I’ve been asked about my writings for The Ecuador Reporter, and in some cases the truly curious and Internet-capable have already tracked them down own their own.  One thing that people lacking the hard copy might’ve missed (besides a much cleaner format — the webpage really isn’t laid out very attractively, hence my omission of a URL in any blog posts) is that in my first month here, yours truly made the front page, though not for my stellar journalism.  For whatever reason, the editor’s favorite picture that month involved me, worn down from a day of intense hiking, trudging up a hillside in Chone.  For your enjoyment and for the enjoyment of my ego, I have taken a picture to share with my sweet blog:

Me, bottom right. I'm the thing in the picture that isn't intense, unyielding greenery

Via instant messages, my mother had the following comment:

Did you like the advice that your blog was more exciting than your published column? Any chance you will color future reports in same vein as blog?

Writing in first person tends to be frowned upon in most publications.  It’s definitely done by some journalistic “personalities,” but the editor of the Reporter let me know in no uncertain terms that such a style wouldn’t fit with the vibe he was going for.  The Chone article, then, had to be absent of any flair and written as neutrally as possible.  More difficult, I’d be writing a fluff piece attempting to convince people to vacation in a region whose inchoate tourism industry was not only unprepared for even the smallest influx of people, but came close to killing and/or maiming me a few times.

The blog allows me to carelessly say “My trip to Chone left me dangling from a vine on the side of a mountain while my dirt foothold gradually crumbled away, leaving me cursing, in fear for my life.”  And I can see how my mother would find this “more exciting.”  Yet a fluff article encouraging hapless travelers to come and explore Chone’s majesty probably should shy away from the “you’re gonna die” rhetoric.

I’m fairly content with how the article turned out, though feel free to comment or critique.  I broke a few grammar rules, which I don’t mind doing at all in the blog, though I should probably avoid that habit with any “real” writing I might do.

The article, in its full color glory

Chone opens its doors to a new world

Travelling through the unexplored cloud forests that stretch across much of the Chone cantone of Ecuador’s Manabi province, it’s often easy to forget the sweeping vistas just beyond the dense green canopy.  After several skyless hours spent cresting a single apex in Chone’s endless sea of lush mountains and valleys, the tree line crashes open revealing impossibly resplendent landscapes stretching to the horizon in every direction.  Sunset on the mountain bathes the countryside in rich greens, yellows and oranges that are almost too vivid for words.

For the off-the-beaten path tourist in Ecuador, there are few outdoor attractions more enticing than Chone (pronounced “CHO-nay”) for eco-tourism and exploration.  Within a year, trails of varying lengths and difficulty will be carved out across the region leading to an inexhaustible supply of caves, waterfalls, naturally occurring fruits in countless varieties and untold other natural beauty. For now, though, unique experiences are open to adventurous travellers looking to venture through trails so unexplored that they might be the first to set foot on them.

Take note that while Chone’s local tourism department is very much in favour of travellers coming in to assist with trailblasing, such experiences do come with an implied air of danger and uncertainty.  It’s not uncommon to hang precariously from loose vines along a fairly steep incline with insecure footing steadily disintegrating minute by minute while the expedition leaders — generally local hunters or mountain farmers — argue over which seemingly impossible path upwards is the most feasible.  Machete novices may find their skills greatly improved after a weekend in the mountains above Ricaurte.

One of the greatest marks against Chone’s undeveloped tourism industry is a shortage of proper travel lodging for travellers, its few hostels existing more for locals looking for short term tryst lodging than for proper traveller accommodation.  To counter this, the tourism department has arranged for a selection of homestays on local farms, giving visitors an uncommon glimpse into farm life in 21st century Ecuador.  Vast, vibrant dairy farms — Chone boasts a 2:1 ratio of cows to humans across the entire region and is known nationally for its cattle supply — stretch across the province, many willing to take on guests, hopeful at the chance of sharing the traditional Ecuadorian way of life with visiting outsiders.

Vast stretches of bananas, plantains, oranges and countless other fruits are literally ripe for the picking.  Perhaps the most famous crop is the cacao, a recently built processing yard that handles the cultivation and mass fermentation of perhaps the world’s most famous sweet. The plant doubles as an attraction for tourists, curious in the preparation process of cacaos, and the brown field of drying beans laid out in the sun is a sight — and smell — to behold.

Something as seminal a farm activity as milking a cow, long replaced by cold, mechanical efficiency in many countries, is still carried out quite traditionally every morning throughout the region.  Waking at dawn to stumble out into a dark potrero, or cow field, while the field hands perform a brief, pantomimed lesson in udder handling, only to help fill a large tin milk pail with the help of a mostly disinterested cow is an experience like no other.

Directly carried into the homestead, the milk is transformed into a variety of dairy goods, from fresh cheese and butter, ready later in the day in time for dinner, to creamy manjar.  Mixed with sugar and various sweet ingredients, manjar is a sweet local tradition made in chocolate and caramel varieties and sold in local markets.  The food throughout the Manabi region has widely been considered among the best in Ecuador, and alone well worth the trip.  Thick, creamy corn soups, often with tuna or the more locally popular fish chame, are widely available.  And tonga, a mixture of chicken, plantains, rice and spices, wrapped in leaves and left to stew inside a backpack during a particularly exhausting climb, might be the greatest trail food ever conceived.

Driven by an almost unbridled hospitality from the locals and a passionate willingness to share of its rich culture, foods and natural beauty, Chone truly is a treat for tourists looking to feel a little bit less like a turista.  Spend a few days taking it all in, and the Chone experience is not likely to be forgotten any time soon.

Note the spelling of “travelling” early on with the double-L — Started by Brits, the paper goes with UK spelling at all time to maintain a common look and feel.  So basically, for the next two months I’ll be spelling color “colour.”

Admittedly, it’s a bit heavy-handed at times, bordering on “flowery.” The editor loved it, but tossed out that it seemed “written by a chick,” which did wonders for my general sense of masculinity.  I don’t really know how to dude it up more, other than tossing in a few arbitrary explosions, sticking to sports metaphors and dedicating more time in the future to Miss Chone’s “sweet tits.”  But as a hyper-analytic person, I’m sure I’ll read over every line I submit in the future for the slightest possible hint of estrogen.

Shortly after my return to Quito, I was given the role of “bar and restaurant critic” as well, though no one explained that any review I might write should be 100% fluff, which led to a bit of trouble.  Basically, we only review places that advertise with us, making anything I write a glorified ad.  As I describe their leathery burger as “dry and overdone,” despite the rest of the review being extremely kind, the proprietors were not terribly happy with us.  The Reina Victoria pub in central Quito has been around for close to thirty years now, and in 1998 was voted one of the top 25 pubs in the world by Newsday.

