This morning was a morning to remember. Maybe it was waking up in the tiny Andean town of Chuncílan to catch the 3am bus or, once aboard, its dim red interior lighting creating a mesmerizingly tranquil ambiance, or the Latino love songs blaring from its speakers, or the hologram revealing Jesus from one angle and the Virgin Mary from the other tastefully taped over its dysfunctional television or the fact that this day happily marks my two months of traveling in South America... but whatever the reason, I was wide-eyed, bushy-tailed and feeling painfully romantic about the world at large. It was as though my love affair with this planet, with traveling, with sitting still and watching a foreign world go by, was brand new again.
According to national economists, Thursday´s mark the day of one of Ecuador´s most important indigenous markets in the village of Saquisili. Thus, even at 3am, market goers of all ages were awaiting on the roadside around ever dark corner. Given my intensely romantic feelings toward the world, the sight of ancient looking indigenous ladies waiting by the roadside with bags of oranges and a sheep was about enough raw, real beauty to wet my eyes. Simply put, it was a morning worth the cost of the flight itself.
The especially early hour meant trading the feeling of eminent death by way of plunging into a soft, fluffy, fogginess, for that of plunging into a deep, dark, abyss. As to be expected, the darkness certainly didn´t stop of driver from forging onward with such haste that the words "He does this everyday" became my mantra as I awaited the sunrise.
jueves, 29 de marzo de 2007
The Man of Your Life
However, at around 5am as we rounded a corner in the dim light of pre-dawn, we were met by a long line of various vehicles jamming up the precariously narrow, dirt passage. Quite a distance up the road, but within visibility, a passenger bus like ours was clearly stuck. For about thirty minutes I watched quite a ridiculous charade of the bus, engulfed in exhaust and a gaggle of heaving, pushing, and pulling men, slowly advance up the pass; getting stuck, advancing meters, getting stuck, advancing meters until finally it crested the hill chased by a long line of its passengers racing to hop back in before it descended.
With the roadway now cleared, the long line of waiting vehicles from both directions, began attempting the pass. Several large cargo vehicles and four-by-fours (one containing a cow most certainly headed for market) were slightly luckier and struggled, fish-tailing and tire-spinning their way successfully to the top in one try. Unfortunately, the next rear-wheel drive passenger bus (again like ours) wasn´t so lucky and quickly became lodged sideways in the road. This time, I climbed down from my poor vantage point and hiked up the road for a better view of the action.
Approaching the scene, the situation became clear; it was like mud bogging the Andes with a bus. Men in waders, armed with shovels, sloshed around a 50 meter stretch of the road attempting to create traction by bringing dry dirt from the side embankments unto the roadway...embankments that are sure to erode dangerously as they´re carved into, but that´s next weeks problem. Typically, an even larger group of men stood idly by shouting out orders and opinions about the best way to go about unstucking the bus. The bus, cheerfully named with cursive red paint on its front grill, "El Hombre de tu Vida" or "The Man of Your Life", (which I found to be hilariously ironic) spent the next hour-plus with its wheels helplessly swallowed in mud, being pushed, prodded, and tied to other vehicles until finally it was pulled free by a tractor that seemingly appeared out of nowhere to its rescue.
Watching the scene was quite incredible and I couldn´t help but be overcome by thoughts of development. Its so easy to sit back and wonder why poor countries can´t just work harder...grab life by the bootstraps, rise out of poverty and develop for godsakes. I have been privy to hearing countless similarly closeminded and borderline racist comments. But watching that scene was a sobering dose of reality. There were men in business clothes, presumably headed to the city for work, ruining their one pair of dress shoes as they tried to push the bus out of the mud and several dozen young kids in school uniforms (who had woken up to catch a 3am bus to school in the city) who took to walking the rest of the 10km hoping to still make it on time. Similarly, the prospect of missing a weeks worth of income was surely quiet horrifying for the countless women headed to Saquisili´s Thursday market. I hardly believe improving infrastructure, such as paving, creating gutters or regrading a road that connects rural indigenous people to the closest major city is a top priority for a corrupt government in Quito. Especially so, considering there seems to be pretty serious racism towards indigenous peoples everywhere in Latin America. Thus, the people are left with little options other than leaving the house everyday of the rainy season equipped with rubber boots and shovels.
