(written in Hanoi, Vietnam, Jan 31, 2010)

July brought with it a final South American dilemma: Colombia or Ecuador.  Colombia is, at least in 2009, the most recommended country on the South American backpacker circuit.  Without a doubt, it’s the number one spot on the lists of almost everyone that I talked to.  Nice people.  Beautiful people.  Great scenery.  So long as you manage to avoid any of its kidnapper-friendly borders (the Darien Gap is still always mentioned in a whisper) and dive right into the heartland or coast of the country, it’s a traveler’s dream.  For months, Colombia was the last lily pad for me in this vast continental pond, and the one I most hoped to savor and enjoy.

Ecuador, on the other hand, I had granted more coverage to than any other country I’d visited.  With over three months already spent in the country, and huge tracts of land already covered, there was little reason to return.  Yet it was Ecuador that I chose.  

Despite the crime (worst I’d experienced by far in South America), mosquitoes and sand flies, the place felt more like home to me than anywhere else I’d stayed.  I had friends here, and a job (of sorts).  And with a birthday on the horizon, I felt like it’d be nice to be somewhere that people gave enough of a damn about me that there could be a celebration of sorts.  To top it off, two friends from the states, Tom and Steph, would be arriving in mid-July to visit the Galapagos, and I wanted to be there to greet them.  Colombia will just have to wait.

I’ll mostly let the pictures speak for themselves, though without the benefit of a few words to go alongside them, I’d likely appear to be a raging alcoholic.  But put the pictures in some perspective, please:  I went to an Ecuadorian wedding, ran a pub quiz at a local Irish bar, celebrated July 4th and had a birthday.  What red-blooded American wouldn’t toss down a libation or two for each and every one of those cases?

(Another Country’s) Independence Day

It’s weird celebrating your country’s independence when you aren’t actually in your country.  Particularly when you’re in a country that doesn’t care much for your country.  Parties oozing with red, white, blue, apple pie and PBR are in short supply.  You basically have to throw your  own, or  otherwise deal with Ecuador’s gayness.

Yes, July 4 marks Quito’s “Gay Pride Day,” and these latino homosexuals were feeling particularly proud today. 

In lieu of an American bar to take over on the fourth, we went for the next best thing: Uncle Ho’s, a communist themed Vietnamese restaurant.  Hell, the place is already drenched in red, so we only need a little white and blue to make it downright homey.

The pictures tell a better story than I can describe.  Actually, I can describe it perfectly: Kathleen and I get very drunk and play with ribbons.

For America.

 

 

 

The Quizmaster

I’d run the quiz at Finn McCool’s three or four times during my last visit to Quito, as my good friend Eimear was kind enough to pass the torch onto me.  She did so again this time, and I even had the benefit of an official shirt, as provided by resident artiste, Kathleen.  The whole “pub quiz” phenomenon seems to be standard fare throughout the UK, Australia and other English speaking countries, though the closest things to it in the States are those electronic trivia machines at restaurants like TGI Friday’s.

It’s one of the highlights of my time in Quito, and inspired me to push the idea forward in Chongqing (quite successfully thus far — though more on this when the blog catches up with me in China).  For the first two weeks, I had the questions provided to me by the Ecuadorian children’s charity group that sponsors Finn’s quiz.  But I know too many worthless things to not quiz other people on them, so I used the vast free time this month allowed me to run the quiz entirely as the month went on.

The Girl

Travel, life, beds, conversations and large pieces of cake are almost always better when you’ve got someone to share them with.  The freedom that traveling alone brings with it was also a drawback at times, and those moments in the year when I’d spend the casual day or week with some of the nicer girls traveling about the world have inevitably been my favorite.  But the best of those was Saskia, whom I met my first night back in Quito.

Sure, she was cute, smart, was almost impossibly rational at all times (except for fearlessly wandering the streets of Quito alone at night) laughed at my jokes, knew how to cook, let me live out a scene from Steve Martin’s The Jerk that I’d always wanted to and had an overlapping birthday with me.  And those are all good things.  But you know what made her so awesome?  I got sick and she took care of me.

Man, shit like that’s hard to come by on the road.

 

An Ecuadorian Wedding

I was specifically invited back to Ecuador, not just for my charming personality, but to attend a wedding.  Whose?  I didn’t know at the time (turns out it was this guy Aaron that worked at the club Bungalow 6 — really friendly American guy), but Eimear needed a date and since the wedding ushered in my birthday, it was a perfect opportunity for a free party.  There were very few gringos in attendance, meaning we had to represent ourselves properly.

Knowing the hit song Veo Veo by Guajiras was all the rage right now in Ecuador, I requessted it from the DJ to get the party moving.  Sensing he may have forgotten my request, I went back again.  And then again.  The fourth attempt finally broke the language barrier and the mad thumping beats of Ecuador’s Machine Gun finally started to play.  Breaking all preconceptions, the gringos danced hardest to those hot latin beats.  In fact, we were the only ones on the dance floor.  Such was our impressive display.

At some point I caught a plastic flower.  I think this means I’m getting married soon or something.  Par for the course in Quito, “soon” doesn’t actually imply something will occur in the immediate future.  Or the distant one…

 

With the Bozzos

Late July brings with it some friends from home, here to see me off in style.  Truthfully, the (mostly) newlyweds are coming for two weeks to get  the classic “best of” package, including a visit to the Galapagos.  I welcome them into the city in style, then send them on their way for a week to one of nature’s most famous playgrounds.  However, on their return, we get some quality time back in Ecuador’s most popular Eco-adventure city: Banos.  I’ve already written about the city in the past, so just pics here.

Having alluded to a forthcoming “all the foods I ate” post for close to a year now, I figure it’s about time to ante up.  And so I present this picture-heavy display of various cuisines I was cognizant enough to take pictures of while abroad.  It’s far from complete and woefully lacking in description and character, but, as always, is better than nothing.

Peru

My time in Peru was divided between kooky “jungle medicine” tours in January and my Machu Picchu adventures in June.   Since food from the earlier trip was covered in this post, I’ll only cover the latter delectables here.

Alpaca.  Like its cousin, the llama, these South American beasts of burden are used as pack animals, tourist attractions (Peruvians love to dress them up in brightly colored clothes and then ask for money after you take a picture of one) and, of course, food.  They’re surprisingly good, too, and not nearly as tough as I would’ve guessed.

Chile

I didn’t grab many shots of Chilean food.  Santiago had many seafood restaurants, though I couldn’t find sea bass anywhere.  Also, I really don’t much care for fish, so these restaurants did nothing for me.  Combined with the fact that Chile was the most expensive country I visited in South America, I didn’t eat out very much.

Ecuador

Food from Ecuador was also mostly covered here, but I’ve got a few additions.

Brazil

As popular and enjoyable as Brazilian barbecue restaurants are in the states, I wasn’t overly impressed with Brazilian food.  Maybe we went to the wrong places.  My friend Jaimee joined me for much of these spots and we had similar lackluster reactions to the country’s offerings.  We visited one steakhouse that, like its US counterpart, involved serving men roaming about with a wide variety of all-you-can-eat meat to slice for their patrons, all with several buffet style tables of fresh food in the background.  It was good, but bore little difference from what one would expect at similar restaurants in the states.

A popular local delicacy that I never quite figured out was manioc, a powdered form of cassava root that, throughout Brazil, is served with slivers of beef jerky.  This side can be found served with almost any meal in Rio.  Despite its ubiquity, we found it fairly bland and pointless, like eating bits from the bottom of a jerky bag that had been dropped into sawdust.  Meh.

Top of the list in Brazil was the açaí (pronounced “ah-sah-EEE”) smoothie.  Mixed with bananas, ice and sugar (apparently the fruit is, by itself, quite bland), this densely blue drink is both energizing and uniquely flavorful.  I made a point of having at least one of these daily.

Uruguay

I only visited Uruguay for about three days, and the food wasn’t terribly different from what we found across the river in Argentina.  One treat that we were told was Uruguayan in nature was Clerico. Much like its red sangria cousin, clerico is a white-wine based fruit punch served with an ample supply of fruit.  My mother’s not much of a drinker, but she was so taken with it that we ordered two pitchers.  From a recipe online:

And the winner is…

Argentina

The cuisine of Argentina is, much like its urban architecture, more heavily influenced by Spanish, Italian and French culture than anywhere else on the continent.  For instance, no breakfast is complete without medialunas (literally: half moons), the Argentinian name for croissants.  Breakfast is meant to be simple and light, to the point where those seeking fare more substantial than the standard coffee, orange juice and medialunas are generally out of luck.  Ham and cheese sandwiches are also fairly popular for breakfast, though for some reason no one believes in making these with more than a single slice each of ham and cheese, regardless of the thickness of the bread.

Brazil, the -guays, Chile and Argentina all have variations of the empanada (Note: there is no tilde over the ‘n’ and thus these are pronounced em-puh-nah-duh, and not “em-pan-yah-duh” as I mistakenly said for the first week or two that I lived here), for which I am thankful.  The doughy half-circles are sold with a wide variety of different stuffings in the middle.  Ground beef is typically my favorite when selecting one of the quick, warm mid-day snacks, though another variety includes a densely starchy corn pudding that’s also quite good.  Most vendors sell chicken varieties as well, but empanada de pollo always ends up tasting a bit dry.  There seems to be an unspoken rule that the dough that wraps each different filling be folded in a specific way to make the varieties more recognizable.

Rounding out the fast food selections is a wide sampling of standard sandwich fare.  Like anywhere else on this continent, hamburguesas are widely popular, as are “hot dogs” (that’s how they’re called here as well).  However, why one would go for a simple hot dog when choripan are available, I’m not sure.  From “chorizo“, the insanely good Argentinian beef sausage and “pan” for bread, this sandwich slices a massive chorizo down the center, coats it chimmichurri (a spice rack’s worth of different seasonings all in an oil and vinegar base) and serves it on a fresh French roll.  There’s a reason why there are so few American fast food restaurants here — they’re unnecessary.  Of all the countries, I think Argentina had my favorite street food.

All of these are merely lead-ins, of course, to Argentina’s most famous of coronary-inducing main courses.  No, not red wine, though there’s plenty of that to be found here on the cheap as well.  I’m talking, of course, about steak.  Massive, bloody, succulent, affordable steak.  How affordable, you ask?  Well, this massive cut of tenderloin that I used to make about seven large cuts cost me the equivalent of four US dollars:

Yeah.  I miss that.  Parillas are Argentinian barbecue restaurants, and typically you can find several on the block of any busy street.  Restaurants like these specialize in meats, typically served with a side of meats and your choice of two additional meats.  Sometimes, these meals come with a small side salad, though it should be noted that the salad is made entirely of meat as well.  In short, Argentinians like their meat, and tend to order a large platter brought out to the table on a hot plate (often with a compartment for hot coal kept underneath to keep the food warm throughout dinner) with about 4-8 different meat varieties.  Purees of either regular or sweet potato are available, though that’s generally it as far as non-meats go.

The only downside to this is a general lack of options for dinner (which, I’ll remind you, is eaten between 10 pm and midnight throughout most of Argentina).  Most restaurants (and parillas for that matter) also serve a handful of pasta and noquis (gnocci) dishes, though the pasta options are almost identical throughout every restaurant in the entire country.  As much as I miss the steaks, I think the lack of options in Argentina would’ve gotten to me over time.