Much has changed since 1998, however.  The bar’s got good food and great pub atmosphere, but a new plaza built nearby within the past ten years shifted the flow of tourists five blocks away, and crime’s bad enough that most people don’t wander about at night looking for interestings new places to drink.  Because of this, we were the lone patrons on the Friday night I dropped in to review the place, and as I didn’t have to pay a cent for any food or drinks, it probably wasn’t one of Reina Vic’s most profitable nights.  None of this stopped me from enjoying myself, but it did make it difficult to promote the place as a “happening” hangout, as absolutely nothing was happening there.

I didn't write the title

Quito’s English pub grub

Far from being one of the only pubs in Quito, Reina Victoria is easily one of the first, with a rich, warm atmosphere that conjures up an older time and place.  Everything about the pub evokes the perfect blend of austere English style nestled into lively Ecuadorian culture, straight down to the name — cleverly taken from the street on which the pub is located, the English translation is “Queen Victoria.”  Established in 1982 by Dorothy Albright, the 110 year old building has been co-owned by Dorothy and her husband, Gary Parkin, whom she actually met within the pub by way of a freak dancing accident.

Menu items are standard pub fare, with some American standards, like pizza and hamburgers, thrown in for good measure.  The burger, while far more meaty than the paper-thin style of hamburguesa that dominates Quito’s local restaurants, was a bit dry and overdone.  However, it’s the pub classics like Shepherd’s Pie and Fish and Chips where Reina Victoria really shines.  The pie is impossibly rich, with a soft, cloud-like layer of mashed potatoes topped by a perfectly melted covering of fresh cheese.  The fish is fried to perfection and complemented beautifully with Reina’s homemade tartar sauce and chips that are crisp on the outside, yet absolutely perfect within.

Selected as one of the “22 greatest restaurants and nightspots in the world” by a reader’s poll in Newsweek in 1998, business has slowed a bit in recent years, likely due to the pub’s just-off-the-beaten path location five blocks from the plaza.  Recent changes, though, have caused locals and tourists alike to take note and rediscover this international gem.  SAE holds their pub quiz at the Reina the first and third Wednesday of every month, and the recent acquisition of microbrewing equipment adds a stout and a bitter to the standard selection of local beers and spirits.

Whether you’re an avid darts player, an ex-pat looking to be reminded of home or simply someone that enjoys drinking with friends by a warm fireplace until the late hours of night, Reina Victoria is the perfect place to spend an evening.

I really did love the other two menu items I tried there, but most fossils are chewier than that burger.  Cuisine-wise, Ecuador definitely has some  things going for it, but I’ve yet to sample a burger anywhere worthy of the name, despite their ubiquity on nearly every street corner.

The Day of the Dead being on November second, I offered to write an article about Latin America’s most morbidly named holiday for that month’s addition, kicking my number of submissions for the month up to three.  The last line of the articlee is hokey as hell, but a major figure in the local ex-pat community and friend to almost everyone I know down here had just been killed, so I was going for the “uplifting” angle.

Ecuador’s unique take on the holiday involves a thick purple drink that sadly is non-alcoholic, named Colada Morada.  I did some research and grabbed a recipe for it, which is printed to the right of the main article, though even in my most ambitious cooking days I never would’ve touched this one.

Page 7 used to be "Environment" articles, as evidenced by the word at the top of the page. We forgot to change it before this went to press.

What is the Day of the Dead

While the arrival of November heralds the celebration of Halloween through much of North America and Europe, it has a far more somber portence throughout Latin America. La Dia de los Muertos, celebrated on November 2nd each year, is both one of the most significant Catholic holidays of the year and an opportunity for friends and family to gather together and reflect.  While a calm, mournful air often hangs over the day, the opportunity to remember the best of those no longer with us is anything but a depressing occasion.

Much like Halloween — though over a thousand years older — La Dia was an ancient tradition by indigenous cultures that the Catholic church co-opted in an effort to make Christianity more appealing, modifying the dates to match All Souls’ and All Saints’ Day.  Anthropologists have found examples of similar festivals held by Aztecs, Mayas, Purepecha and Nahua Totonacas, all coinciding withing weeks of the current dates.  Three thousand years ago, the holiday coincided with a seasonal corn festival, where food from a plentiful harvest was set aside to share with the dead as a means of honoring them, and was presided over by Mictecacihuatl, the Goddess of Death.  Added to the traditional means of celebration was one of the more noteworthy church masses of the year, and festival foods now took on a secondary role as Eucharist.

Ecuador is a country rich with its own traditions, going so far as to use a different term entirely for the holiday — Dia de los Difuntos or “Deceased” — deeming Muertos too crude a term for such an austere occcasion.  November 2 in Quito finds the streets occupied with celebrants dressed in black and both corner vendors and restaurants selling the customary food and drink of the day: Guagua de Pan and Colada Morada. Guagua, a Kichwa term for “young,” are small loaves of bread in the shape of children, generally with raisins for eyes. Colada Morada is a rich, purple drink similar to chicha, made from blue corn.  Purple plays heavily in Ecuador’s celebration, with purple flowers lining gravesites throughout the country.

As with other countries, the cemetary plays a large role in the holiday, as families arrive as early as possible to pay their respects.  The morning mass, one of the more significant ones of the year, actually takes place in the cemetary, the lone time in the year this occurs outside of the church.  Around urban areas, the cemetary gathering has a somber tone, as families bring foods and items beloved by their deceased and spend time with one another remembering.  In more rural pueblos, the tone at cemetaries is quite the opposite as the lost are honored with joy and sometimes riotous celebration.

Regardless of how Dia de los Difuntos is observed, the holiday allows us a time for reflection and togetherness.  Things change and people come into and out of our lives, but for thousands of years the holiday has understood that no one remembered can ever truly be gone.

Sure, there’s more cheese spread through those articles than you’d find in the dairy section at Whole Foods (and I do miss the option of having good cheeses.  There are only about four cheese you can count on finding at most stores.  I had to go to a specialty store for feta.), but for my first three articles I’m content.

“Yancy — what kind  of supplies are you carrying with you on this yearlong excursion into strange, exotic and rash-infecting lands,” asked absolutely no one.

Researching, buying and then subsequently playing gear tetris inside my backpack was probably the most time-consuming aspect of my pre-departure planning.  As the deadline loomed, every hour at BoxTone (a software company specializing in BlackBerry smartphone managment) became less “How can we best craft our elevator pitch to appeal to west coast Global 100 law firms?” and more “How can I avoid Dysentery and look marginally stunning while doing so?”

Thanks to technically minded travel enthusiasts with way too much time on their hands (see: http://sweettravelblog.com), I was able to find a glut of research sites started by people that had already been mugged, beaten, incarcerated, drugged, touched in inappropriate places and trampled by exotic animals that apparently eschewed getting “just a quick pet,” all there so that even someone as hapless as myself might avoid similar unpleasant fates.  Rather than leaving the outfitting for this trip to my own experience and street smarts (note: never really left state of Maryland, was “indoor kid”), I could now count on the combined knowledge of men and women with far denser and scruffier beards than my own to guide me.  With their assistance, I might actually end up in one piece six months down the road with precisely the right cream for a bizarre jungle rash, yet not be weighed down with the Nintendo Wii that really seemed like it’d be “cool” to bring, back when I was in the states.