With the roadway now cleared, the long line of waiting vehicles from both directions, began attempting the pass. Several large cargo vehicles and four-by-fours (one containing a cow most certainly headed for market) were slightly luckier and struggled, fish-tailing and tire-spinning their way successfully to the top in one try. Unfortunately, the next rear-wheel drive passenger bus (again like ours) wasn´t so lucky and quickly became lodged sideways in the road. This time, I climbed down from my poor vantage point and hiked up the road for a better view of the action.
Approaching the scene, the situation became clear; it was like mud bogging the Andes with a bus. Men in waders, armed with shovels, sloshed around a 50 meter stretch of the road attempting to create traction by bringing dry dirt from the side embankments unto the roadway...embankments that are sure to erode dangerously as they´re carved into, but that´s next weeks problem. Typically, an even larger group of men stood idly by shouting out orders and opinions about the best way to go about unstucking the bus. The bus, cheerfully named with cursive red paint on its front grill, "El Hombre de tu Vida" or "The Man of Your Life", (which I found to be hilariously ironic) spent the next hour-plus with its wheels helplessly swallowed in mud, being pushed, prodded, and tied to other vehicles until finally it was pulled free by a tractor that seemingly appeared out of nowhere to its rescue.
Watching the scene was quite incredible and I couldn´t help but be overcome by thoughts of development. Its so easy to sit back and wonder why poor countries can´t just work harder...grab life by the bootstraps, rise out of poverty and develop for godsakes. I have been privy to hearing countless similarly closeminded and borderline racist comments. But watching that scene was a sobering dose of reality. There were men in business clothes, presumably headed to the city for work, ruining their one pair of dress shoes as they tried to push the bus out of the mud and several dozen young kids in school uniforms (who had woken up to catch a 3am bus to school in the city) who took to walking the rest of the 10km hoping to still make it on time. Similarly, the prospect of missing a weeks worth of income was surely quiet horrifying for the countless women headed to Saquisili´s Thursday market. I hardly believe improving infrastructure, such as paving, creating gutters or regrading a road that connects rural indigenous people to the closest major city is a top priority for a corrupt government in Quito. Especially so, considering there seems to be pretty serious racism towards indigenous peoples everywhere in Latin America. Thus, the people are left with little options other than leaving the house everyday of the rainy season equipped with rubber boots and shovels.
A Race to the End
Somehow with the excitement and adrenaline of freedom, The Man of Your Life carelessly forget to retie the multitude of goods on the roof of the bus with the rope that had been removed and unsuccessfully used in the attempts of the previous hour. It wasn´t long before woven baskets were rolling down the hillside and The Man of Your Life was obligated to stop and send passengers out in retrieval. Our bus, having cut in the long line of awaiting vehicles in attempt to pull The Man of Your Life free from his unfortunate position AND having successfully shot the bog in a single try was now barreling in at top speeds to overtake The Man of Your Life. Feeling thankful that we were simply in motion again, I was shocked by our drivers recklessness abandon for the highway ahead. What´s the rush...aren´t we all just thankful to be alive?
Within moments, the pieces started to fall together. The hours of being occupied by the mud meant that the roadside was ripe and brimming with potential passengers. Maintaining the lead on the road ahead translated into securing all those fares. The tension of the past two hours of waiting in mud-stuckiness quickly dissipated. It was a race, and we were clearly winning. With boyish glee, one passenger became the self-proclaimed scout and took to keeping a raucous, competitive eye on the road behind us. Another bus had also successfully shot the bog and was close on our tail. Between the driver, the ticket collector and this self proclaimed scout, ensued a ridiculous game of probability. Their coordinated effort consisted of the driver, driving with manic precision, his eyes on the road and his ears sharply in tune to the shouts of the scout and the ticket collector who were weighing the odds of picking up each passenger and reporting to him whether to full stop, slow down, or leave them in the dust. Picking up passengers depended on the distance of our lead and a quick determination of how rapidly the potential passenger can be shoveled into the bus. People with to many goods were simply left on the roadside. Better to forgo one fare but maintain the lead. Able bodied young men didn´t even get a full stop and were encouraged by the ticket collector to jump onto the moving bus as it rolled past.