And for dessert?  Helados, and lots of it.  Meaning iced cream, the typical Argentinian helado is closer to Italian gelato than anywhere else I found in South America.  The frosty treat is popular across the continent, though harder and more similar to US iced cream elsewhere.  The Argentinian style is rich, creamy and ubiquitous.  There are almost more helado shops than parillas, with each one trying to out-gourmet the next.  Equally widespread are alfajores (al-fah-WHORE-eys), which some friends and family were lucky to get upon my return home last May.  These treats are made from two cake-like cookies pressed together with dulce de leche (caramel) in the center, and then usually coated in a thin layer of chocolate.  I found them “OK” at best, but the locals love ‘em.

Oh yeah.  Mate. Argentinians love their tea, and specifically, yerba mate.  Mate is a holly plant used to make tea throughout most of southern South America, though most popularly in Argentina.  As boiling the leaves tends to make them unpleasantly bitter, mate is instead steeped in hot water.  Due to high amounts of caffeine, the drink is a stimulant and is considered a social beverage in Argentina where it is passed around in small cups made from gourds called guampas.

Mate in Argentina, from Iguazu Falls in the north to Ushuaia in the far south, is inescapable.  Argentinians carry their guampas with them everywhere, typically with a small bag of tea, a bombilla (metal or wood straw used for drinking the tea while filtering out the leaves) and a thermos of hot water.  The leaves typically pack enough punch to be used for 7-10 servings of hot water; when they fail to provide any flavor, the mate is discarded and the gourd promptly refilled.  On buses, Argentinians pass their gourd around like a joint in a college dorm room.  At parties, it’s as likely that they show up with a thermos of hot water and a bag of mate as it is that they’d bring beer or wine.

Personally, I like the flavor but never quite got used to properly handling the bombilla.  The majority of these straws are made from metal, which doesn’t have much of a problem conducting heat.  Combine this with the near-boiling temperature of the hot water and it’s searing pain on the lips.  Though the response from all Argentinians is the same: “Oh, you get used to it…”

Coca

Like every other night bus I’ve ridden in Ecuador, this one careens through the Andes at uncomfortable speeds as I drift into and out of sleep, loud Latin pop blasting through the speakers throughout the night.  I have earplugs this time, and they almost work.  Ten dollars for a ride that last ten hours.  Somehow it always works out perfectly like that. [Note: Now that I'm in Brazil where the rate's around $5 per hour, I miss this.]

Coca, named after the plant cocaine is derived from, isn’t like most of my previous destinations.  The long river journey has a minor following here, to the point where gringos aren’t quite scrutinized like pale, lanky aliens as they pass down the street, but we’re still a rarity, and this is definitely not a tourist town.  It’s just past six AM when the bus stops along a fairly non-descript street in the heart of town, marked by two-story buildings (far more rare outside the city center) housing restaurants and butcher shops, hardware stores and tiendas selling cheap plastic toys and candies.  I step out from the bus, just feet away from a wooden bucket containing three cow heads stacked loosely upon one another, coated in a swarm of flies.  The butcher shop looks fairly sterile otherwise.

I’m tired and don’t feel like wandering aimlessly through a jungle town known for having a bit of a rough side, especially with my every worldly possession dangling across my slumped shoulders.  A taxi offers to take me to a decent hostel for only a dollar, which seems like a great deal until he stops less than two blocks away from where he picked me up at The Oasis.  Eight dollars per night seems high for a hostel, though I’ve since talked to people from other lodging spots near the city’s center and the price seems about average.  There aren’t regular backpackers here, so there aren’t any dormitory-like places to put them

There’s ostensibly hot water in the room, but none comes out of the juryrigged shower.  Reaching up to investigate, I discover with a shock that one of the wires feeding the heater is loose; the jolt’s enough to keep me from investigating further.  The biggest problem with the room, however, is the lack of a working lock mechanism on the door.  Actually, the lock works fine, but the housing is loose and easily can be turned aside, granting anyone access.  My paranoia at an all time high after the New Years mugging attempt, I lock my belongings to piping along the wall whenever I leave, and sleep with my bed pressed against the door to deny unwelcome nighttime visitors.

I’m allowed to be here until January 5th, and it’s already the 4th — a Sunday — when I arrive.  This leaves me exactly one day to handle getting an exit stamp from the immigration office.  A blog entry from another traveler in 2001 documents how to go about this trip fairly well, but I didn’t account for how much things could change over time.  Back then, immigration was handled in Coca; now there is an office in Nuevo Rocafuerte which is the “official” spot.  Here in Coca, the official’s only on duty from 3-4 in the afternoon and clearly isn’t used to playing the role.  This almost works to my advantage, as he is ready to stamp my passport, no questions or money asked.  The negative side is that his stamp is busted, and refuses to move past 2008.  He offers to write me the immigration equivalent of a “Doctor’s note” to explain the situation to those in Nuevo Rocafuerte.  It’s a nice offer, but ends up amounting to nothing.

It’s late Monday now, and I’ve missed the guaranteed 12-hour boatride to N.R.  At the docks, I was assured emphatically that there would be another boat in the morning tomorrow, but the Internet and guide books all seemed to agree that Mondays and Thursdays were the only opportunities for such a trip.  I buy a ticket, though for $12 — for a twelve hour trip, it seems to follow the same rule that Ecuadorian buses follow — and hope for the best.

The city’s much more built up than the description of it from 2001 led me to believe.  It’s still a petroleum town more than anything else; a long bridge across the Rio Napo leads to most of the oil work, and long crowds of bedraggled workers head across it each morning, then steadily make their way back throughout the afternoon.  But there are Internet cafes now, and food options stretching past the traditional one-dish almuerzo places (though these still dominate the restaurant landscape).

“What’s there to do here?” I ask an American girl over dinner on Sunday.

“Walking, looking at the river.. uh.. being hot..?” she answers.

“Shit.  I’ve already done all of those.”

I do them again throughout Monday, taking occasional breaks to stock up on water and snacks (intelligently) and not to stock up on cash from an ATM (very unintelligently).  After the initial boat ticket, I have approximately $115 to get me to Iquitos, the next city with regular access to an ATM machine (or regular electricity, for that matter).  Not getting more money was a mistake.  In addition to the snacks, I also have some new regular equipment for my journey that I picked up from the craft market in Quito.  Eight dollars got me an especially colorful hammock that seems comfortable enough — a necessity for making it through four nights on the lancha.  I also purchased a leather hat for the jungle.  People have pointed out that it makes me look like Indiana Jones.  Peruvian children in Iquitos chased after me yelling “INDIANA JONES!  INDIANA JONES!!”  I assure you, this was my intention.

Lastly, I got a one dollar haircut in Coca.  It wasn’t the best cut I’ve ever gotten, but it’s far from the worst, making it the best value for the money by far.

The boat’s about sixty feet long, but not even ten feet wide, comprised of two wooden benches facing one another for passengers to spend the far-from-comfortable 12 hour voyage.  We’re mostly loaded by the scheduled 7:30 departure time, but it takes an additional hour to actually leave port.  I’ve got some full Howard Stern shows on my iPod, and at five hours each, they make for a perfect way to start passing the long stretches of free time.  Food vendors rush on while the boat sits at port with marginally fresh seco de pollo (rice and chicken stew) in small plastic cups, but my stomach just isn’t ready for it yet.  I’ll stick to pringles, which are somehow ubiquitous here.

Nuevo Rocafuerte is the final stop, but not by any means the only one.  Over the course of the day we’ll stop at small towns and random dirt outcroppings hosting a single hut, cut off from all other signs of community or basic civilization.  Every exiting passenger makes the ride a bit less cramped, and by afternoon, I’m lounging out horizontally on a makeshift life-preserver bed, as the thick river breeze flows over me and through me.  Mid-day is a longer-than-normal stop allowing for a quick almuerzo (surprisingly not bad) from the unnamed town comprised of about six huts that we’d just stopped at.  Other than that, the boat plods through tenaciously until reaching N.R. at dusk, only about eight of the original eighty passengers still aboard.

Nuevo Rocafuerte

At first glance, Nuevo Rocafuerte is a single road perched alongside the river made up of a single municipal building, followed by a row of houses and tiendas.  There’s a second road parallel to the first that leads deeper inland, but very little more to the city than those two main drags.  I wouldn’t put the population past a couple hundred.  They claim that some tourists arrive here to visit a local lake teeming with piranhas, though it’s close to two hours away by dirt road and requires a 4×4 to access.  Realizing already the dire state of my funds, I don’t even bother to ask the price.

There are supposedly hotels here, but nothing is marked.  I break down and ask a family, who point to the nearest house and inform me of something in Spanish that I don’t quite grasp.  Walking into the designated house, its occupants freeze and stare at me quizzically.  This isn’t a hotel.  They don’t seem to mind the intrusion, but it’s clear that they rarely receive a gringo-gram.  More queries lead to me a large wooden house with a thatched leaf roof.  That style of roof will end up being all the rage in Pantoja, Peru, but here it’s a much less popular style, making my “hotel” stand out next to all of its neighbors.  The cost is five dollars a night and the room comes with a kitten that I can’t seem to evict, despite my associated allergies.

I’m pointed out to a local named Ricardo who has a passing understanding of English, which helps me out immensely during the three days I’m stuck here.  He’s got a ship, and tourists like me are his meal ticket.  The trip from here across the border into Pantoja is the smallest distance I’ll cover by boat over my entire journey (just under two hours), but it’s also the most costly: Renting the boat will cost $50.

With fellow travelers, the total cost would be split down to as low as ten dollars a person, as the boat seats a maximum of five beside the captain.  However, I’m the only one in town right now, and the next boat out of Pantoja is expected to be on Saturday.  Knowing now there’s no ATM machine there either, missing the lancha would be terrible, as I’d run out of funds for lodging long before the large boat returned.  This meant I had to time this perfectly, leaving no later than Friday morning.  Each night offered another chance for fellow travelers to split the killer fee.  But each night none arrived left a deeper sinking feeling in my stomach as my viable options continued to shrink.

Ricardo loves his town and keeps encouraging me to stay until Saturday regardless of anything else.

“Our food is better here.  Our people, they are nice.  This is a… nice place.  Is better than Pantoja.  Much better.  You don’t want to be there long.  Don’t worry, my friend, don’t worry!”

But I worry.  There is a single “restaurant” here.  Each day, for lunch and dinner, a tent is set up outside one of the tiendas offering barbequed meats with rice and plantains on the side.  Still no vegetables, but the meat is freshly killed and cooked to perfection, and seems to be marinated as well, giving it far more flavor than the average Quito restaurants had.  It’s also about a dollar more per meal, which definitely matters at this point.  The bottled Aji sauce complements the rice nicely, and I pick up an extra bottle after remembering how bad the food on the boat supposedly is.

My first bribing

Ricardo offers to take me to his “friend” in immigration, and his wife, small son and sister in law come along for some reason.  Besides any other help he might’ve been, just getting me to the office was invaluable, as it was located literally in the last building in town, at the end of the long inland road, past a brightly colored school and a small indoor soccer arena that seemed to be in disrepair.