The most awkward issue about trip shopping was the contradiction of going on what amounted to a two thousand dollar shopping spree, despite simultaneously selling or giving away nearly every other worldly possession I owned.  Unfortunately, there was almost no overlap between the “shit I needed” column and the one for “shit I didn’t want,” leading to a backpacked filled with, unfortunately for my savings, almost one hundred percent “new shit.”  The mailbox at my apartment being about the size of a box of generic macaroni and cheese mix, the bulky evidence of my crazed shopping sprees made their way instead to my cubicle at BoxTone, oddly enough raising almost no eyebrows despite a clearly labeled expedition backpack that took up about a third of my desk. (A co-worker did once look down at a stack of travel-themed boxes and toss out “You’re not planning on bailing on us and traveling the world are you?” but it was weighted down in just enough sarcasm that I’m almost positive I wasn’t caught).

The Backpack

It’s not sexy, but everything else is worthless without it.  Laptops die, mosquito spray runs out at lightning speeds down here, and clothes get stained, ripped, fetid and soiled, but without something solid to toss it all in, I’m basically just Steve Martin’s character at the end of The Jerk, carrying all of his worldly possessions clumsily down the street, pants down.  Thanks again to the Internet, I’ve learned the following things tend to matter when selecting a backpack for international travel:

1. The backpack should be big enough to carry everything I will need for a year of my life.
2. The backpack should be small enough that I never have to check it when flying and am not consistently in a state of exhaustion whenever it’s being worn.
3. Detachable day bags are awesome.
4. Ostentatious bags scream “Mug me and then punch me in the face a few times after taking all of my stuff, just for fun.”  This rule continues to apply after purchasing a bag — Remember this when considering adding cool patches of all the neat places you’ve been and/or similar flair.
5. “Top-loading backpacks” have a single point of entry with all the gear tossed inside, similar to clothing being put into a laundry bag.  This means that every time something on the bottom is needed, every item in the bag must be removed.  Is it even necessary for me to type: “This blows.”
6. Some people in South America like soccer (”futbol”).  Others like stealing everything that you own.  Both have about the same passion for their hobby, and as such, getting a backpack with as few pockets and points of entry as possible is key.  Speaking of keys, every pocket should have two zippers that can in turn have locks placed over them.  Just last weekend, a friend had his backpack knifed into and most of his expensive gear stolen, despite said locks, so nothing is foolproof.  As Craig from Travelvice.com has written in the past, if someone wants something of yours, they’ll likely figure a way to get it.  But most theft is based on a quick opportunity, and if added security and locks can lessen those opportunities in any way, it’s worth the added irritation of running through my lock’s combination just to retrieve my Spanish homework.
7. Unless you’re in certain drought-plagued regions of the world, it rains.  “Rain Forest”?  Not just a cute term.  The backpack should have a means of countering this.
8. Don’t break the bank.
9. Lastly, “comfort” has been known  to matter to some people…

Note that 1 and 2 are in almost every way contradictory.  How the hell am I supposed to have emergency gear for bizarre jungle and/or arctic accidents, yet still end up with less total volume than what I dragged with me on a four-day island trip just more than a year ago?  Amazingly enough, I made this happen.

It’s easier after the backpack is actually purchased, since there’s then a very real and physical limitation to what can be crammed into a bag.  The bag I opted to cram far too many things into was the Eagle Creek Explorer LT.

The Explorer, with detached day bag

Like Voltron, the bags form together to epically become one. The backpack is no other way like Voltron.

It holds a deceptively large volume of gear, and is just adjustable enough to make 45 additional pounds on my less-than-muscular back not seem too hernia-inducing.  The day bag is the perfect size for weekend trips or unenthusiastic visits to my Spanish school, which after just a week’s lessons makes me remember why I never much cared for being a student (despite remaining one for so long…).

With the bags separated, I can saunter onto any airline with the backpack functioning as my carry-on and the day bag acting as my personal item, thus avoiding every nightmarish flight cliche having to do with luggage.  The size obviously limits what I can bring, but as nearly every backpacker website is filled with the lamentations of those with 5-10 pounds of goods determined to be dead weight just one week into a yearlong journey, I think I’ll find a way to manage.

What’s Inside

Ennumerated, for your pleasure

1. REI Fleece hoodie.  Warm enough to counter Quito’s chilly nights, surprisingly comfortable and almost even fashionable (it matches the throw pillows on our sofa perfectly), nothing in my collection’s gotten more daily use.  The hood itself is different from the type used with most sweatshirts, hugging in awkwardly close to my face like a monk’s cowl, giving me a semi-pious countenance that I’d like to think makes me less muggable.
   