The whole busload of felt hat wearing mountain people became entrapped by the fervor and excitement of the game and soon everyone was in cahoots shouting at the roadside waiters "Rapido, Rapido, Vamos, Vamos!" and extended arms helped literally pull stunned people from the side of the road safely onto the bus. We rolled into Saquisili moments later, with a busload full of fare-paying, ginning, passengers feeling as though we had just crossed the finishline, first. It was quite a well coordinated, it not slightly chaotic, undertaking. But, all said and done, I´d trust that driver to drive me and my first born around the world a hundred times over.
Within moments, the pieces started to fall together. The hours of being occupied by the mud meant that the roadside was ripe and brimming with potential passengers. Maintaining the lead on the road ahead translated into securing all those fares. The tension of the past two hours of waiting in mud-stuckiness quickly dissipated. It was a race, and we were clearly winning. With boyish glee, one passenger became the self-proclaimed scout and took to keeping a raucous, competitive eye on the road behind us. Another bus had also successfully shot the bog and was close on our tail. Between the driver, the ticket collector and this self proclaimed scout, ensued a ridiculous game of probability. Their coordinated effort consisted of the driver, driving with manic precision, his eyes on the road and his ears sharply in tune to the shouts of the scout and the ticket collector who were weighing the odds of picking up each passenger and reporting to him whether to full stop, slow down, or leave them in the dust. Picking up passengers depended on the distance of our lead and a quick determination of how rapidly the potential passenger can be shoveled into the bus. People with to many goods were simply left on the roadside. Better to forgo one fare but maintain the lead. Able bodied young men didn´t even get a full stop and were encouraged by the ticket collector to jump onto the moving bus as it rolled past.
The whole busload of felt hat wearing mountain people became entrapped by the fervor and excitement of the game and soon everyone was in cahoots shouting at the roadside waiters "Rapido, Rapido, Vamos, Vamos!" and extended arms helped literally pull stunned people from the side of the road safely onto the bus. We rolled into Saquisili moments later, with a busload full of fare-paying, ginning, passengers feeling as though we had just crossed the finishline, first. It was quite a well coordinated, it not slightly chaotic, undertaking. But, all said and done, I´d trust that driver to drive me and my first born around the world a hundred times over.
martes, 27 de marzo de 2007
Ecuadorian Overview
Ecuadorians seem to have an insatiable thirst for mayonnaise. Its like nothing I´ve ever seen before but works out splendid for my palate. I can´t speak much to the in-home cuisine, but every corner restaurant and street vendor boasts a long list of deep fried specialties, generally served with bits of fried pork and mayonnaise. Like much of Latin America, its a corn loving culture as well. Street corners are clogged by countless vendadoras selling steamed cobs for mere cents and are sure to roll it in a vat of mayo before handing it over to you. In Quito, I actually saw a man eat a plate of plain white rice smothered in mayonnaise.
Of the three days spent exploring Quito, one of the more miraculous aspects was a five meal streak of eating accompanied by a some random Ecuadorian man who simply invited himself into my presence. Its certainly seems to be a culture that is struggling with the concept of independent womanhood. Every time, the intent has been seemingly good-natured and is a welcomed opportunity to practice my Spanish but, I must admit, I´m looking forward to branching beyond the conversation about why I´m traveling alone and where my boyfriend is. One of my meal accompaniments was a 16 year old boy who was absolutely beside himself with humiliation as his father unabashedly was attempting to set us up by pulling out a chair at my table and insisting his son join me. The meal took an embarrassing nosedive for both of them upon realizing that I was 25.