The official seems less than enthusiastic to help me, a card game with friends being interrupted by my problematic arrival.  He puts on a t-shirt as we walk and Ricardo explains my position with the help of my official “note” from Coca.  He’s less than swayed so far by my translated story, and a glance at my passport leads to some worrisome looks.  Ricardo and the official’s argument seems to get a little heated, despite my only picking up every third word.  At one point, I’m certain Ricardo just offered his sister-in-law to the official; I’m sure I misheard, but after the statement, conversation stops and he stares at the girl while she blushes furiously.

Something is upsetting the official, and I can only surmise that it’s my note from Coca, as Ricardo picks it from the table in a grand gesture and rips it into confetti, tossing it down to the floor dismissively.  The official doesn’t seem to mind the trash.

“Um, I wanted that…”

“No no, it was no good.  He says instead this is difficult.  He needs fifty dollars.”

I don’t have it.

Well, I do.  But if I spend it here and now, I’m trapped.  Then again, I’m similarly stuck if I don’t.  This isn’t fun.  I explain the situation, and it is passed on to an impassive official.  He gets up to leave and Ricardo seats him back down.  They continue the game for close to ten minutes, and near as I can tell neither argument ever alters or evolves, just as neither appear to be moved by the other.

I take out my twenty and do my best impersonation of the most pathetic market beggars I’ve seen since arriving here.

“Senor.  Por favor.  Poooor fah-voooooor!”

Ricardo grabs up the twenty like some kind of physical epiphany that just dropped from the sky, and immediately reaches over the table, and down, reaching into the official’s pants pocket with the now balled-up cash, as though rewarding an exceptional stripper.  I’m hoping he knows what he’s doing, but doubting this more and more with each passing second.  I don’t catch everything Ricardo says, but the gist is:

“There, there!  How perfect!  Now we are agreed and you will stamp!  Wonderful!”

But the official is face is unreadable as he sits there.  Ricardo puts the stamp into his hands, and while the man looks agitated by this, he doesn’t set the stamp down.  Instead, he slowly — almost imperceptibly at first — moves his arm over to my battered passport, thumbing through to the page with the prior Ecuadorian stamp, and begins to adjust his stamp.  January 6… January 5… January 4.  Ricardo translates his explanation that the fifth was already too late.  Opening his immigration journal, he finds an open spot near the bottom of the page from January fourth and adds my name to the roster.

My first official bribing is a resounding success!

I am not a ghost

By Thursday night, I’m waiting at the dock as rain pours down, a lone gringo vigil under a fairly ineffective umbrella.  I’m leaving tomorrow, and I can’t afford to miss a potential fare splitter.  Earlier today, the hostel employee yelled that there was a boat to Pantoja for me for ten dollars, and I rushed to catch it despite catching the news during my daily cold shower.  My gear spread throughout the room, I jammed everything in as quickly as possibly, only to find out upon finally exiting my room that the moment had passed.  These boats do come into town on their way to Pantoja, but additional passengers are low on their list, and they rarely stop for more than five minutes.

The only good news comes in the form of Juan Carlos, another boat owner who assures me that he’s mentioned in Lonely Planet guidebooks and runs the best boat to Pantoja.  Normally, he would charge fifty as well, but in the event that no other tourists are in town by tomorrow morning, he’ll do it for twenty.  There’s a slightly morbid catch that I discover the next morning, but all things considered it could be worse.  Knowing my financial woes, he also offers to handle my lodging for the evening.  A raggedy hammock in a barely screened-in room wouldn’t be my first choice for a good night’s rest, but it’ll work in a pinch, and at two dollars a night, it gives me dinner money.  I feel slightly bad for not going along with Ricardo after all of his help, but business is business.

All night long, the worst storm I’ve seen since arriving beats down on Nuevo Rocafuerte, as marble-sized balls of rain pelt the thin roof of the wooden shack I’m trying to sleep in.  I toss and turn, causing the hammock to shake the rafters of the house, and there are noises now in the room next door.  Talking.  Then footsteps.  I hear them as they make their way around two sides of my room to the front of the house, and then the small knot I tied on the door — more to keep dogs out than effectively block any people — steadily falls apart, letting the door swing open on its own.  A short, slumped-over figure is silhouetted by weak ambient light occasionally made stronger from regular flashes of lightning.

“ho-la?” [hello]  I’m either greeting an intruder or someone that thinks that I am one.  Neither prospect is ideal.

“AHHH Madre de Dios!?” [AHHH Mother of God!?]  I’d never heard anyone use this term outside of a movie, so it was kind of cool to inspire such a reaction.  Still, this guy’s gotta get defused quick.

“No no.  Juan Carlos dormitorio.  Esta bien!  ESTA BIEN!!” [No no.  Juan Carlos room.  It's good.  IT'S GOOD!!]

No response.  He’s just standing there looking at me.  Then he backs up out of the room and reseals the door.

Esta bien.

Enough already

Juan Carlos greets me with bananas at 6 am.  I’m running on about three hours sleep, total, but my strong desire to leave grants me enough energy to look past my exhaustion.

“I talked to my Dad and he told me.  You scared him.  It is my fault.  I didn’t tell him you were staying with him last night, and did you know a man died?”

“Huh?” I mumble through my banana.

“Yes.  The night before you come, a big storm.  Lightning hit a fishing boat and hit a man.  He fall out and they no find him yet.  My father, he think you are the ghost.  Very scared.  Very scared.  He OK now, though.  Glad to have two dollars.”

“Hope it was worth it…”

“Oh yes.”

We board the small canoe (luckily covered for protection from the dwindling storm), but my connection with the dead fisherman isn’t over yet.  The reduced rate I’m getting for this trip is due to our boat doubling as a search party.  There’s absolute certainty that the man is dead, but until a body is found, no one will be able to grieve properly.  We head out slowly, hugging the coastline as all eyes scan for any trace of clothing amidst the reeds and fallen trees.  The one hour trip stretches to three, with no success.  I make no complaints and search as well as I can for the entire trip.  it’s not just that I received a better rate for the ride — as one of the sons of the dead man sits beside quietly for the entire trip, it’s hard not to stay focused.

Pantoja greets us in two parts:  The town is divided down the middle, with a military section off-limit to civilians, and the town proper.  The military port is a mandatory stop for all boats heading in from Ecuador, and we sit in the rain for a good half hour as the captain of our ship runs up to confer with the whomever was currently in charge at the base.  I start to take a picture and am sharply told not to.

“No.  No — Militario!”

Apparently cleared, our canoe heads back into the Napo, wrapping around an embankment before coming back around to the civilian side of town.  Unlike with the military end, there’s no oficial dock here — just a long, muddy patch of land to jump down to.  The town isn’t breathtaking by any means, but every successful stop gets me one step closer to Iquitos.

Welcome to Peru.

current remaining funds: $53

I’d heard whispers about the alternate route on several occasions so far, during long busrides or crowded communal breakfasts in the common rooms of hostels.  Eschewing airlines completely, and ditching the more traditional long busrides south into Peru, intrepid travelers with extra time on their hands have a far more unconventional option available.  The Rio Napo runs eastward out of Ecuador into Peru, and then heads south for several hundred miles before reaching the jungle city of Iquitos, known to be the largest city in the world unreachable by road.

The trip is neither easy nor comfortable, and as the boats involved don’t all adhere to a set schedule, the total time for the journey can easily pass two weeks, with eight days as an absolute minimum.  Coca lies 8-10 hours east of Quito, far into Ecuador’s Oriente (generally used as the term for the country’s jungle region, it’s simply an old Spanish term for “eastern area,” and has nothing to do with Asians).  It’s also the largest port city on the Rio Napo, with regular imports and exports downriver towards Peru.  Travelers catch a long, narrow cargo ship here headed to Nuevo Rockafuerte, the last town in Ecuador on the Rio Napo.

From there, a private canoe must be chartered to make the 1-2 hour trip to Pantoja, Peru’s equivalent of N.R., just across the border.  It takes a large cargo ship (known as a lancha) approximately five days to make the trip to Iquitos from Pantoja.  As the return trip takes just as long and it requires at least a day to fully unload and refuel, there are generally eleven days in Pantoja between seeing the ship in harbor.  Some lucky travelers may easily show up the day it arrives, but just as often, people seeking it might be just one day late, leaving them stranded in the dismally boring town of Pantoja for close to two weeks.

Catching the lancha generally leads to a brief sense of elation and relief, though the comfort level drops immediately and continues to plummet for the next four days as the cargo ship steadily picks up more people, pigs, chickens, plantains, goats, monkeys and every other kind of jungle ware.  While the trip takes five days to reach Iquitos, it is possible to jump off early on the fourth day at Masan, where a small patch of land can be crossed by motor-taxi.  From the opposite bank, speedboats make transport passengers by the hour through the final stretch of the Amazon River into Iquitos.

I’ve since described the trip as “like Requiem for a Dream: something really incredible that I never want to experience again.”  For close to two weeks, I got to live not only without Internet, but generally without electricity or fresh water, either.  As only the starting and ending points of the trip contained ATM machines, I came dangerously close to running out of money.  I bribed officials, ate some of worst meals of my life and certainly had the worst nights of sleep ever.

But I can’t say it wasn’t interesting…

Christmas in Quito

Bill Stites asked, on X-mas Eve: what’s Christmas Eve like in Ecuador? fermented plantains and animal sacrifice?”

But I didn’t answer at the time, as I was helping to cook a dinner for fifty.

Finn McCool’s does Christmas in style, taking advantage of what would otherwise be a slow day by feeding all the expats in need of a Christmas home away from home.  Since the locals all make a far bigger deal of spending Christmas Eve with their families rather than Christmas itself, the Ecuadorian employees and their families are invited in to the feast as well.  As I’ve missed cooking for lots of people, and the daunting task of such a tremendous meal was currently being handled by my friend Ursula (one of the proprietors of Finn’s), it seemed like a nice opportunity for me to help out with.

Barring the mashed potato incident with the Pikey chronicled in the previous entry, it was a mostly uneventful night as Ursula and I stayed up until around 4 in the morning preparing turkeys, hams, two kinds of stuffing, mashed potatoes, soup, gravies, carrots, cabbage and parsnips (a classic Irish X-mas, I’m told).  With Eimear, Monika and John (all Finn’s employees still on from the night before), we slept in the bar, taking turns checking on the turkey each hour until morning.  Calls are made to various homelands, as three different versions of A Christmas Carol play in the background on the television.

By 1 pm, people are arriving — both invited guests and impromptu ones, equally given free meals (though drinks are still to be paid for).  Santa entertains the kids, The Pogue’s “A Fairytale of New York” plays at least twice and hour, and then the heavy Christmas drinking starts.  And there was much merriment.

New Year’s Eve

Many locals that anticipated being elsewhere, myself included, all converged back at Finn’s for a night of celebration to close out 2008, which was by most counts a terrible year.  In keeping with said unpleasantness, I was mugged unsuccessfully on my way to Finn’s, half a block from a permanent police checkpoint at Plaza Foch that most agree is about as effective as FBI warnings at the beginnings of movies.  I should’ve been paying better attention, but my mind was elsewhere.  My hand was on my knife, however.

“Hey man, you want some cocaiiine?”

“Huh?  No.“   My mistake wasn’t answering, so much as being caught offguard, halting my steady walk towards Finn’s.  Now free of momentum with one man blocking me to the side, his friend moves in from in front of me and reaches into my pocket.

