¡Pilas, Pilas! Music and Music Education in Shandia, Ecuador

By: Lilyanna Armstrong, Public Health Program Coordinator, Spring ‘26

I come from a family of musicians. My father is a trombonist and pianist, my sister a singer, and my brother a percussionist. I started piano at age six and clarinet at eleven. Since then, I’ve spent a significant portion of my life in various musical environments, whether private lessons, orchestra rehearsals, or symphony concerts. For the longest time, music has been my way of traveling through time, discovering new stories and characters, and exploring nuanced emotions. Naturally, as I prepared to arrive in Shandia this January, I was eager to hear about the school’s music program. I even plotted ways to fit my clarinet into my luggage (though, unfortunately, it didn’t make the cut). Now, eight weeks into my time on-site, participating in the music program has become a highlight of my week.

Each Wednesday morning, fellow volunteer Diana and I gather in the school’s choza to prepare for the day’s two classes. The collection of instruments is modest but important: traditional Kichwa drums, melodicas, ukeleles, tambourines, maracas, a set of boomwhackers, and an old guitar. Diana, a former violist herself, tunes each ukulele while I count seats and prepare the other instruments. Gary, the music therapist who leads the class, often arrives just before eight with his own array of instruments: a much nicer guitar, a cajon, and his tiny foot tambourine. The students pour in around eight o'clock, ninth graders first, followed by the tenth graders an hour later. Gary kicks off each day with some form of dynamic activity, ranging from rhyming games for songwriting to harmonizing chords in small groups. “¡Pilas, pilas!” you’ll often hear him shouting, encouraging the students to stay sharp, active, and alert. Once the kids are warmed up, they shuffle energetically to the back of the room where their instruments await. 

Currently, the classes are writing their own songs. First, they decided on their preferred genre: reggaeton for the ninth graders, vallenato for the tenth graders. Then came the theme, in which ideas ranging from nature to happiness to heartbreak were all suggested. Next the composition: a rhythm line for the drums and tambourines, chords for the ukuleles, and melodies for the melodicas. Now, they are brainstorming their lyrics, searching for the proper rhymes to fit the tune.

What I love most about these classes is the chance to simply participate. Once the instruments are prepped, Diana and I become students ourselves. We participate in the dynamic activities and learn our parts alongside everyone else. With the ninth graders, I’m proudly a part of the maraca section; with the tenth graders, the ukuleles. 

Each week, I am reminded of the music classes that raised me. I see, in real-time, the same discipline, creativity, and collaboration being fostered in these students that music once fostered in me. When Gary asks the kids to “listen, listen, listen,” I remember the value of truly hearing others, whether in a symphony or a simple conversation, that music teaches. When he empowers them to sing in front of each other or dance to the rhythms, I’m taken back to when my father made me perform in church. These moments that I used to resent I now recognize as the source of an immense confidence. I see the kids repeatedly pluck out their individual parts as Gary works with another group, and I’m reminded of the detail-oriented discipline that music requires. Most importantly, sharing the joy of learning a new instrument, the ukulele, alongside the students reminds me that music is for all and unites all.

Truly, the universality of music never fails to amaze me. Throughout my many travels in Latin America over the past year, music has been a constant reminder of our shared humanity. I once watched a student orchestra in Paraguay play instruments made from recycled materials from a landfill because real violins were too expensive. As they rehearsed "The Girl from Ipanema," it felt no different than when I rehearsed that same song countless times with my high school jazz band. I have seen Spanish-speaking students learn music from Korean textbooks and spent over an hour in conversation one afternoon with travelers in Peru discussing our favorite symphonies. Now in Ecuador, I sit in the local church each Sunday and sing worship songs in Spanish and Kichwa. Neither is my native tongue, yet I am united with the congregation in praise.

I recently had the distinct pleasure of sitting down in conversation with Mariano Andi, the school headmaster and church pastor here in Shandia. He also proudly serves as the professor of artistic education at the school, which encompasses painting, drawing, and music. A kindred spirit of mine, Mariano comes from a family of musicians: his wife and sons singers and his daughter a guitarist. From a young age, he himself has played the quena, a type of Kichwa flute, and is currently learning to play the charango, an Andean guitar. For Mariano and the Kichwa community, music has always been a vital form of cultural preservation and celebration. In discussing the school’s program, he impressed upon me something I have already begun to see: music is one of our most powerful expressions we have as humans. That it can teach discipline, creativity, and collaboration while also producing joy, healing, and much more must be proof of its power.