From Quito I headed south and traversed the infamous Quilotoa Loop, a rural highland pass that dangerously skirts gorgeously carved canyons cut through the Andeas and kisses Ecuador´s most picturesque crater lake, Laguna Quitlotoa. The bus rides were starkly memorable both in the fact that they were absolutely horrify in an exhilarating "this sure would be a great way to go" sort of way and in the sheer quantity of people they managed to fit inside. I certainly have a profound attraction to countries sporting bus lines that always have room for one more. One journey was spent sitting on the floor of the asile-way, cradled in the shins of a woman that had her shirt pushed up to her neck exposing both of her breasts to her infant daughter, while a frail, elderly, one-eyed man practically sat in my lap.
Of the three days spent exploring Quito, one of the more miraculous aspects was a five meal streak of eating accompanied by a some random Ecuadorian man who simply invited himself into my presence. Its certainly seems to be a culture that is struggling with the concept of independent womanhood. Every time, the intent has been seemingly good-natured and is a welcomed opportunity to practice my Spanish but, I must admit, I´m looking forward to branching beyond the conversation about why I´m traveling alone and where my boyfriend is. One of my meal accompaniments was a 16 year old boy who was absolutely beside himself with humiliation as his father unabashedly was attempting to set us up by pulling out a chair at my table and insisting his son join me. The meal took an embarrassing nosedive for both of them upon realizing that I was 25.
From Quito I headed south and traversed the infamous Quilotoa Loop, a rural highland pass that dangerously skirts gorgeously carved canyons cut through the Andeas and kisses Ecuador´s most picturesque crater lake, Laguna Quitlotoa. The bus rides were starkly memorable both in the fact that they were absolutely horrify in an exhilarating "this sure would be a great way to go" sort of way and in the sheer quantity of people they managed to fit inside. I certainly have a profound attraction to countries sporting bus lines that always have room for one more. One journey was spent sitting on the floor of the asile-way, cradled in the shins of a woman that had her shirt pushed up to her neck exposing both of her breasts to her infant daughter, while a frail, elderly, one-eyed man practically sat in my lap.
sábado, 17 de marzo de 2007
I´m Clean
Yesterday, I took the first hot shower since I left the states. It was like little droplets of melted heaven all over my body!
viernes, 16 de marzo de 2007
Leo Horiscope for March 14th 2007
Today you will be a complete push over. If jewelry is thrust in your face, you will buy it like its the last jewelry on earth. If a taxi driver insists there is no other way but an expensive direct route to the border, you will blindly accept his offer. If a man in plain cloths tells you that he is working with "Ecuadorian Intelligence" as a border companion, you will let him walk you over the border, to the bus station, and then to a taxi station for the Ecuadorian immigration office...at which point he will, like everyone else today, demand that exorbitant amounts of money are completely ligate. And you, being tired and alone and understanding about a quarter of what´s going on around you, will again accept the offer. But when you´ve had enough, you just might deny the only legitimate truth teller all day.
My border crossing was kind of a mess. I mean, I´m alive, in one piece, with all of my belongs. But, yesterday was a day that made me question if I really am a seasoned traveler. Do I always just BELIEVE whatever newfangled story someone throws my way?
My determination to get the heck out of tourist-haven, bikini-mecca Mancora landed me as the first passenger in a "shared" taxi late in the afternoon. Immediately, the driver began insisting that I wouldn´t make the last bus from the border to my destination, Quito (the capital of Ecuador) if we waited around for more passengers. Ok, ok, I agreed to pay for the full taxi. Its less than $7 and I needed to make that bus. Throughout the trip, his stories continued until I was enough convinced that the only way I was going to get to Quito was if he drove me directly to the border, making special stop offs at the bank and the immigration offices, rather than having him simply drop me off in a nearby town where I would handle the rest on my own. Again I agreed to his proposition, but this this time it was significantly more costly.
At the first immagration office we picked up this alleged "Intelligence Officer" to accompany me over the border. Being that I can speak 6 weeks worth of Spanish, I was pretty much under the impression that it was standard border crossing protocol to have this "officer" walk you over. With great embarrassment, I admit now that I was most certainly duped. That dude worked for the intelligence office as much as you or I. He did, however, walk me safely to the bus station, all the while telling me about all the drugs he can get from Columbia.