2. The Sony e-book reader.  I’ve yet to read a single book on this thing, and I might find the experience unpleasant when I finally do, so the jury’s out.  Besides being bulky, books written in English are hard to come by down here, and there’s a lot of dead time.  In a year, I’ll either love it or have traded it long ago to a tienda for two bottles of water and a copy of Latin American Maxim.
3. An inflatable pillow.  Too inflatable to be comfortable, and yet there’s a sponge-like material inside it that keeps it from being fully deflatable and thus, fitting nicely in limited space.  I plan on popping this entertainingly at our next party.
4. The mosquito net.  Haven’t even taken it out of the bag yet.  From what I’ve been told, this thing takes up valuable backpack real estate and might only be used once the entire year.  That one time, however, I will be so incredibly grateful for it that any other concern is immediately wiped away like the swarm of mosquitos that would otherwise be nesting across my body.
5. A travel sheet.  It’s small and functions as a mini-sleeping bag when needed.  More importantly, it’s a barrier between me and the collected filth of six continents of travelers left over at certain unsavory hostels that don’t entirely understand the concept of “washing sheets.”
6. An umbrella.  It rains in Quito from 3 pm to 6 pm.  Daily.
7. More waterproofing gear (see: #6).  The backpack comes with a waterproof cover, complete with storage bag.  As the bag had some extra space, I filled it with my superlight rain jacket, which provides almost no warmth, but does block a bit of the wind and, more importantly, almost all of the rain.
8. Skype headset.  Free conversations with people from the States anywhere there’s an Internet connection.
9. Lots and lots of locks.  Seven, in different shapes, sizes and colors.  Much unwanted weight added to my back, but every day in Quito makes me realize more and more how important these are.
10. Toilet paper, stripped of cardboard innards.  Most public restrooms do not have free toilet paper in South America.  If you’re lucky, a shady character standing outside the entrance will sell you paper for a quarter.  If you’re unlucky, you’ve just divebombed yourself frantically down onto a less-than-savory toilet (see: South American stomach maladies; diarrhea), often with no seat, only to find absolutely no paper, which by now is an absolute necessity.
11. Travel literature.  A map of Ecuador and Peru.  A pocket Spanish dictionary.  The South American Handbook, covered in black duct tape with a white cross on the front to imitate your standard Holy Bible.  Nothing marks a hapless gringo more than publicly reading a travel guide.  This pile also contains a currency change calculator, though I’ve yet to need this as Ecuador’s currency is the US Dollar.
12. Condoms.  Y’know…
13. The red thing is a floating armband for my waterproof camera, should I drop it while, say, getting savaged by a shark (and I’d certainly hate to lose that picture).  Underneath it is an LCD flashlight — bright, white light requiring very little power.  I’ve got a similar LCD headlight as well, but it doesn’t seem to be in any of the shots.  The thing to the right is a travel belt with a hidden pocket that unfortunately didn’t make the final cut.
14. All liquid containers (3 oz. each, or less) in a clear plastic bag — the government’s idea, not mine.  Shampoos, soaps, rash creams, mosquito repellent, toothpaste and more.
15. Three different hideable pockets.  One goes around the neck, one clips anywhere, and one velcros itself around the leg.  I’ve used all three, though the leg one is the slickest by far.
16. The underwear bag: Two Ex-Officio boxer shorts (easy to clean, don’t get matted down with sweat, etc), four pairs of socks, gloves, a hat and a bandanna with built in insect repellent.
17. Asthma inhalers.  I don’t use these much anymore, but when I need them, I need them.  These are actually just two of five.
18. The Blue Bag.  Utility gear.  More below.
19. The main clothing bag: Two Ex-Officio pants with built-in repellent, each containing hidden velcro pockets sewn into the insides that I had a tailor add on.  One pair has detachable legs which turns it into a serviceable pair of shorts.  Two t-shirts.  Two collared shirts.  One long-sleeved jungle shirt, also with built in insect repellent.  One bathing suit (also with added-on hidden pocket.
20. Miniature travel games (see: really long bus rides).  Chess.  Backgammon.  Cards.  And, uh, a hacked Nintendo DS with over fifty games preloaded onto it.
21. A travel towel.  Dries quick.  Takes up very little space.
22. Olympus Stylus 1030 SW.  Waterproof to 100 feet.  Shockproof.  Can withstand a six foot drop onto concrete with style.  Seemed like a good idea based on the trip I’d lined up.
23. A drain stopper.  I think this is so I can do laundry in any random sink.  Everyone on the Internet seemed to agree it was a necessity, though.
24. A Pac-safe locking unit for my backpack.  When opened, this thing forms a chain-link barrier around my backpack, not only locking it to a spot, but also making it almost impossible to slice into as well.  You can never be too safe down here…
25. A travel spork, an emergency blanket, a small mirror and an eye-mask for sleeping in bright areas.  The latter was a useful last minute donation from my mother and smells strongly of make-up to this day, basking all of my naps in an effluvium of rouge and foundation.
26. Reef flip-flops.  They’d come highly recommended, and sure enough, they’re the most comfortable pair I’ve ever worn.  Peculiarly enough, they have bottle openers built in to the bottoms, which I find myself using often, despite never once in my life thinking “I wish these shoes had bottle openers on the bottoms.”
27. Keen cross-trainer sneakers.  They’re waterproof and have extra gortex protection, but they’re not as comfortable as I’d hoped they would be upon being broken in.  They survived the untested jungles of Chone, though, so I shouldn’t complain.
28. A cloth Timberland day bag.  When I was a celebrity at the Bonnaroo music festival a few years back, I won a pair of white jeans backstage that many people consider to be the ugliest pants ever made.  I also was given this bag for free, though as it’s fairly inoffensive, I rarely mention it when telling that story.  It’s a pretty solid drawstring bag for quick trips to the beach or supermarket.
29. The Red Bag.  Medical supplies.  See below.
30. Not pictured:  The camera taking all of these pictures, a Canon XT Digital SLR.  It’s a helluva camera and I was hoping to “get good” with it while down here, but I’m realizing now that I don’t feel comfortable carrying it around most of the time, and it adds an almost obscene amount of weight to my bag for as little as I’ve been using it.  This might be shipped home shortly.

The Laptop

Having spent some of the most resplendent days of the past twenty years inside on a computer, it was unlikely I wouldn’t be bringing a laptop along into the jungle.  However, the same limitations to space and weight enumerated above still hold just as true as with any other equipment on my list, and electronics have the additional issues of fragility and a strong aversion to even the slightest hint of moisture.  For the trip, I would need something small and durable, yet still powerful enough to maintain a marginally sweet blog.

I opted for the Asus eee PC with the 9 inch screen — small enough that women who see it almost inevitably use the word “adorable,” and yet still large enough to feel like I’m not doing major computer work over a mobile phone.  At 1.60 GHz with a gig of RAM, it’s hardly the most powerful computer I’ve ever had, but it’s more than strong enough to handle Office, Photoshop, media playing and any random webwork I might find myself killing a few hours a week toying with (see: http://sweettravelblog.com).

eee!

The built-in hard drive is a mixed blessing; at ten gigs, it’s barely large enough to handle getting all the basic applications I need installed, let alone music, games or movies with, um, adult themes.  The plus is that it uses flash memory, rather than the traditional, jungle-averse hard drive.  In terms that will matter to most people reading this: Much faster, break less!

The little black rectangle in the front the picture with “Cavalry” written upside down is an additional 320 gigs.  Just to be safe.

In the computer bag, I’ve got about six different memory sticks for moving data around and storing pictures, as well as the memory card reader that actually lets me access them.  There’s an ipod buried away in these pictures somewhere, and while it’s been invaluable thus far on my trip, I’ll be amazed if the thing’s still alive a year from now.

The Blue Bag: Utility Gear

Many American boys secretly (or openly) wanted to be Batman upon growing up.  No one really wanted to be MacGuyver, but we still admired his “save the day with two toothpicks, bellybutton lint and a marble” know-how.  It’s with these two folk heroes in mind that I found myself packing up an entire bag filled with things that fall into the “I’ll likely never need any of this, but if I do, I’ll really wish I had it” category.  I’ve used barely anything in the Blue Bag in the past, yet every single thing came highly recommended from various sources.  And Batman.

I have not opened up The Blue Bag since I packed it.

• Duct tape and electrical tape (cardboard centers removed) are fairly invaluable at home, fixing things they were never designed to be associated with, so no doubt if the time for them ever arises, I’ll be more than ready to MacGuyver something up.
• Two military can openers.  They feel incredibly cheap and bizarre to use, but I actually did break one of these out one night for an emergency can of coconut milk (pina coladas were requested…)
• A sewing kit.  I have never sewn anything in my life.
• An induction heater.  Basically, a coiled piece of metal attached to a power cord that, when dropped in water, can get a frothy boiling going in less than a minute.
• A current tap.  Apparently, there are many places with light sockets but limited power outlets.  The tap allows me to surreptitiously remove someone’s lightbulb, plug in the tap and replace the lightbulb, creating two magical new outlets where before there were none.  Magic.
• Zip-ties, zip-lock bags and rubber bands.  Fun for everyone.
• A clothesline with built-in pins.  Many hostels do not have clothes dryers.  Many small, remote villages do not have a term in their language that translates to “clothes dryer.”
• Four types of string/twine/wire.  When things need to be tied up, for whatever reason.