“What th– fff–?? Get your fucking hand out of my pocket!“  I stumble on my words, but yank his hand from my pocket with my left hand as I brandish the knife with my right.  It sounds incredibly badass, but I assure you this was done in the least intimidating way possible and still involve pointing a knife at someone.

My pocket rips slightly as his hand comes free, but the two of them back away as I hold the knife unsteadily at about waist height, point upwards, and I move backwards and to the side.  The one that reached into my pocket is yelling in Spanish as his friend holds him back, but despite the bravado he’s walking backwards slowly and won’t be coming after me.  I walk out into the street away from the crowd — because there is a crowd of tourists, locals, old people, children and everyone in between, all walking by as this goes on — and my eyes scan for anyone coming within ten feet of me.  The knife is still out, but close enough to me to avoid being noticed.

Happy New Year.

It’s not as wild as New Year’s past, or even as wild as Christmas here was, but other than the mugging, it was a nice enough way to roll out the old.

Coastal Ecuador has no shortage of small beach towns — fishing villages mostly — with such rich, natural beauty that the influx of tourists over the past several years was inevitable.  Montanita, Canoa, and Monpiche in particular have gained the reputation of being surfer towns, for specialized landscapes leading to the perfect ¨break¨ of the waves.  Montanita is generally held to be the party town, with all-night bars encouraging festivities that carry through straight to the next day.  I know nothing about Monpiche as it seems to be the least talked about of the three.  But in severe need of a break from all things frantic and stressful, the ¨chill¨ sufer town of Canoa seemed like the best pick for an early December trip.

Montanita, then, would be my spot for New Years.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), Canoa proved to be so addictive after my first visit that it beckoned me away from all other NYE options and earned a repeat visit.  Despite several weeks passage of time between the two, I´m collecting both trips here.

Canoa: Take One

Despite music played at a volume generally reserved for psychological warfare against enemy combatants in Iraq, I’m told Ecuadorians like loud music as they sleep through torturous nighttime bus rides.  This bus is more nightmarish than usual in all regards, as it whips around narrow mountain roads at speeds that just feel wrong.  Just because it´s impossible to tell how far the drop just past the wheels on the driver side goes down doesn´t make it any less fear-inducing.  But the true pain here is the fact that it´s three in the morning and none of us — Joe, Kathleen or myself – can sleep, talk or even listen to music of our own over what’s coming out of the bus speakers.

Drunken teenagers board the bus at the halfway point, one of them grabbing the seat next to me that had been empty for the past three hours.  At one dozy point, I snap back into consciousness as I feel his hand in my pocket and slap it away with about the masculinity of an old grandmother guarding a fresh apple pie.  The bus goes around a steep turn and I feel centrifugal force press my body firmly and uncomfortably to the window next to me.

It’s clear that I won´t be sleeping tonight.

No buses lead directly to Canoa.  Despite the high gringo population of surfers and expats, the general population is around two thousand people, tops.  Far larger is San Vicente, just fifteen minutes south.  We exit the bus around five in the morning and luckily find taxis waiting to cart us over for about a dollar per person.  Coco Loco, a beachside hostel already written up once by The Ecuador Reporter, isn´t open yet but has public hammocks outside that we have no qualms taking advantage of.

Other than nighttime mosquitoes (alleviated greatly by fans in the rooms, as they´re too minuscule to fight the air current), Canoa´s about as close to a beachside paradise as any place on earth.  The water is warm enough to simply walk into without a hint of frigidity, the seafood is cheap and amongst the best in Ecuador and the town is small enough to feel like some kind of secret treasure accidentally stumbled upon.  A sense of warm calmness envelops me, while a pitcher of freshly made piña colada delivered out to my blanket on the beach helps lock it into place for the duration of my stay.

The only drawback to this visit, warned of quite often in craig´s travelvice.com, are feral dogs.  These free-roaming animals can be found in almost any South American town apparently (they´re certainly prevalent in Ecuador and Peru), and relentlessly roam the streets with their own raggedy agendas.  As a dog person, they hadn´t perturbed me up until now and I´d often find myself petting some of the traditionally ¨cute¨ ones (Not so with the ugly ones, and there are some hideously ugly dogs here with painful-looking skin and fur conditions, and mad, dazed looks in their eyes).

But here in Canoa, they roam in a large pack, and one of the females is currently in heat, setting the males into a frenzy.  As we lay on the beach enjoying the idyllic, postcard-like beauty of life here, what can only be described as canine gang rape would be occurring less than ten feet away from us.  Canoa is a small town, and the beach is nearly deserted except for the three of us.  Despite this, of all places to rest, the surly, black alpha male opts to lay down with its back collapsed up against Kathleen´s head.

¨Uh, nooo..¨ she says, getting up.  She puts her hands on its back playfully to push it away.  ¨You go over he–¨

At once, the animal spins, with a fierce, snarling bark and bites her hand.  It´s a small bite, but there is blood.  I jump up and bark back at it, clapping and motioning loudly for it to leave, using the fullness of my size to intimidate.  Such chest-pounding bravado didn’t work for Grizzly Man, and it doesn’t for me either.  Snarling, the ragged beast lunges in and bites my arm, leaving a long, red welt as the fang slides across it, but failing to break past my first layer of skin.  Picking up a stick, I lunge at it, but it’s already run well out of arm’s reach upon recognizing the my intentions.

Most of the animals here are docile, though.  Coco Loco houses two of the warmest, most playful dogs I’ve come across, and with the names Capitana and Pirata (”Captain” and “Pirate”), it’s no wonder we bond so quickly.  The hostel also houses about a fairly stocked bar and one of the better food menus in town.  Happy hours are nightly and spread over every bar along the main strip, interspersed by the hour to keep patrons moving in a steady progression down the beach.  There is no city here, really — just a beach, some cabanas and a long strip of restaurants, homes and hostels opening out onto white sand that quickly gives way to ocean.

Somewhere, a truck takes down a powerline, leaving Canoa in the dark for the last two nights we’re in town.  We huddle at the bar around candles and drink while the clouds lift, displaying layer upon layer of stars unblemished by light pollution, mirrored below onto the crashing waves of the Pacific.

It’s nice here.

Canoa: Take Two

Joe and Kathleen are back in their respective countries for the holidays, leaving me to fend for myself to bring in the new year.  It’s a scary prospect, made more so by Ecuador’s strong romantic leanings when celebrating New Year’s Eve, treating the holiday much like Valentine’s Day is treated in the States.  During Christmas, I’m encouraged to come with a group to Montanita, the Dionysian yin of surf towns to Canoa’s laid back yang.  The parties last until late into the next day, and local women all congregate there for weekends and holidays, knowing it’s when the gringos gather.  With hindsight, I don’t know why Canoa was so compelling to me.

Perhaps having already met a few people there, it’d feel more like home.  Or maybe “relaxing” was simply at the top of my list for year-ending needs.  The place just called to me.

I’d also promised Elizabeth, the owner of the fantastic Coco Loco, all my unwanted DVDs as I obviously wouldn’t be traveling with them.  And on top of that, I’d left The Shamrock (Canoa’s one and only Irish pub) without paying for a drink I’d ordered during the prior visit’s black-out.  The owner was friends with Quito’s Irish pub and mentioned this to my friend there, Ursula, who assured me he wasn’t terribly worked up about it, despite feeling the need to bring it up to her.  Knowing he had an adorable three-year-old, I thought to make peace by bringing her a similarly adorable teddy bear as a belated Christmas gift.  Good karma, after all, and still cheaper than a cuba libre.

Elizabeth glows as I bestow the DVDs on her, and the pub owner beams similarly, inviting me downstairs instantly to bestow the gift myself.  The toddler clutches the bear as if attempting to squeeze the life out of it, and shakes her entire body from side to side with uncontainable glee.  I glance back at the father as he watches his daughter warmly with eyes full of paternal love.

I’m good.  I’m a good person.

Skipping surf lessons before, despite their being one of Canoa’s biggest draws, it’s incredibly important that I rectify this situation immediately.  Repeated slides of the stomach across a freshly waxed board leads to quickly rubbing away the soft skin of the belly and lower chest, so I’m instructed to wear a shirt.  Surfing requires the ability to fire one’s body upward in a smooth, bullet-like motion and extreme coordination.  I’m iffy on the former, but on the latter I’m dead on arrival, as I have a hard time standing upright and balanced on dry, level ground.  When all is said and done, I actually manage to stand twice for about a second or more before gravity slams me forcefully back into the ocean.  It was an awkward, unsuccessful experience, yet one I find myself compelled enough to want to try again.

Giant, three dollar cuba libras mark Happy Hour at The Surf Shack, a bar and rental shop owned by about four people including a couple close to my age.  I drill them for as much information as polite conversation allows.  Another owner’s standing on the bar clutching two beer funnels, maniacally, offering them up to no one in particular.  I haven’t seen “beer bongs” like these since college, but he’s clearly pushing for their heavy use amongst the entire crowd, and as the beer (sometimes mixed with tequila or sugarcane alcohol) seems to be on his tab.

You Got Served.  And Raped.

A blonde named Steph has been flirting with me since we both successfully survived the beer funnelling, and we’re making fun of others in the bar at random.  This is sadly one of my better flirting techniques as it showcases my sense of humor while pumping up my confidence with the implied superiority that comes from looking down upon others.  It’s seeped in immaturity and insecurity, but sometimes the ends justify the means.  Unfortunately, a girl from Austin, TX originally born here in Canoa latches onto Steph with the intention of taking her — and only her — to the only club in town.

“She needs a good Ecuadorian boy.  You should go find a good Ecuadorian girl.  Come on!” she motions to my new friend.

Steph refuses to let go of my arm, dragging me along, past all the beachside gringo bars to the spot where the locals congregate.  The Canoa-born who will henceforth be listed as “Austin” is flustered but rolls with it, moving with more determination now a few paces ahead of us.  The club — a mix of modern lights and sound with traditional bamboo walls and railings — is louder and more packed with people than would be expected given the city’s size, but Austin pushes through the wall of people and sound, and immediately proceeds to breakdance in large, flourishing motions that nearby dancers are quick to take notice of.

A circle forms as her dancing becomes larger.  Her elaborate style is far from the norm in the cramped club, but too much of a spectacle for nearby dancers to ignore.  It’s less the semi-erotically repetitive motions employed by most clubbers, Steph included (my style would most accurately be described as “Vertical fish out of water”), and choreographed to near cinematic levels.  A young Ecuadorian hops into the circle gracelessly and attempts to ape her style with moves that often make him appear to be skipping gaily in space.  Head turned away, Austin feigns a well-practiced yawn.

Your moves bore me.  Soon I will return to serve you once more.

The volleys continue.  Each return to the circle brings him closer to her, moving his arms in to detain her in the circle before she can exit, though she twists away from him with increasing difficulty and agitation.

This isn’t how you dance battle!

Other Ecuadorians, even less impressive than the first, begin taking turns at showcasing their local flair, and Steph starts hopping in, literally, as well.  She can’t breakdance, but she can at least use her body entertainingly, bending low with her ass pointedly outwards, grinding it up and down into the groin of a wild-eyed teenage local that had only just walked into the circle.  Agitated by the break in protocol, Austin dives in between them and dances harder, more intently.  The moment apparently calling for the big guns, she takes to the floor and begins to spin, dancing along on her hands as her feet sweep gracefully between them on the beer-soaked wooden floor.  The spin stops and she ends on her side with a queer grin, head resting on a crooked arm with a single knee in the air, like a model from a 50s postcard.

