last —Pedro replied, smiling affectionately at the boy.

I smiled again, incredulously, and amidst the preparations and the subsequent party, I didn’t see Churito again that night.

I did remember him, though, a few hours later when we were leaving the party and thanking everyone for such good food and such pleasant hospitality. As we finished saying our goodbyes at the door of Doña Mary’s house, I thought I saw something shining in the trash can in the corner. Intrigued, I approached and couldn’t help but burst out laughing…

Because in the trash can, despite the boy’s futile efforts to hide them, Churito’s shiny new shoes were glinting under the streetlamp.

That’s La Paz, that’s Yacuambi and its people: the Mayor, La Presidenta, Doña Mary, and Doña Julia; that’s Marco Vinicio the singer, and Manuelito Jack-of-all-trades. That’s this land blessed by God, and those are the stories of all those good people that I plan to narrate, if you all agree…