The Red Bag: Medical Supplies

Mostly, things I hope to never need.

med

• Painkillers of various strength: aspirin, tylenol and aleve.  And Hydrocodone, when nothing but an opiate will do.
• Cipro.  Everyone said I needed Cipro.
• A suture kit.  Hell if I know.
• Wet wipes.
• Ear plugs. I trusted the people that told me they’d be a necessity, and I was immediately sold the first time I found myself on a long bus ride where music was played (loudly) instead of the typical terrible movie fare.  Unfortunately, the plugs were back in my apartment.
• Water purification tablets.  Based on the stomach issues that plagued me for the past two weeks, I probably should’ve been using these.
• The water wand.  Apparently this thing can make any water safe and drinkable via ultraviolet light it gives off when swirled around in water.  The caveat is that the process uses up so much energy that each battery can only “fix” about 2 liters of water.  I knew this when buying the wand, and was willing to constantly buy batteries as needed, but it uses a rare, lithium battery that I’ve got about as much chance of finding down here as a keg of Guinness.  (Note: There is no Guinness here.  Anywhere.  There are multiple Irish pubs with “Guinness” painted on the outside, however).
• Anti-nausea pills.  Supposedly you chew these to alleviate nausea.  It’s possible that they work well and I just misunderstood what the “cure” was, but the lone time I used these I threw up within two minutes.
• Malaria pills.  There’s no viable vaccine for Malaria yet, but should you be heading into a region known to carry the disease, you can take preventive medicine to halt its attack.
• Toothbruth and razor.  Standard bathroom fare.
• A wide variety of band-aids, gauze and similar wound-closing fare.
• Tiger balm.  Good for both exhausted muscles and anything that itches.

Of all the varied supplied I might find myself desperately needing down here (Guinness?), medicine looks to be the least of my troubles.  Pharmacies don’t require prescriptions for anything but the heavy-duty opiates, so most ailments can be shown or described directly to the pharmacist for an immediate doling out of drugs that may or may not have anything to do with whatever strange and unusual ailment I’ve stumbled across (I seem to have done a surprising amount of stumbling in a short period of time).  To top it off, the drugs are dirt cheap — a 10-day supply of Amoxicillin was just over two dollars.  So The Little Red Bag has grown a bit since I’ve arrived.

Hopefully it won’t grow too much more.

“Liz” wrote:

I would like to request that occasionally you talk about the food you eat, I’m very interested in food, which might be because I’m hungry, but whatever.

I tried to focus a bit more on food than I otherwise would’ve during the food festival entry because of this, and when I nibbled on some Guinea Pig a week or two ago, I took some extra pictures with this in mind.  Actually, that’s not true.  I was eating an animal that is served in such a way that it’s still kind of grimacing at you while you eat it, with tiny little fried paws locked in a perpetual “Dude, what the hell..?” gesture.  I was going to take plenty of pictures of it regardless.

But, it does bring up that I’m more than willing to focus on things people might find interesting that I might otherwise overlook.  At the very least, any questions people have keep me connected to the rest of the world, and might get me checking out new things.  Comments, from friends, family or strangers, make me feel all warm inside and more importantly, let me know people are actually reading this thing.

And feedback helps make the site better, whether it be an anal spelling correction or “It really sucks navigating around your site.”  For instance, the Photos section as it currently stands is godawful.  I’m using something called Gallery2 and despite seeing it play nicely with other blogs, I find it a tremendous pain in the ass.  There doesn’t seem to be a way to turn off that bar on the left properly, and when I link to pictures in the Gallery, the blog entry ends up looking retarded.  All stuff for the to-do list.

For anyone out there actually reading this, thanks!  It’s a great way for me to stay connected, and the experiences so far have made for fun writing as well.

Later.

Bat. Snake.

The battle’s got all the makings of an epic fight — two creatures vying for second-place in the “most nightmarish animal” category, just behind the perennial winner since mankind had a vocabulary large enough to have a word that equates to “creepy,” the spider.

Snake: fierce predator, awkwardly legless, taunts women with apples.

Bat: mammalian flight, mosquito-tracking sonar, inspires handsome billionaires to fight crime.

In normal, Crocodile Hunter-free nature, I’m not entirely sure if there’d ever be a reason the bat would have to tussle with the snake in the first place.  Victory for the snake’s a hearty rodent burrito bunched together in a wing tortilla, but short of a hidden prize somewhere (”a Brand. New. Cave!“), there’s really nothing in it for the bat.  What’s important is that this duel answers the eternal question of “who would win in a fight between a snake and a bat?” that I oddly had never thought to ask before.  As an added bonus, the spectacle allows me to escape early from more densely mashed plantains and cheese, which will never give french toast, pancakes, scrambled eggs, grits, grape-nuts, leftover pizza or even a half-eaten twizzler a run for their money when it comes to craveable breakfast eats.

The snake in waiting

Crocodile Coci calls us over to the pigeon room (a small room that only seems to exist to hold two listless pigeons in an undersized cage) where a relatively small boa with an interesting color scheme is wrapped around a thin pipe running along the wall.  Coci’s got a dark towel in his hand and twists it about, producing a small bat, it’s paws locked down by a solid grip from within the towel.  Constantly thrashing, the bat’s wings vibrate with the fear of an animal knowing it’s about to be brunch.  Coci holds out the bat to me like a sommelier displaying a freshly popped cork and I nod with the same knowing glance I’ve given to everyone that speaks Spanish to me here and assumes I understand completely.

It’s not like I had any visions of what the arena for this battle was going to be.  Actually, that’s not true.  I spent a large portion of the prior night hoping for a miniature Tokyo made from cardboard, lego and twine ready to be laid waste by two uncaring forces of nature.  But I never once credited Coci with sharing either my creativity or my tremendous nerdish background, and my hopes for a miniature coliseum of some sort were low at best.  Somehow though, even in my least creative visions, the two beasts would be set upon each other in a confined space, allowing for the innate abilities of both to launch against one another in a vicious barrage of entertainment.

Instead, the bat’s looking every bit like the tiny, winged rodent that it is as Coci maneuvers it closer and closer to the listless serpent.  The imminent devouring is still nature at its finest, and I watch intently with Joe and a small subset of Luis’s enormous pool of cousins.  The snake, likely starved by consummate showman Coci, shifts its coil as it focuses on the imminently approaching bat.  We expect a fierce burst of serpentine energy, ending the spectacle at once in a spiral of asphyxiation, but despite the clearly fixed fight, the bat’s wings instinctively give the snake a flapping beatdown, causing its surprising wide-eyed retreat.  Every repeat approach follows the same pattern — initial, hunger-fueld curiosity from the snake, followed by profound irritation from each wing-slapping.