The circle collapses around her as she begins to stand and Steph is now sandwiched in the center between two locals pressing into her.  She wraps an arm around the neck of the man in front of her and begins writhing up against him, both rhythmically and arrhytmically, as the alcohol and her own impaired coordination allow.  The circle closes a bit.  Onlookers cheer, dance, chant to a modernized jungle beat, layered over by synthesizers and dense bass.  Sensing the increase in sexual output, Steph’s partner, body locked against hers in the midst of the rapidly shrinking circle, pushes her forcefully yet with gentle enough control to ease her landing, down to the ground.  As dancers watch, he begins thrusting himself over her repeatedly, feverishly dry-humping her with no regard for either propriety or rhythm as she stares upwards with an implacably un-perturbed look in her glazed-over eyes.

Despite the spectacle leaving he vast majority of dancers unfazed, Austin is pushing forward madly through the bemused crowd to reach her imperiled dance partner.  She’s not faux yawning this time.

This isn’t how you dance battle!

She runs up to her rapidly thrusting competitor (whose mind is apparently not on the battle at the time) with enough fervor that I expect her to push him away from her violently.  But no, instead she speedily slides in, positioning herself against him from behind, and starts to match him in energy and ferocity with wild thrusts of her groin.  While his movements are crude, sloppy and animalistic, hers are entirely stylized, maintaining proper dance poise with one arm akimbo and the other crooked around her neck, a decidedly carefree look in her eyes as she dance-battle sodomizes her softcore-porn influenced nemesis.

He spins and pushes her off with a single, sloppy jab, returning at once to his primary prey like a lion swatting off a vulture from a freshly killed antelope.  She stumbles back a few feet, her angry eyes no longer projecting out a practiced insouciance to complement her moves, yet she moves in against him once more, humping now with an increased frenzy and pursed lips.  Deeply agitated, he turns once more and grabs her hand, pushing it in towards her chest, and her thumb catches against a bra strap, breaking it.  Nothing on his face implies this is a game to him.  Her eyes show nothing but shock.  Pain.

“What the FUCK?” she’s mouthing.  I can barely hear her over the music.

“Come on,” I say.

Reaching down, I pull a bemused Steph up from the ground and drag her through the crowd and out of the club, my other hand dragging the now furious Austin.  No one moves to let us by easily, but no one goes out of their way to block our passage either.  Austin’s holding her injured thumb, testing it with her other hand.

“I think he broke my thumb,” she says.  “That’s so fucked up!  That’s not what you do.  That’s not how you dance battle.”

Huh?

Steph: “That guy was totally raping me.”

Austin corrects her.  “No.  He was making you his bitch.  By dancing like that, he was saying ‘I am owning you.  You are my bitch.’”

“I dunno.  Looked like he was just dry-humping her on the dance floor…”

She scoffs at me.  “No.  And I couldn’t let him do that because it’s just so wrong.  So I went in and physically told him ‘No! You’re my bitch–”

“When you were humping him, you mean?”

“What?  YES!  And that’s why it’s so wrong that he got physical with me!”

“I think you guys haven’t seen the same movies…” I say.

“At least he didn´t rape you…¨  Steph should be more upset, but she´s laughing a little now, looking back towards the bar as we walk.

¨I think my thumb´s broken.¨  Austin starts walking faster, away from us.  She doesn´t say goodbye.

¨What the hell was she talking about?¨ Steph asks me.

¨No idea.  You either got served or raped.¨

She laughs.  We talk for a while at a beachside cabana while American 80’s music plays in the background and people dance in the sand around a small fire.  It´s a stark contrast to the earlier scene in the club, despite some of the same faces.

¨Hey!” Steph says, noticing someone new by the fire.  “That´s the guy that RAPED me!¨

¨Really?  You want to leave?¨

¨I´m gonna give him a talking-to!  You can´t just go around raping people like that!¨

I follow her, slightly worried, but I´m caring less and less, and see where this is going.  Her less than genuine anger melts away quickly and now they´re touching each other´s arms as they talk, smiling.  I´d been doing moderately well for a while, but in the end, my flirtations apparently lacked the requisite amount of rape.

I Am Apparently Not a Good Man After All

Cute Irish Rachel from Quito has arrived to celebrate NYE here as well as her birthday.  Unfortunately, Crazy Irish Pikey (Having just learned what a “pikey” was from the film Snatch just weeks before, I was only marginally pleased to meet one in person) with terrible teeth and hair that looks like dirty straw (whose name I never bothered to get) has also shown up separately, which thrills me a great deal less.  Christmas Eve in Quito, she invaded my kitchen at Finn McCool’s to sloppily devour three servings of freshly made mashed potatoes I’d spent hours on, drunkenly cursing at me the entire time in a raspy voice like muddy fingers on sandpaper.  Her evil eye follows me as Rachel and I flirt violently.  Rachel kicks, punches, pinches and pokes me.  She laughs as I put her in a headlock.

“Oi,” the pikey suddenly croaks, glaring at us — me — from the sidelines.  “Why yaou gottabe puht’n ‘er in a feckin’ headlock, eh?  Stop chokin’a girl!”

Rachel and I freeze in our tracks, silent, looking up at our sullen accuser, her teeth like rotten wood.  Rachel’s bent over and I do appear to have her in a headlock that, without the corresponding laughter from moments earlier, could be taken the wrong way.  The warm blanket of levity coldly and cruelly lifted from us, our stance steadily dissolves into a wary petulance as we stumble down the sandy street, cold soulless eyes firmly affixed to my back.

Breaking the awkwardness, I remember my gift of a teddy bear as we pass The Shamrock (”I’m good.  I’m a good person!”) and separate myself to check on the owner.  The Irish I’d met in Quito generally seemed to enjoy “taking the piss out of” people, which is basically a form of smartassed banter, and my smartassed responses had affectionately been called “cheeky,” which seemed to be a good thing.  Apparently, cheekiness doesn’t always win friends or influence people.

The Shamrock’s empty save for the owner tending bar and a Canadian sitting by him, introduced to me as a fellow Canuck.

“Oh, no, I’m not Canadian,” I correct him.  “I’m from the States.”

“Wha??  I can’t believe Ursula [a mutual friend] would be friends with a fuggin’ yank.”

“Well, we’re not all bad…”

“Always.. talking about how grrreat you are.”  This man is either taking the piss out of me or about to hit me with a bottle.

“Yeah, that’s us.  Saved everyone’s ass in dubya dubya two and all that…”

“pshhzzhh!”  Did he just spray out his beer?  “The Canucks and the bloody Kiwis were there — TWO YEARS BEFORE YOU!”

“Sure.. but, you know, you never really hear much about them changing the tide of, uh, anything–”

“DID YOU SERVE?”

Huh?  Me?  Quick, levity, levity.  A safe, sheepish grin.  “Serve?  Sure.  Beer?  Maybe served some… fries.. you know–”

“WELL YOU WOULDN’T SERVE ANY FRRRRRIES IN MY ESTABLISHMENT, I CAN TELL YOU THAT!”

“Yeah.  You know, it’s possible this conversation didn’t quite go in the right direction.”

“Oh yeh it did.  It went in the direction of.. of talking with a dick.  Cuz tha’s what you are.  A dick.  And you have a.. a dick conversation.”  He turns from me back to the television, hunched over on his barstool, and glares at the screen with such intensity that it seems he’s trying to change the channel with his mind.

“Ok then!”

Downstairs in the lower bar, Pikey’s eyes meet mine as I stumble in and she pointedly gets up and walks to the bar.  I’m looking only for my group of friends, but her cold, steady gaze pulls at me and I watch as she speaks with one of the bartenders who nods, looking directly at me, as the shrew whispers to her intently.  And this is when I realize that this Pikey is my nemesis.

Rachel tries to talk me out of leaving, but sometimes you know when it’s time to call it quits and just try again tomorrow.  It’s pretty late, anyway.

I’m Outta Here

Despite having a decidedly weirder tone than the first visit, Canoa #2 isn’t a total bust.  Some friends from Quito show up on the 29th, and their mutual hate for Pikey Girl, who they’d bizarrely met on their own with similar results, adds to my ranks a bit.  There are surf lessons, beach parties and poker games still, but the deciding factor (besides the recent onslaught of mosquitos) comes mid-day on the 30th.  After many warnings to pick up my departure ticket from San Vicente in advance, I grab a local collectivo (small, cramped buses, generally unmarked, good for short term transport.  Popular throughout the continent, apparently) to town only to discover that all buses from the first through the fifth are sold out.

As the final day I’m allowed to be in Ecuador is January 5th (and I should be well on my way by that point), this is a problem.  Canoa’s a generally calm, gorgeous oasis but I’ve had enough for now.  I buy a return ticket for the morning off the 31st and head back to celebrate the new year in Quito.  There’s no place like home, I guess…

[The events in this entry take place on December 3, 2008]

“VIVA QUITO!”

“VIVAAAA”

Except that isn’t what it sounds like the throng of bullfighting fanatics are filling the stadium with the forced retort.  The muffled collection of drunken screamers in unison manage a sound that generally sounds more like:

“REEBAAHHHHF”

It does to my ears, at least.  The woman behind me insists it’s “VIVA!” though, and there are no rules or methods to the madness of the cries — just a profound love for the city exacerbated by mass quantities of alcohol.  At random, someone in the stadium howls out an impassioned “Viva Quito,” the emphasis falling on any one of the four syllables depending on the crier.  Sometimes he sounds enthralled, while others sound almost pained, but always the caller sounds male and profoundly intoxicated.  There may be minutes between each instance of this call-and-response game, or there may be mere seconds.  This town’s got quite the love affair with itself.

1.1 million people might sound like a lot, but compared to Bogota’s 11 million just to the north, or Sao Paolo’s 17 million, Ecuador’s capital and second biggest city is positively tiny.  Whether innately proud of its diminutive size or suffering from insecurity due to population envy, the city still manages to to take a “July 4″-like holiday and celebrate it about ten times as strongly as we tend to.  How are the holidays different, you ask?

• 

  The chiba. These trucks with bands on top (that continue to play even in the rain) fill the streets during Fiesta de Quito

  Police generally turn a blind eye to urinating in the streets.  Actually, no.  This is no different from any other day in Quito.

• It’s a celebration not of independence (Ecuador has its own national holiday for that.  Apparently Quito’s not as into it).  Rather, it’s celebrating the foundation of the city itself, back around 1532 or so.
• Fireworks are lit continuously all day, as well as all night.  None of the gringos understand this, as fireworks aren’t terribly visible by day.  This does not stop them from being fired off around the clock to rousing cheers, without much real increase in frequency after sundown.
• People smiling in the streets don’t immediately drop their smiles upon accidentally making eye contact with a gringo.
• Miss Quito is elected, based entirely on “public service and dancing abilities.”  (”looks don’t matter at all, then? ” I ask.  “Um.  Maybe a little…” I’m told)
• At least four separate parades take place based on region of town.
• All the major annual Quito competitions that don’t involve soccer (bike races, marathons, auto races, card games and others) take place this week.
• And finally, the primary reason the holiday is ten times as large as the US Independence Day is due to the fact that it goes on for ten consecutive days, culminating in an all-night party on the tenth night that rocks the entire city.