At the station two notable things happened...
One, I realized I had been lied to yet again by the taxi driver. Many more buses departed later into the night. An expensive, direct, personal taxi ride certainly lined the drivers pockets, but was not necessary for me to "make the final bus".
Two, just as I was boarding, I was frantically approached by an Austrian man who explained to me in broken English that he had been robbed (pointing out a sizable lump on his head) and needed my help in getting to Quito. By this time, I was slowly putting together all the myriad of ways I had been "gringoed" and was feeling exhausted with other people demands about the way things have got to be. The bus was literally pulling away. In one ear the staff were yelling for me to get in "Nina, Nina Vamos!" in the other, the alleged (I don´t trust anyone at this point) Austrian is shouting that he is helpless and moneyless. To make a long story not quite as long, if you happen to encounter a wandering Austrian out there somewhere who looks like he´s been hit over the head with a frying pan, be sure to tell him I´m terribly sorry. I just wasn´t in any emotional position to hand another bill into the mouth of someone´s demands. Sorry Mr. Austrian, I hope you found your embassy.
All said and done, I woke up with my arms tucked away inside my t-shirt, on a frigged bus that was rolling safely into Quito, which is, to my surprise, a gorgeous city perched amongst luscious foliage, in the Andes.
My border crossing was kind of a mess. I mean, I´m alive, in one piece, with all of my belongs. But, yesterday was a day that made me question if I really am a seasoned traveler. Do I always just BELIEVE whatever newfangled story someone throws my way?
My determination to get the heck out of tourist-haven, bikini-mecca Mancora landed me as the first passenger in a "shared" taxi late in the afternoon. Immediately, the driver began insisting that I wouldn´t make the last bus from the border to my destination, Quito (the capital of Ecuador) if we waited around for more passengers. Ok, ok, I agreed to pay for the full taxi. Its less than $7 and I needed to make that bus. Throughout the trip, his stories continued until I was enough convinced that the only way I was going to get to Quito was if he drove me directly to the border, making special stop offs at the bank and the immigration offices, rather than having him simply drop me off in a nearby town where I would handle the rest on my own. Again I agreed to his proposition, but this this time it was significantly more costly.
At the first immagration office we picked up this alleged "Intelligence Officer" to accompany me over the border. Being that I can speak 6 weeks worth of Spanish, I was pretty much under the impression that it was standard border crossing protocol to have this "officer" walk you over. With great embarrassment, I admit now that I was most certainly duped. That dude worked for the intelligence office as much as you or I. He did, however, walk me safely to the bus station, all the while telling me about all the drugs he can get from Columbia.
At the station two notable things happened...
One, I realized I had been lied to yet again by the taxi driver. Many more buses departed later into the night. An expensive, direct, personal taxi ride certainly lined the drivers pockets, but was not necessary for me to "make the final bus".
Two, just as I was boarding, I was frantically approached by an Austrian man who explained to me in broken English that he had been robbed (pointing out a sizable lump on his head) and needed my help in getting to Quito. By this time, I was slowly putting together all the myriad of ways I had been "gringoed" and was feeling exhausted with other people demands about the way things have got to be. The bus was literally pulling away. In one ear the staff were yelling for me to get in "Nina, Nina Vamos!" in the other, the alleged (I don´t trust anyone at this point) Austrian is shouting that he is helpless and moneyless. To make a long story not quite as long, if you happen to encounter a wandering Austrian out there somewhere who looks like he´s been hit over the head with a frying pan, be sure to tell him I´m terribly sorry. I just wasn´t in any emotional position to hand another bill into the mouth of someone´s demands. Sorry Mr. Austrian, I hope you found your embassy.
All said and done, I woke up with my arms tucked away inside my t-shirt, on a frigged bus that was rolling safely into Quito, which is, to my surprise, a gorgeous city perched amongst luscious foliage, in the Andes.
miércoles, 14 de marzo de 2007
Some Reflections Upon Leaving Guadalupe...