Snake: intense fear of wings, actually kind of a pussy.

Bat: decent wing-span, well harnessed panic.

We’re all much more into the fight now that it’s been evened out against Coci’s plans and expectations.  Whatever shared sensation of rooting for the underdog that humans tend to experience when watching other animals kill each other for entertainment has clearly overtaken the room, as the bewildered snake cowers as deeply behind the support pole as it can manage.  Unfazed by the enlivened crowd, our host seems bothered by the less than flesh-ripping display from the snake, and carries both creatures into the living room, dropping his now thoroughly confused and less-than-entertaining slithering contender on the ground.  Taking the bat in his left hand, Coci, with an almost effeminate flourish, shakes out the large black towel he’d been securing the bat with, and an unexpected second bat darts out, flying fearfully up to the rafters.

Thank you, Ecuador’s David Blaine.

At first we’re not sure what Coci’s doing, stretching out the bat’s wings while it still puts up a decent fight, ineffectually trying to nibble at his fingers.  Gripping the right wing at its main joint, he applys a bit of pressure and — the panic clearly visible on the bat’s face — SNAP.  The mood in the room has shifted drastically.

That bastard’s fixing the fight!

What once was a glimpse into the grittier side of nature has now taken on a cruel twist, exacerbated as the Panama-hatted (not Panama!  They’re from Ecuador.  ECUADOR) animal master perforrms the same action on the opposite wing.  Looking around the room, teeth are now gritted, eyes squinted with a mixture of pity and distaste.  Coci notices none of this, plopping the hobbled rodent down in front of the snake with a satisfied grin.  The bat flops around like a broken muppet as the snake hones in and, finally, wraps around the bat in a quick but deadly motion, slowly but inevitably draining it of air and life.

Are you not entertained?!  Is this not what you came here for?!

Gotten.

As the snake loosens its grip and starts the slow digestion process of the recently handicapped rodent, Coci is nodding his head, looking around the room smiling with the grin of success.  Polite smiles across the room, with locked teeth and furrowed brows.  The real Crocodile Hunter would never have done that! Then again, that sting ray’s barb would’ve been broken off if it even gestured tauntingly towards Coci, so maybe there’s a sad balance in there somewhere.  The snake, its mouth full of grounded chiroptera, sits frozen with dead-eyed stare of the semi-retarded, its overstretched mouth making no attempt to swallow.

Show’s over, folks.

Grabbing my still-useless gear (90% of it untouched since I arrived in town) I hand the borrowed pants, socks and belt to Fernando, gratefully thanking him with as much energy as I could muster after that performance.  I’d been around the house for four days now, and had a question about where the hidden bedrooms must be.

“Fernando, Ricardo… I’ve been wondering where your rooms were…”

“Well,” Ricardo says stoically, “You are in them.”

They open a small room I’d assumed was a large storage closet, and inside are two hammocks the pair of cousins had been sleeping in for the past four nights.  The weight of this gesture hits me squarely in the gut, as though having an extra pair of pants all weekend weren’t enough hospitality.  Our thanks trail off into silence as the point is reached where all the gratitude we muster, though clearly owed, begins to sound redundant, especially given that we’re sticking to basic English terms.

On horseback. Beats riding mules...

Downstairs, the German woman from the night before that had mentioned something about horses followed through on her drunken promise I’d long forgotten.  No one’s sure where they came from, and time’s beginning to be short if we’re to catch our bus, but we can’t pass up the unexpected parting equine gift.  It’s not much of a ride — just a quick circle around the front yard — but the horses are much more willing to be handled than the deathwish-laden mules from earlier in the trip, which makes the experience a bit more enjoyable.  It’s easier to relax when you’re not constantly imagining the creature carrying you considering giving into its suicidal tendencies and galloping off in front of a pick-up truck filled with three local families.

Gifts of ronpope and manjar are given to us with such abundance that they still fill a shelf in the refrigerator, and hugs and handshakes abound.  I talk with Luis a bit about the article as we drive to the bus station, and while much is still up in the air (Can I really promise tourists horse rides based on the off chance that a German woman could show up randomly after breakfast with a small herd?), Luis at least now knows what he can and can’t promise.  I’ll be listing his name in my article, so any grand adventures I plan to write about have to be things courageous tourists will be able to access with the help of our eccentric and oft-confused guide.

Coci lends me his hat and machete for a photo-op

My face seems to have stabilized, at the cost of spreading its biological terror to the rest of my body.  While the crater on my chin hasn’t grown, I’ve now got a foot-long vertical slash of wrongness along my entire right forearm.  Smaller patches seem to be thriving elsewhere — a bump or two on my left arm, a bit of red on my shoulder, an itch on my back.  Still, I’m superficial enough that I can live with some under-the-covers scratching so long as my visible parts are lookinng sharp.  Just so long as the rash doesn’t reach, you know, too far under the covers…

In eight hours, I’ll be back in Quito to unpack for the first time, and to see if my laptop still works (it does).  Bus rides are interesting affairs in Ecuador; having ridden many buses up to New York in the past year or so, I can honestly say that every major bus line I’ve gone with in Ecuador provides safer and more luxuorious vehicles than any I’ve see through Greyhound, Peter Pan or the wide variety of “Chinatown” buses.  The insides look and feel newer, and every vehicle comes with at  least one television (generally many, interspersed through the rows so everyone can see properly) and a large selection of DVDs.  This is a mixed blessing, as there seems to be an unwritten rule that not everyone will understand the language (they’re almost always in Spanish, though English occasionally drops in with subtitles), the safest bet is to play action movies.

Shitty action movies.

In my time spent riding Ecuadorian buses, I have seen:

Sylvester Stallone’s “Lock-up”, Ice Cube’s “XXX: State of the Union”, two nameless Jackie Chan movies from the 80s, The Last Boy Scout, The Rock, Con-Air, Con-Air (a second showing), and some movie with The Rock (the wrestler) before he retired the name.  I don’t know what the last film was called, but it involved an extensive fight scene with small monkeys.  Every video store has an elaborate Jean-Claude Van Damme section with movies of his most people have never heard of, though I’ve yet to be Van Dammed on any busrides despite his seeming Latin American popularity.

Short of death and/or dismemberment in the Chone highlands, there was never any doubt things would end in Quito, exactly where they began.  Same bed, same bathroom shared sixteen ways, same Australians on cocaine, same American veteran talking about his Iraqi PTSD and dreams of opening the perfect hostel in Thailand, same Swiss girl that volunteers at a local children’s hospital and has impossibly perfect eyes, all watching the same shitty movies on HBO (Hostel 2 tonight, of all things) while waiting for that same battered beautiful bucket of cuba libre (the near ubiquitous name for “rum and coke” here — if it went by the same nickname in the States, no one ever told me) to be served.  It’s all so very fascinating still, but I’m seeing it through a different lens.  I’m not harder, better, faster, stronger or smarter.  But Chone’s lightspeed indoctrination into the polar opposite of what my life had been did expand my personal understanding of “frickin’ weird,” and my spectrum of what to expect from life here has grown by at least three or four hues.