Fiesta or Feria de Quito happens to coincide with Schedler’s visit down here, and in addition to the increase in overall drunken revelry throughout town, the holiday is also complemented by the Superbowl of bullfighting spectacles.  While the estadio de matadors presents bullfights year round, the ten days of Quito’s Foundation are marked by ten days of the greatest bullfighters [Note: So we're told, anyway.  Short of any bullfighter getting severely gored and trampled in front of a live crowd, I would have no way of knowing good technique from bad] in the world.  Any given weekend at the stadium might include marginally talented fighters from across Ecuador, or maybe some neighboring countries; this week, we’re entertained by matadors from Spain, Portugal, France and throughout Latin America.

Tickets are $35 a person — big money down here, despite being one of the cheapest of the ten days of carnage.  Whether that lessened price has something to do with the quality of fighters or quality of the bulls is beyond my grasp.  Still, every one of the six rounds (broken in half by a 30 minute intermission) begins with an enormous placard walked around the arena listing off the matador‘s name and country as well as the farm this toro came from.  Three fighters would get two bulls each today, with the top billing going to a Spaniard named El Juli.

Schedler’s marginally interested in the spectacle, as he’s out for the kinds of experiences you can’t really get in the States.  Still, the idea of watching a bovine slowly get slaughtered before a throng of madly cheering Ecuadorians doesn’t seem to fill him with burning curiosity.  In its own undeniable ways, it’s every bit as gory and inhumane as I’d been told, but I’m here for the great and terrible that the world has to offer, and depending on whom you talk to, this makes either list.

The stadium’s smaller by far than local football (soccer) fields, and round rather than ovular.  A round wall encircles the entire block, however, leaving a large grassy halo of grounds within the official stadium for vendors, VIP tents and massive stages with scantily clad men and women thrusting rhythmically to salsa beats as a means of promoting (in at least two cases that I saw) cell phone carriers and pharmaceuticals.  Food ranges from expansive, thirty dollar platters of fine breads, meats and cheeses to two dollar sandwiches and empanadas.

Drink-wise, — and there are many drinks being consumed here — the best deal, and one of the most popular, involves an entire bottle of surprisingly drinkable red wine served with a thick, sealable plastic cup/straw combination, large enough to house the entire contents of bottle, which the saleswoman gladly decants for us.  All this for eight dollars.

The stands inside are rings formed by cool, concrete steps, with little space between one person’s foot and another one’s rear.  It’s not the most comfortable setting for three hours of sitting, but it could easily be worse; every other day massive torrents of rain poured from the sky from noon to three (the daily hours of the bullfights).  Today, though, we’re bothered by less than a few minutes of misty, refreshing drizzle.

Noon arrives and the doormen go into lock-down mode; no moving about is tolerated while the bull’s in action.  The fight information fully disseminated to the feisty crowd, and a score of “VIVA QUITOOOO”s answered, the black, gladiator-style door swings open violently as hundreds of pounds of midnight-black sinewy muscle erupts forth, slowing to a confused trot nearabout the center of the ring before stopping completely, unsue of what to do next.

“VIVA QUITO.”  “VIVAAAA!!!”

Four men with, vividly ostentatious pink and yellow capes venture out from the four corners of the ring.  Besides the bull gate, there are two other entryways into the ring, each with a stone wall blocking the door allowing for safe escape should the bull prove particularly tenacious in its strong hatred of pink.  Bulls would slam headfirst like fleshy battering rams, unfazed, into these walls several times over the course of the day.

“Why are they using pink capes?  I thought it was supposed to be red…”

Schedler shrugs.  Why would he know?

In turn, the four contort their bodies sideways to present as little as possible to their charging attacker, simultaneously creating as much of a pink target as their capes allow.  Generally, bulls charge through, receiving a quick swat on the ass with the small stick the matador carries, and immediately stop, momentarily confused, before being taunted once again.  Sometimes, however, the bull jolts around in a sweeping 180 and maintains its heated advance through a series of volleys.  Still other times, an errant horn catches the cape, leaving the matador completely defenseless, and running.  It is during these times that the alternates run forward, as does Ecuador’s equivalent of the rodeo clown, which immediately captures the full brunt of the bull’s rage and attention.

Because everyone hates clowns.  Even bulls.

But the pinkcapes are just a distraction, meant to agitate and confuse.  As the bulls lose themselves in the moment, surveying the land for the easiest target of its fiery wrath, an alternate pinkcape sprints up to it from behind wielding two large rods painted in a variety of colors, each with sharp, nearly invisible hooks protruding from their ends.  Rods facing sharply downward in parallel, the matador makes a final leap then lets the fullness of his weight bore the hooked rods deep enough into the lumbering beast’s back for the hooks to find purchase.  Enraged, the bull turns quickly to give chase, single-minded enough from the affront to its back to ignore all distractions from clowns, capes and confusion as it comes bearing down on the walled entryway.  Its eyes affixed to the attacker, the bull paces and butts heads with the bulwark ineffectually, stomping furiously.

Heading back towards the center of the ring, spring in its step and blood on its back, the bull’s head swivels, seeking out a new target for its rancor while ignoring the new woody passengers on its back.  Sunk properly into enough flesh to contain them, both rods dangle over the side of the animal, bouncing listlessly as it charges, to roars of appreciation from the crowd.  If only a singular hook finds purchase, the cheer is notably muted.  Should both fall to the ground — epic fail — a silence more powerful than any applause muffles all sound.  This ordeal happens three times, leading to six rods dangling across the bull’s slick, freshly red back if all attempts were successful.  The crowd goes wild.

“VIVA QUIIIIIIITO” “VIIIIIVA!!!!”

I’ve added my voice to the VIVA crew.  Why not?

From the gates, two horses gallop out regally, carrying men that could only be described as knights.  The massive horses are fully padded from head to hoof, and a leather blindfold seems to cover their eyes completely, trained apparently to follow every command from their rider blindly (hah!), without letting petty things like fear get in the way.  The knights charge out with halberds (long wooden staves with metal blades attached at the end) held aloft, taking positions on opposite sides of the ring, with bull caught in the middle.  Act one complete, the pinkcapes hustle in to safety as the bull surveys its new opponents.

Not one for thinking about anything long, it picks a target arbitrarily and charges it.  Head lowered, the full strength, speed and weight of the animal crash violently into the side of the horse sending it… nowhere.  The padding is light enough to show give with each strike, yet despite the bull colliding with the power and intensity of a small car, the horse moves back inches at most, occasionally lifting its two front hooves into the air to regain balance, but never in such a way as to imply fear or discomfort on its part.  Nonplussed, the bull makes machine-gun like jabs into the horse’s padded side, and while the strikes appear to vibrate powerfully across its entire body, pushing the horse back a foot or two with each hit, it refuses to yield.

Visibly irate, the bull doesn’t give in quickly either, but while the heavily padded horse is resisting the continued savage attacks from the bull, the knight’s using his proximity to the beast as an opportunity to wound it repeatedly with his halberd.  Every monstrous charge from the bull is met by equally damaging jabs into the creature’s back from the weapon, with far more effect.  Eventually sensing there’s a fix to this game, the animal finally backs off, taking refuge once again in the center of the ring, far from either horse.  Horses line up evenly from one another, salute the crowd and exit the ring to varying degrees of applause.  It’s finally time for the main event.

“Oh, there’s the red cape…”

Clowns and pinkcapes will return from time to time (when the matador stumbles, falls, loses cape, etc), but from this point on, it’s a battle between man and bull.

“Don’t you mean ‘man and bloody, severely weakened bull’?”

Maybe.  Its back is pretty gruesome by this point, with the slick, maroon blood flowing densely enough across the bulk of it to stand out above the jet black of its fur.  But if the animal’s exhausted or hurting in any way, the smoothness and intensity of its gait doesn’t let it show.  Either the animal hates red far more than pink, or it immediately recognizes a worthy opponent, as it’d barely employed the infamous toro hoof stomp before; the maneuver’s become a regular part of the repertoire now before each charge.  The matadors seem to work to keep the fight as close to center ring as possible, and watching the differences in techniques, flourishes and stances, the bout starts to take on an elegance that does help elevate it past simple bloodsport.

The general “use cape as a target, then move before dying” style is obviously employed by all, but each of the men seem to have his own unique style that’s at once bristling with machismo and extremely gay looking.  Several volleys pass using cape alone, and finally the sword is brandished making way for the endgame.  Done properly, a single insertion, hilt deep, from a point just behind the neck deep into the center of the animal takes it down in a single strike.  Most fail to hit the specific mark, and against expectations the bulls continues to run, unfazed, with a sword fully buried deep into its body, the hilt jutting out awkwardly and only visible from its contrast across a bloody background.

“Olé.”

Each pass through the cape earns one of these from the crowd, but compared to the verve with which the crowd is cheering Quito, the “ol-ay” may as well be “oh well.”  I wait for more energetic instances of the call of supposed appreciation, but they never come.

Darting a hand in as the toro passes through the red cape yet again, a quick grasp frees the rapier for another strike — and sometimes even a third — until the animal either collapses, dead, with a sharp jolt or falls to the ground, still kicking yet with no energy left to keep up a fight.  Legs still cycle softly, but a new blade, this time a short dagger, is broken out and quickly plunged into the creature’s head, bringing about an instant stillness from the massive creature.  New horses, this time attached to a long, black harness that flows behind them, wait as men secure the lifeless carcass to the harness.  And the Matador, freshly victorious, stands and bows, hat in the air to acknowledge the applause.

In general, all fights follow about the same pattern, with the bull showing no signs of weakness or distress until his final, shaky collapse.  In one instance, however, the bull runs freely for ten to twenty seconds after having a sword removed from behind, only to start stumbling a bit before vomiting out what looks to be gallons of blood and collapsing, shaking fitfully, on the ground.

“VIIIVAAAAA QUIITOOOOOO!” “VIIIIIVAAAAAAAA!!!”

Halftime comes and I’m oddly not terribly disturbed by the slaughter.  Pete’s not pushing to leave, but he makes it clear that he’d be ready to go if I was.  While Feria de Quito had been going on, though, we’d been in the Galapagos and I wasn’t ready yet to break away from the festivities yet, especially given the hefty price tag.

I feel an arm on my shoulder from behind as we venture outside for more beverages.

“GRINGO!  You like?!” a surprisingly tall Ecuadorian says in English with a great deal of enthusiasm.

“Si, si.  muy bien.  Excelente.   Si.”

The Ecuadorian — nearly as tall as me, which is definitely an anomaly in these parts — and his companions cheer and walk on.  They’re visibly drunk and visibly ready to be moreso.  Realizing slowly that had spoken to me in unusually clear English, I seize the opportunity to have some nagging questions answered and chase after the man.

“Hey!”

“GRINGO!” in unison, from both the English speaker and his friends/family who, it quickly becomes apparent, do not speak English nearly as well (or at all).  Carlos — the name I’m giving the English speaker as I’ve forgotten his real one completely despite how large a part he plays in the remainder of my afternoon — greets me with a warm smile and waves me over.  Shots have just been poured and there’s an extra for me.  It’s considered terribly rude in Ecuador to turn down free shots.  Or something.

“What do you think of the bulls, gringo, and our women?  We come here to watch both.”

“Great.  Both great…”

“You gringos come down here and complain, I know.  You say ‘how terrible… how brutal’ but you don’t understand our ways.”