Currently, only two groups of students get to partake in that learning here in Shandia. Even still, Mariano envisions a music program for all students, from kindergarten through high school. He dreams of introducing pianos and other advanced instruments because he recognizes the raw talent in some of his students and wishes to foster their passions. When I asked him what current obstacles impede these goals, he pointed simply to a lack of teachers and funding. His response reminds me that although music may be a universal language, not all have the same opportunity to learn that language. Not all grow up with the sound of a piano in their own house or have even seen one in person. Mariano’s joy and conviction towards music, however, seem to bridge that gap. Though he dreams of pianos and more, he knows that music is about more than having the nicest instrument or playing perfectly in tune; instead, he recognizes the vital cultural and personal expression it provides. This conviction seems to be woven into the community here, and it is something I find myself eagerly sharing every Wednesday when I get to sit down alongside the students, ukulele in hand. 

Mental Health in the Amazon: Reflections from a Volunteer in Shandia

By: Lily Sutherland, Intern ‘25

 Mental health has been a topic of interest for me since my early teens when I first witnessed how the challenges brought on by anxiety, depression, chronic stress, and other psychological conditions affected the lives of those around me who were struggling. I quickly learned about resources like talk therapy, support groups, and medication that are available in schools and healthcare systems to promote better mental health.

In college, I studied psychology and came to understand the pervasive, cross-cultural nature of mental illness, learning that people all over the world, regardless of nationality, age, gender, or lifestyle can experience what I had seen first hand in my friends and family. Often, mental illness not only reshapes individual livelihoods, but also poses a legitimate threat to communities. 

What initially drew me to the Manna Project was the opportunity to work with community members to develop mental health initiatives. As a short-term volunteer, I knew that two months would not be nearly enough time to do more than lay the foundation for a larger mental health project, but I was still hopeful that my efforts would have an impact. Upon arrival, I was surprised by the few resources and limited knowledge of mental health, despite its pressing significance in the community. 

In rural communities like Shandia, many resources, including access to physical health services—let alone mental health services—are limited. As the people here live different lives than those I am accustomed to in the United States, the challenges they face also differ. When confronted with finding medical care for a sick family member, providing food for one’s children to stave off anemia and malnutrition, or worrying about illegal mining operations compromising precious natural resources, mental health often falls low on the list of priorities. 

The people of Shandia have many reasons to feel anxious, stressed, depleted, and depressed, just like the rest of us. However, without resources to help combat mental illness or even spread awareness, many turn to alcohol and other substances to self-medicate. Unfortunately, this only exacerbates mental illness symptoms, increases the occurrence of alcohol-related injuries and deaths, and decreases productivity—limiting how people can show up for one another and the community. Similarly, rates of suicide in Shandia and surrounding communities seem to be on the rise, especially among teens and young adults.

As a volunteer without the proper education or tools to address these issues directly, I struggled to find ways to introduce the concept of mental health to the community in a manner that would be well-received, while being mindful of the culturally unique stigmas surrounding the topic and my position as a foreigner. With the help of my fellow volunteers, who spent time working with local health centers and carefully developing relationships in the community, I constructed an informational mental health poster aimed at spreading awareness and providing basic techniques to care for mental health. The poster focused on simple tools to promote mental well-being that required no materials or specialized resources and highlighted the risk factors and basic causes of mental illness.

With the assistance of another volunteer, I presented the poster to a class of 15 and 16-year-olds at the local school in Shandia. As a follow-up, I asked the students to take an anonymous survey to gain a better understanding of their mental health and the systems in place to support them. The responses shed light on a need for greater emotional support within families and friendships, as well as within the school and broader community. Although the survey cannot be used to make assumptions or predictions about the population of Shandia, it provides valuable insights into mental health as a larger conversation. The need for a better support system is evident, and it starts with dialogue and more education to facilitate one.

Although my poster seemed like a drop in the bucket toward establishing a mental health curriculum that could genuinely benefit the community, I am hopeful it can serve as a building block for future volunteers. During the two months I have spent here, the people of Shandia have continued to amaze me with their resilience, resourcefulness, kindness, and ability to welcome me into their lives. My hope for them is to come together as a community to support those struggling with mental illness and find ways to uplift one another as a means of preserving their culture, livelihoods, and overall ability to live meaningful lives.

Interested in furthering work in mental health in the amazon?

Learn more about ways to get involved here!

About the Author

Lily Sutherland is an intern with Manna Project International in the winter of 2025. Originally from New York City, Lily holds a degree in Psychology and Strategic Communications from Miami University. She joined MPI after spending a year in corporate recruitment and several months traveling and volunteering across Europe. With experience in community service, permaculture, and cross-cultural collaboration, Lily is passionate about intentional living, public health, and immersive learning experiences that prioritize mutual respect and local leadership.