That’s probably gonna come in useful this year.

It’s just about ten as we finish the bottle of ronpope.  Luis was supposed to be here by eight, but it’s no surprise he’s two hours late — “Ecuadorian time,” I’m told again.  The alcohol in the ronpope is strong, but the drink has the consistency of caramel, gritted up with just a bit of mud; not entirely bad, but at around a thousand calories per shot, it’s hardly a healthy way to get a morning buzz.  It does complement mashed plantains and cheese well.

It’s day three and I’m extremely sick of plantains.

Roberto comes in with a slightly taller Ecuadorian in a white hat, still carrying his machete inside.

“This is my cousin Coki.  He Chone’s Crocodile DunDEE.”

Coki sets his machete on the table, an immaculate specimen several steps above the scrap metal turned into jungle weaponry that most locals carry.  My Spanish was finally good enough for a quick joke.

“Ahhhh.  No es cuchara,”  I say, pointing at the dull butter knife on my plate.  Pointing at his machete “ESSS cuCHARA!!!”

Blank stares.  Polite smiles.

“That’s not a knife.  THAAAT’S a Knife!  Crocodile Dundee?  No?”

They shake their heads smiling, but clearly they don’t get it.  Turns out cuchara means spoon.

Crocodile Chone says something and Roberto translates:

“He want to know if you want to see a snake fight a bat.”

Completely offguard but thrilled: “I want to see a snake or a bat!”

“Too late today.  Tomorrow, he come in morning and we see snake fight a bat.”

“OK!”

Luis arrives, rushing us out the door as expected and into the back of a truck with several cousins and an uncle.

“How many cousins do you have, Luis?”

“Hmm.  I don’t know the number.  It is more than 80.  But not 90.  My grandfather, he have 15 children!”

Joe: “Bet Christmas gets pretty crazy.”

We take new roads through two small towns, and similar qualities begin to appear.  No matter how ragged or poor a town may be, there is always a central square, cris-crossed with paths, gardens and trees all immaculately maintained.  In the center, generally a large pavillion or gazebo depending on the size of the town, and it’s not difficult to imagine town dances and festivals all taking place within, even if I never see anhy.  We reach our obvious destination with permanent signs in place, despite the festival only taking place once a year:

Fiesta de Comida Tipica

“This is a festival of typical foods?”

“Yes.  The best in all of Chone!” proclaims Luis.

He speaks to the people at the gate and they waive the two dollar fee for the gringo journalists.  Already we are celebrities by appearance alone.  If my fair complexion might have been lost in the crowd, my gargantuan height — about a foot above any of the locals, at least — ensures it is not.  Children are told our professions and immediately want to investigate the tools of our trade.  A young boy looks at my notebook as though it’s some weird alchemy tome with dark secrets of nature within, and turns the pages reverently.  That he stared in awe was proof he understood no English, as this snippet shows:

Crazy, drunken horns guy

rooster irritating.  holes throughout floor chicken coup.  ask, roberto say for piss drain cows?  think luis ringtone is huey lewis power of love, midi version.  horrible.

A wild-eyed man carrying some kind of animal horns stumbles up and hones in on me and he starts rambling drunkenly.  I maintain a wide smile and constantly repeat “Si.  Siii. Oh, si!” hopefully implying I have some idea of what he’s saying.  In actuality, I do not, and he is frightening me.  One day this technique is certain to get me inadvertently married off or cost me my firstborn child, but for now it seems effective enough.  He continues ranting and pours out some of a brown drink he’s carrying along with him into a cup made of bone or horn, which I gladly accept.  Strong with alcohol, it again tastes of caramel, reminiscent of ronpope, though far less thick and more drinkable.  Downing the cup in one large sip earns his approval and he runs behind me to places his horns upon my head, either as a show of profound respect or as a means of saying “Yo, look what the stupid gringo’ll let me do.”

Me, with horns

The park’s much like Rennaissance festivals in the states, only focusing on a way of life just decades past, rather than centuries.  The only “garb” is a table full of Panama hats.  Locals are militant about these hats, as they apparently originated in Ecuador, but “Panama” stuck ever since Teddy donned one while checking out the budding canal.  Say “Panama” in front of an Ecuadorian selling these hats.  Make sure you have some time to kill.  Bamboo is all the rage in architecture here, from forts and treehouses for kids, to food stands, to a large stage for performances and beauty pagaents perpetually surrounded by people and chickens throughout the day.

A chicken watches a dance performance intently

The food stands are all active, clouds of thick humid smoke surround the heavyset local women that seem to be cooking behind each counter.  At the first food stand, a large man standing in front beckons to us, his arms spread like a religious gesture as he presents a wide assortment of foods ending in “-iche”.  Viche, ceviche, geviche and others line his board, as well as a brand of homemade chicha that even from my limited
Spanish, I can tell he lists as revolutionary.  He makes a proclamation to all of us, staring at me while I smile with my practiced blank stare.

The revolutionary chicha chef

Luis translates: “He say he change what everyone know about chicha.  Everyone else just make with corn, naranjilla (a popular citrus fruit) and spices.  No more.  He add the mani, the peanuts.”

He speaks again.

“He say is natural viagra.”

A cup is foisted on me by the proud, bulky chef, and I down the thick beverage, surprised that it’s actually very drinkable.  After handing the cup back, I pause to make notes in my notebook for the sake of good journalism, and as I try to put it away, he smiles and asks to see the journal.  I open to the last page and pass it his way.

Last line: chicha - corn, naranjilla usually.  with peanuts revolutionary.

He looks down and smiles at me, patting me on the shoulder enthusiastically.  Apparently happy with my report, he grants us a bowl of free soup as well, shockingly enough also made from corn and his state-of-the-art peanut blend, this time with crab and tuna tossed in as well, giving the soup some body.  To save room, we split the soup, then made our way through the stands, picking and choosing from amongst the best foods in Chone to be considered “typical.”

Corn and peanut soup, with seafood

Chame (CHAH-mey) is a surprisingly meaty fish with a great flavor, though the bones make up something of a culinary obstacle course.  Like everything else in Ecuador, it is served on rice with a fried plantain, and possibly a side of tomato salsa.  For a little extra cash, you can get chame eggs as well, which ended up being well worth it if you could get past the gooey texture.

Chame

Small empanadas filled with cheese, pork or chicken shaped like pierogies are fried and sold for 25 cents a piece; rather than being made from pasta, the pockets are, not surprisingly, smashed plantains worked into a tortilla-like consistency.

Empanadas

Performances go on throughout the day, leading up to the pagaent

Music blares constantly from the main bamboo hut, around which a rectangle of people have congregated watching a steady queue of events.  Upon our arrival, two couples in white preform an elaborate dance routine.  Games are interspersed with the dancing.  Sometimes the game is a dance, as couples sway across the dirt with oranges between their foreheads, fighting to be the last citrus-fueled couple dancing.

