¡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.