“No, I was weirdly fine with it.  Actually the people I’ve met that complain the most are Ecuadorian women…”

“You don’t see,” he says, apparently not hearing me, “that the bull, we are not slaughtering it.  We RESPECT it.”  He speaks in Spanish to his party and they all nod solemnly.  Si.  Si.

¨Sure.¨

¨If I could, I would die like this bull.  We all would (Si, Si).  To go down fighting.  It is MAN, yes?  There is nothing else for this bull.  It is raised to fight.  To be strong.  And we respect its strength.  Here…¨ He passes me another shot, and again, I am not rude.  ¨Gringo, did you hear how they cheer when the bull is carried out?¨

¨Sure.¨

¨Gringo, this is not for the bullfighter.  This is for bull.  This is our RESPECT!  Bull!  You have fought!  You have died valiantly, yes?¨ He takes my shoulder firmly.  ¨And we RESPECT you, Bull!¨  Si.  Si.

¨So how often does the bull win?¨

¨Win?  To hit the matador? Many times, but is rare to happen here at Feria de Quito.  Because these men are they best.  But gringo, gringo.. Let me tell you.  Sometimes, a bull is SO strong and is SO a man and it fight SO well, that the bullfighter, he say ´no´¨  At this point Carlos makes a scoffing motion with his hands and looks away almost disdainfully.  ¨´Go´ he say ´Go, bull.  You are too much of a man.  You are great, bull, and my respect is so strong that I will not fight you.  Run free.´  And the bullfighter leaves and the bull does not fight again.  And I tell you, Gringo, this just happen here on Sunday.  And the crowd stand and they cheer the bull.  For its honor.  Have another, gringo.¨ Sure, sure.  Another polite round of vodka.

¨So this is something that happens a lot?¨

¨Almost never, gringo.¨

¨Oh.  Well, when the bull dies, what do they do..?  Like with the body, the meat?¨

He smiles and translates and the group starts laughing.  Is his cousin buying another round?  Who are these people?

¨Yes, gringo.  There is a big pit after the fights for cooking the bulls and you can eat the bull balls for to get strength.  Would you eat them, gringo?  For STRENGTH, ahh?!¨

¨Well.. I mean.. for strength…¨

¨No, gringo!” he cuts me off before I fully agree to eat balls.  “This bull, this is not for meat.  It is for fight.  The meat?  Is crap, is terrible.  You do not want it.  Have.. Have.¨  What number shot is this?  Shit, where´s Schedler..?  ¨The bull lives just for the fight.  When its soul is gone, is no more.. is no more..¨

¨Ok.  So this is Feria de Quito?  This is what the celebration is all about, because I´ve seen lots of parties in the street, but they don´t seem that spectacular.¨

¨pssh.  Do not go to these, gringo.  No good.  You want to see a Quito party?¨ He thinks for a second.  ¨Come.  Meet here.  After the fights.  We will see real party.¨

Score.  Seems like as good a time as any to bail and find Schedler.  Dunno if I can handle another shot right now anyway.

The testimonials of the Ecuadorians — plus a generous amount of vodka — leave me sufficiently roused for the remainder of the fights.  Rendezvousing with Pete, I attempt to impart the wisdom and traditions freshly imparted to me that drive the popularity of the bullfights (¨bull is strong.  it is MAN!¨), but short of several shots of vodka I don´t think he´s about to be swayed.

A renewed vision of the fights fully enhance the second half for me.  My ¨VIVA¨s are at least as strong as anyone else… my ¨Olé¨s just as insouciant.  The bull is a fighter! A big, bloody, stumbling fighter fending off five men on foot, two knights and a clown.  Olé!

Pete´s enthusiasm level not quite matching mine, he´s more than ready to go by the time the fights are over, but the idea of a local party seems appealing to both of us.  Carlos, of course, is nowhere to be found, but the surplus of cheap alcohol and skimpily dressed showgirls mean Pete’s not in too much of a rush to head out.  A commotion over by the entryway to the VIP section reveals my missing Ecuadorian, struggling to make his way through the gate.  His technique’s about as refined as a wasted teenager attempting to get backstage at a concert, tailing a group of Very Important People, only to get turned away while slyly attempting to enter with them.  It wouldn’t even be the worst plan if he didn’t tail every single group to make their way in, often after just being rejected mere seconds earlier.

I put my hand on his shoulder and he looks at me, wide-eyed with a crazed semi-recognition.  This person  cannot get me in here.  Carlos turns back to the door without saying a word to acknowledge me, and again begins pleading with the bouncers.  Nearby, a girl is handing out tickets to the section and I put together my best Spanish to ask for two, only to find she speaks perfect, un-accented English.

“No, no ticket for you.  For the same reason your friend can’t have any,” she says.

“Why is that?”

“Because you are drunk.”  She smiles, but doesn’t slow down.

“Oh.  Viva.”

Carlos gives up, but only after displaying an almost superhuman degree of tenacity before doing so, waiting feverishly by the doorway for close to twenty minutes before finally walking away.  I wait too, for Carlos is my own VIP entrance, a ticket to a world outside my small circle of expatriates, the laminate that frees me from the safety, sights and smells of the gringo district deep into Quito at its most visceral and real.  This all presupposes, of course, that Carlos has any idea what’s going on around him.  As he dejectedly walks away from the mecca of Very Important People, his eyes meet mine and his reaction’s warm once again.

“Grrringo.  Hello.”  He sounds sad.

“Hey.  Still hitting up the afterparty?”

“Party? … Yes.  Gringo.  Gringo.  Come.  Let’s… go.”

He’s not paying much attention as we walk together, but I nod Pete over and we follow the Ecuadorian through throngs of drunken revelers, past corner parties, police roadblocks, women dancing and men urinating.  My plastic cup of wine freshly refilled, I share some with our semi-reluctant tourguide and the swig of piquant alcohol seems to revive him a bit.

It turns out Carlos’ fluent English comes from his years playing football (the “real” American kind) for the University of Nebraska.  He returned to Ecuador, freshly educated in the States, to help his people, whose plight he felt was dire.  A long drunken conversation follows, often punctuated by Carlos either hugging me or clutching my shoulder so tightly it feels as though he’s trying to squeeze the presumed evils of America right out of me.

“Gringo.  Listen.  You don’t understand.  You are so rich.  Americans.  You have so much.  So much.  And look.  Here is nothing.”

“Well, I mean, I sold everything I had before coming down here…”

“Gringo.  Listen.”  In addition to calling me “gringo” with more frequency than anyone else has since I’ve arrived, he’s now taken to saying “Listen” after each time I speak.  Some interruptions call for a full “You’re not listening!” from him to really drive a point home.  “Listen.  It is bad here.  And worse in the countryside.  The sadness.  The..  children starving.  You cannot understand the problems.”

“…and I wasn’t feeling that great after a pretty bad break-up…”

“Listen.  There is no money for food… water, for roads.  There is… no jobs.  Gringo.”

“…and I wasn’t really that into my job, so I figured I’d come down here for a while, you know?  I totally get where you’re coming from.”

“Yes.  Yes, I like you gringo.  Listen…”

Somewhere along the line, I found myself wearing his hat.  Memories of this portion of the day remain cloudy, but sitting down on a curb there amidst the celebration of Quito we talked of life, the economy, socio-political factors affecting the precarious relationship between our countries and popular television.  And with  hindsight, all I can think of is “Man, Pete must’ve been really fucking bored.”

I follow my host’s lead as he urinates on a nearby truck, and use the fact that we’re now semi-ambulatory to remind him that somewhere, there is a party beckoning to us.

“Yes.  Yes…”  He hits the “unlock” button on his key’s remote and I jump back as the truck we’d both just defiled beeps twice.

“Oh.  That was your toilet…”

I’d assumed, based on the fact that none of us could drive that our party would be in walking distance, but this was a poor assumption apparently.  I take shotgun.  Sure he’s drunk at the wheel, but prior to the 80s in the States, that was the status quo, right?

Even I’m not falling for my drunken rationalizations.

With police everywhere, clearly Carlos knows his limits and is well-practiced at acceptable local drunk driving methods.  Shifting into gear, Carlos tears out of his spot and darts about thirty feet down the road to an intersection preceded by a crosswalk currently being utilized by five policemen.  And all my misguided imaginings of lenient attitudes towards driving while tremendously impaired in Quito are immediately dashed as he makes the mistake of not stopping until the last possible moment in a nightmarish screech, leaving the lower halves of three policemens’ bodies fully blocked from my perspective by the hood of a vehicle now idling mere inches from each of them.

When such an event transpires, three emotions apparently run across an Ecuadorian policeman’s face, clearly visible despite only occurring over the course of a single second:

1. Mortal fear
2. Complete disbelief
3. Wrath

And so with moderately civil wrath, we are descended upon by a swarm of men in black uniforms, bedecked in bright yellow vests, ostensibly to protect them from being hit by oncoming vehicles whenever making their way across a crosswalk.  The police talk fast and incomprehensibly, given my limited Spanish, and Carlos talks back just as incomprehensibly for different reasons entirely.  At their behest, he gets out, but then immediately makes his way to the back with Schedler, seemingly in no trouble and now the cops’re motioning for me to drive.

“[Have you been drinking?]” they ask in Spanish, but I comprehend.

“Si,” I say with an energetic nod to drive the point home.  They motion for me to drive.  The plan’s a horrible one, but if they’re letting us go, there’s no better time to vamos.  I can ditch the car two blocks from here when we’re out of sight.  “Uh, Si.  Well, we live close — vivimos circa de aqui — So, uh, sure…”

Making the first available right, we’re fleeing the scene of a crime with full police complicity and I seem to have been deputized to drive impaired by the local constabularies.  Certainly not in Kansas…

Red and blue lights fill my mirrors, accompanied by the shrill South American siren recognizable from so many movies, but always so foreign sounding even in person.  Ok, so maybe it is still Kansas.

Policemen on foot cluster around the police vehicle behind me.  Seven… Eight of them?  More?  Mostly, they speak amongst themselves, arguing, and I feel the weight of an intense dilemma being discussed that I’m somehow at the center of.  Carlos is quiet in the back as they grill me, but I lack the proper language skills to be sufficiently grilled which only adds to the difficulty of the situation.  Some bi-lingual good Samaritans approach to act as translators, but one of the policemen barks at them sharply and they back away while with an expression on their faces somewhere between “we tried!” and “you’re fucked!”

In liu of any real options, I encourage Pete to take several pictures.

After waiting an indeterminate amount of time, it seems some decision’s been reached leading them to motion for us to get out of the car, and we gladly acquiesce.  Pete and I do, at least — Carlos seems somewhat resistant to the idea, pushing the cop away as the policeman reaches in to pull the drunken Ecuadorian forcefully from the back seat.  Other police run to the first cop’s assistance, yelling frantically over each other as the already unstable situation finally collapses completely.  Carlos is kicking madly at the occupied police now, which seems to be almost universally illegal, and I feel Pete tap me on the shoulder.

“What do you say?  We should probably bail, eh?”

“Um.  Yeah.”

The attention of the police elsewhere, we put our heads down and melt into the crowd.  The scene, as scenes do, has created a reasonably sized cluster of onlookers that we first merge with then surpass, making our way down first one block, then another, until both new friends and new enemies are gone from our sights and our lives.  A traditional Ecuadorian fiesta would’ve been nice, but not being incarcerated in a foreign land is even nicer.  As nothing tastes better with freedom than beer, it’s good that every block has at least three or four vendors walking about.