Luis speaks to a beautiful young woman named Paola, one of the tallest Ecuadorian girls I’ve seen yet, and after a brief discussion, she comes over and takes my hand, acting as my guide for the next hour.  Whether she was genuinely fascinated by the gringo or Luis talked her into the task by the director of tourism for the general good of Chone and she was taking one for the team, wasn’t certain.  Paola walks me over to a large cardboard display with pictures of beautiful girls dressed for some sort of pageant.

“These… Miss fiesta de comida tipica. End of day… con-test?… and all watch.”

Her English, while not quite the same level of competency as Luis’s, was absolutely adorable.

Far from the main square, a four-piece band starts up playing traditional music.

“Come!  You dance?”

“Sure.  Terribly!”

Bailamos (we dance)

Despite the dearth of other dancers, we take to the center of the uneven square of dirt that seemed to be a dance floor, and she took my left hand with her right while placing the other around my waist.  Far from salsa, rumba or any other official Spanish dance with a name (certainly light years from the lambada), the dance was a lot of simple spinning, twisting and reversing while a crowd built around the beautiful young local girl and the gringo.  The song ends and I kiss her on the cheek, and we walked over to a bamboo museum displaying life in Chone at the turn of the century.  I wasn’t entirely certain which century, as short of cable television and indoor plumbing, the lifestyle on display doesn’t seem terribly different from anything else I’d seen so far during my stay.

One of the more skimpily-dressed entrants

A loud noise signifies the beginning of the pagaent and we scurry back to the main stage in time to see the first entrant, a fairly dim-eyed girl with golden suns covering her breasts and a small golden plate around her groin, no underwear beneath it (I failed to get a good picture of this.  But I tried).  More girls walk across the stage, announcing their intentions in Spanish (”If I am elected, I will create dishes made from corn, and serve them with corn beverages.  And maybe peanuts.”  This is a guess).  Fans, family, friends and chickens watch intently as the final girl took the stage.  Wearing seven layers (she takes them all off, displaying even more intricate gowns underneath), and an enormous hat consisting of more fruit than the chiquita banana girl framed around a large, paper-mache parrot that bobbed precariously each time she turned her head, she was the one to beat.

Miss fruit hat wins decisively, but a runner-up is proclaimed as well, leaving two girls on display whose smiles aren’t fake and plastered on.  The crowd goes wild, including the chicken in the front row, who remains silent but shifts his head from side to side frantically with wild eyes and far more spirit than before the pronouncement, as though suffering from intense, drug-added chicken paranoia.  The other girls filter silently, dejectedly, into the crowd while the victors take the stage, and pose for pictures with the judges.

Miss Fruit Hat performs before the judges, currently in her fourth dress

Wait.  I’m a celebrity.

“Luis, can I pose with Miss Typical Foods?”

“Yes, you must.”

The ladies of typical food and me. I am a giant.

Grey clouds drop down on cue, and while the drizzle never becomes more, the ending of the main event hits the festival like a wet blanket.  We’ve got an appointment on a boat somewhere, and no one really wants more food at this point anyway.  Heading out of the festival, a string of trucks and buses pass us, similarly having seen enough.  In the back of a flatbed, a light-skinned, blonde-haired child stares out at us cherubically.

“LOOK!” says Luis, more excited than he’s been all day, “mica, mica Look at the mica! Ha ha.  Wave!  Wave to the mica.”

I give a very half-hearted wave and ask the obvious as the adorable little white freakshow waves back.  Around 1900, some Germans settled around Chone and got around enough that a great deal of recessive Aryan genes lie dormant, showing up from unexpectedly from time to time like little white, genetic landmines striking unexpectedly.  They’re rare enough to apparently get pointed at as they pass on trucks, but not so rare to not get their own nickname - mica.

“Isn’t that sort of racist, Luis?  Like ‘lets all point at the mica?’”

“Racist?  I don’t understand.  They are mica.”

“But are they treated differently because of their looks?”

“Of course.  When parents have two children, and one is mica, they treat it special and the other child, who is not mica is not treated as well and think ‘I wish I was mica.’  Is wonderful to be mica”

“Oh.”

Clearing out the fishing boat

The boat trip involves a single, oar-propelled fishing boat big enough for four people (eight of us get in) requiring the help of everyone to remove crates and fishing equipment so that people might fit into it.  I ask Luis if this is really something ready for a stream of tourists my article might bring in as I toss a fish-scented wooden crate into the mud.

“Yes.  We can take this boat any time.  I know the owner.  These waters, many chame.  Also the alligator.”

The overfilled metal boat is taking water and about three inches above the water’s surface.

“Ok, got enough to write about here — How about we head on back?”

This is becoming an underlying problem with the trip — I’m supposed to write an article raving about tourism in Chone, but the infrastructure simply isn’t there.  Short of Luis acting as a personal guide to every dreadlocked, backpacking hippie to come through town, most tourists would find themselves at a loss to do anything we’ve been experiencing thus far.  I explain this to Luis constantly, but he’s blinded by the desire to make Chone a tourist attraction, and he can’t help his reach painfully exceeding his grasp.

Through all this, my fingers are fumbling more and more with the bizarre growth on my chin, feeling out its slowly growing borders with trepidation.  What once was mistaken for a pimple now felt like a 50-cent piece sized bubble on my chin, smaller veins of red, swollen wrongness growing up my chin and further down my neck than they’d been even just that morning.  Luis drones on about small local festivals based on cacao production, shipping and leather that just any tourist would travel around the world for, and all that’s going through my head is: Fuck.  I’ve got the South American flesh-eating disease.

Thoughts of my chin are all-consuming now as Luis talks of a local birthday party he wants to take us to.  I like Chone.  I like the people, the food, the casual gringo danger.  But I’m sure that I like my face more, and now that the paranoia’s set in, I start to envision a jigsaw-like deformity crossing my entire body.  My fingers are glued to the aberration; it’s like a thick, hairy bubble constantly leaking something pinkish and sticky, not quite blood but still, well, icky.  Luis insists on the party — I can use the bathroom there.

We walk upstairs to a small apartment, the living room filled with people gleefully dancing the macarena, which is also played at least once a night in every club in Ecuador, despite a window of popularity that closed over a decade ago in the states.  The bathroom’s occupied but I stand in line, desperately in need of a mirror and a means of cleaning the thing eating into my good looks.  My turn arrives needlessly; the bathroom lacks both a mirror and running water.  The toilet clearly gets a steady, marginally fresh supply but repeated turns of the faucet produce nothing.

The party’s actually not a bad time.  A large German woman promises to bring me horses early tomorrow morning, and the food and dancing help pass the unnecessary two hours we end up spending there.  Back at La Providencia, I finally get to see my newly deformed face.

Yikes