Firstly, I will always wonder why neither of the toilets in the Casa de Jose Mora (where I was studying Espanol) and many others that I have experienced nationwide don't have toilet seats. Is this a cultural phenomena? I don't know...I'll keep you posted. For now, every moment of accidental contact with that cold raw inner rim conjures up bad memories of when my brother or that kid I sat next to in second grade forgot to put the seat back down.
Secondly, I've been meaning to inform you all that I am now merely two degrees of separation away from both both Miss Peru (who is the niece of Jose Mora, my teacher) and the President of Peru (who is the first cousin to Lucy, Jose's wife). That sure beats my previous claim to fame of being only four degrees away from Seinfeld!
I departed from Guadalupe last week and have admittedly been a terrible blogger. Largely, and greatfully, I believe this can be acredited to the fact that my days at the Radical Gym actually materialized into friendships and I had a social life in Guadalupe. Peruvian young people have proven to be a wonderfully fun-loving lot. It doesn't take long to fall in love with riding on the back of motorcycles or pick-up trucks headed towards the pacific coast.
I've spent the last week working my way up the PanAmericana towards Ecuador. I took a sizable stop off in Chiclayo, a city in the North of Peru, to visit some fabulous archaeological sights. After befriending the police guard man who is supposed to be employed to protect the tombs, he offered to lower me over the guardrail and into one of them. Imagine that, I sat right next to a pre-Incan skeleton!
Now I sit in a beach town called Mancora on the northern coast of Peru near the Ecuadorian border. It seems to attract an interesting cross-section of party loving beach goers, bronzed surfers and Peruvians with money. Its similar to Goa, for my Amigos from our days in India. In search of a non-overpriced meal, I'm dodging barefoot tourist-hippies in the street. This may come as a surprise to many of my family members who probably consider me to be amongst this lot of folks, but, I think its quite strange to pretend like you don't have $80 shoes in your hostel in places where there are people who, quite literally, can't afford shoes at all. Tourism is a strange animal.
Tomorrow, I'm hoping to make it over the border to Ecuador. I've contacted a group that's doing a reforestation project there that takes volunteers. Provided it works out, I'm looking forward to posting up somewhere again...being constantly on the move alone is both too expensive and lonely.
Secondly, I've been meaning to inform you all that I am now merely two degrees of separation away from both both Miss Peru (who is the niece of Jose Mora, my teacher) and the President of Peru (who is the first cousin to Lucy, Jose's wife). That sure beats my previous claim to fame of being only four degrees away from Seinfeld!
I departed from Guadalupe last week and have admittedly been a terrible blogger. Largely, and greatfully, I believe this can be acredited to the fact that my days at the Radical Gym actually materialized into friendships and I had a social life in Guadalupe. Peruvian young people have proven to be a wonderfully fun-loving lot. It doesn't take long to fall in love with riding on the back of motorcycles or pick-up trucks headed towards the pacific coast.
I've spent the last week working my way up the PanAmericana towards Ecuador. I took a sizable stop off in Chiclayo, a city in the North of Peru, to visit some fabulous archaeological sights. After befriending the police guard man who is supposed to be employed to protect the tombs, he offered to lower me over the guardrail and into one of them. Imagine that, I sat right next to a pre-Incan skeleton!
Now I sit in a beach town called Mancora on the northern coast of Peru near the Ecuadorian border. It seems to attract an interesting cross-section of party loving beach goers, bronzed surfers and Peruvians with money. Its similar to Goa, for my Amigos from our days in India. In search of a non-overpriced meal, I'm dodging barefoot tourist-hippies in the street. This may come as a surprise to many of my family members who probably consider me to be amongst this lot of folks, but, I think its quite strange to pretend like you don't have $80 shoes in your hostel in places where there are people who, quite literally, can't afford shoes at all. Tourism is a strange animal.
Tomorrow, I'm hoping to make it over the border to Ecuador. I've contacted a group that's doing a reforestation project there that takes volunteers. Provided it works out, I'm looking forward to posting up somewhere again...being constantly on the move alone is both too expensive and lonely.
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)