With hindsight, I might’ve had a bit more than usual today.

The steady pop of pointlessly fired daytime fireworks reminds us that Quito must still be celebrated, and if we can’t do that at a local house party, then we can at least head to the next logical place for an authentic fiesta: an Irish pub.  Sure, Feria de Quito nights at Finn’s aren’t much different than any other night here.  But at least it’s safe.

Viva Quito.  VIVA.

[from late November/early December 2008]

Pete Schedler being the first and only friend thus far to visit me (I guess I didn’t exactly move to Missouri…), I did my best to research the best Ecuador had to offer, emailing out fairly descriptive lists of attractions throughout the jungle, Andes and coastal regions.

Then after less than one hour and less than two beers, everything else has been tossed to the floor of Finn McCool’s and we’re leaving for the Galapagos Islands instead the following morning.  The Islands shouldn’t need much in the way of an introduction — they’re Ecuador’s number one attraction, if not the world’s.

Sure, the cost can be a bit prohibitive, but I’d planned on hitting the islands up from the start (hence: “Galapa-going away parties”) and Pete, an “employed person,” was all for making the most of his “vacation.”  Weird stuff.  Tourism shops throughout La Mariscal offer decent last minute deals, and based on the reoccurrence of the ship “Amigo,” it’s clear they’re all fishing from the same pond.  With unlimited time, I’d probably just head out there and wait at the docks for the best of the last minute deals, but the limitation of Pete’s eight days meant we had to maneuver things just right to make the trip work.

With a $350 plane ticket just to get to the islands in the first place, followed by the hundred dollar admittance fee for non-Ecuadorians (Note to anyone planning to visit the islands soon: the already outlandish fee is set to double next year according to officials), we probably should’ve just splurged and spent another hundred or two getting a boat upgrade.  It was a fantastic trip, flooded with facebook-worthy photo ops, but the two aspects of the trip apparently most affected by money spent are the guide and the food, both of which left a little to be desired.

Still, all the staff were friendly enough, which made sense given that our boat was the “Amigo.”  The majority of Galapagos trips come in four and eight day varieties, generally on the same ship.  For the eight day-ers, this means about halfway through the trip, a chunk of your fellow travelers bail, to be replaced by a whole new set of island-hoppers (for better or worse).  There are about twenty primary islands that get visited, each with their own fascinating — if oddly bleak — characteristics that’ve been compelling tourists to drop in since before Darwin started stirring up the theological pot.

Despite the intimate connection that Darwin and the islands share, we don’t get much in the way of thought-provoking information on the naturalist or what it was he found so compelling about the place.  Our guide’s limited grasp of the islands (or English for that matter) make him less than adroit at placating our curiosity, and the Darwin Research Center on Santa Cruz (one of four inhabitable islands in the cluster) only has on area devoted to visitors.

Darwin arrived at the islands in 1835 on the HMS Beagle for a brief stop in an around-the-world voyage, that was very much like my own in almost no way.  No major epiphanies hit at the time — he was mostly interesting in geology then, with animal specimens being more of an afterthought — but he did immediately take note of variations in finches (now “Darwin Finches”) and tortoises from one island to the next.  While similar in size and coloring, the beaks changed depending on the most desirable prey on any given island.  Back in London, his notes and collections left the man questioning “the stability of Species,” which in turn led to Darwin later writing The Origin of Species, a light and completely uncontroversial piece of literature.

One last thing to note before getting into things: “Four day voyage” is a bit of a misnomer.  The first day doesn’t really begin until around one in the afternoon, and the fourth day ends when passengers are dropped off by the bus station at 9:30 in the morning.  It’s “four days” only in the most basic “Technically, you kind of see the sun four separate times!” way.

Galapagoing

The plane touches down in Guayaquil for an hour, dropping off, picking up.  A white mist seeps out from the ceiling as we depart for the final leg of the journey, disinfecting, sterilizing; the uniquely specialized evolution of life there is as delicate as it is compelling, and the introduction of new predators of any size could drastically affect the fragile balance of things.  The Darwin Research Center chronicles an entire list of now extinct flora and fauna, eradicated not directly by men but by the introduction of foreign plants, animals and insects to the ecosystem.

Darwin Finches fly up to our table fearlessly as we wait for a guide that never arrives.  He’s picked up everyone else in the group already and they’re starting off the day swimming while we’re checking out overpriced postcards and snacking on empanadas, but we’re waiting where we’ve been told to.  Another drawback to the budget deal is that the smiley, well-organized people loudly gathering people together are not gathering us.  It’s an awkward, confusing start, but there are only so many possible launching points from the island so eventually we just grab the shuttle to the docks, spotting the Amigo almost immediately.  It’s the least sexy of the three ships in the small bay, but there’s still a rustic, seaworthy charm to her.

A sense of passive unease grabs me as we scope out the other occupants — a cluster of four couples in their 50s or early 60s.  They greet us with warm, relaxed smiles and seem kind, but I’d been hoping for at least a few, preferably female, that were closer to our ages.  My fears are quelled a bit as the other half of the passengers (those that had gone swimming for most of the morning) return, comprised mostly of twenty-somethings.  For the rest of the trip, everyone would get along and fraternize swimmingly, though there’d be a clear, unspoken clustering of passengers into two disparate groups between the younger and older during any.

Down below, the crew present themselves to us, and vice versa.  Rounding through a semi-circle, the passengers state our name and country of origin to rousing applause from the crew.  I’m one of the last to go, and the first from the States.

“My name’s Yancy and I’m from Los Estados Unidos,” smiling warmly.

<clap>

Not “<clapping>”.

“<clap>”.

A single clap.  I’m not looking for a rendition of the Star Spangled Banner in Spanish or anything, but come on there, hombres.

Food is simple, but generally not bad, typically with the traditional meat/starch/veggie combination, which is at least a step up from the standard Ecuadorian meat/starch/single-piece-of-lettuce-masquerading-as-a-veggie plate.  But every day provides three large, unique meals, never overdone or with less than pleasant looking ingredients.  The only night that stood out negatively did so for wholly American reasons: Thanksgiving dinner (not listed as such anywhere, of course, or even pretending to be one) was comprised of a small chicken breast, cubes of potatoes and some slivers of eggplant.  It was also the night we pressed through the roughest seas, inducing a ship-wise seasickness that only a few fought through to finish their meals unaffected.

Thanksgiving dinner ‘08: One piece of chicken, half chewed, spit from the aft deck after running topside for air.

Our next day’s adventures are plotted out in passable English each night prior to dinner by Lenny, our guide.  The typical day consisted of two photogenically idyllic stops, each lasting several hours, punctuated by a 2-4 hour gap while making our way to a new location, during which time we’d either drink or read heavily (those being the only options).  Our guide’s tour-guiding abilities remind me much of my approach towards college: before each trip out to a new location, he’d be cramming madly from a book about the Galapagos, and upon confidently answering any question later asked of him, most listeners were fairly certain his answer was complete and utter bullshit.  He wasn’t terrible.  He knew things.  He was passable.  Just as I, eventually, graduated college.

“Lenny, how long can that iguana stay underwater?”

A stony-eyed, empty gaze back at me accompanied by a pause.  An abnormally long one.

Finally: “It can stay under for.. 17 hours.”

17?  Exactly 17??  Come on.  At least try, Lenny.

Beer and wine on board are cheap by US standards, but after living for a while in Ecuador, two bucks for a beer is nearly double what I’d expect to be paying, and wine costs even more.  Against the rules, Pete managed to get a bottle of Grey Goose vodka onboard, though it mostly stayed tucked away until the final night, likely the cause of our oversleeping and missing the dinghy back to port.  Luckily it decided to make two trips.

Despite the above snarkiness, we’re in the Galapagos — it’s obviously going to be an incredible trip.  In the grand scheme of life on the planet, these are very young volcanic islands, leading to a derth of variety to the plantlife and few trees.  The sparseness of living things here and the near-desert climate lends a certain bleakness to the islands that’s both beautiful and oddly ominous at times, like when a place seems too quiet.

All that said, I’m letting the pictures do most of the talking from here on out:

Knowing Galapagos was a strong if not definite destination in the course of my travels, I was prescient enough to pick up an underwater camera prior to leaving the States.  I’ve mostly been very happy with my Olympus, but right around the end of the Galapagos trip, I noticed the battery cabinet was taking on water, enough so that one of my batteries was destroyed.  Luckily the camera itself still functions, and I feel relatively comfortable with it exposed to rain, but I won’t be swimming with it again unfortunately.

It performed perfectly on this trip, however…

But the grand prize winner in the “coolest thing to swim with in the Galapagos region” goes, bar none, to the sea lion.

With most of the group a good fifteen minute swim away, a sea lion swims directly up to Ellie, an English girl I’m swimming with (who taught me, by the way, that “French toast” in England is known as “Eggy Bread”), and myself.  Rather than just brush by as if by accident, the sea lion, a female, darts between us and proceeds to torpedo through the water, spiraling constantly as though this is all a game.  And it probably is.  We give chase, only to have the creature pull a 180 and suddenly be the one in pursuit, as it literally swims circles around us.  It never quite gets in range for either of us to reach out and touch it, but it never gets more than a few feet past us either, often turning around to look us in the eyes with a glance I can only describe as “intensely curious.”

Ellie and I decide the others have to get in on the hot sea lion action and guess correctly that she’s enough into us to follow us for ten minutes to the others.  We swim along as it considers its graceful aquatic dance between us.  The others are equally taken with her — how could you not be? — and she must feel similarly, as when the time comes to re-board the dinghy, she’s still with us.

Santiago Island had a massive lava outpouring long ago with a high metallic content, leading to some fantastic natural formations.

Besides more sea lions, this island’s claim to fame seems to be iguanas.  Orgies and orgies of iguanas.

Schedler and I oversleep the next morning, missing the dinghy back to dry land entirely.  The problem’s exacerbated by the small room — two bunkbeds huddled over one another, neither more than six feet long (I’m 6′4″) and even less floor space, such that only one of us can get dressed and packed at a time.  Couples looking for a romantic getaway to the Galapagos might want to look into a slightly bigger ship, as the quarters would be less than ideal for any hot island action.

Speaking of hot island action, our first and only stop in the morning is at the Galapagos tortoise refuge, and one of the first sightings there involves a pair going at it hot and heavily.  If by “hot and heavily,” I mean barely moving at all.  In the realm of large animal sex, watching tortoises in action is about as devoid of movement as two creatures can get while still copulating.  The female sits motionless on the bottom, head pulled in defensively with a look of profound confusion, discomfort and even a bit of fear in wide, glassy eyes.  The male, meanwhile, has somehow gotten his slow, awkward body upon her at a 45 degree angle, with his head partially outstretched with a look on his face that could only be described as “curmudgeonly.”  And about once every other second, his leather neck and head rises.  Then drops.  Then rises.  And on, and on.  No other movement anywhere on his visible body.

I think those two spring chickens were in their 70s or 80s.  Galapagos Turtles are the oldest land animals, clocking in at times in the upper hundreds.  Approaching, the male immediately jumps off the female, which is a shame, but no reason for me not to go for the photo op.  I assure you, i did not kick the male turtle off, as this picture seems to imply.

Having seen little else of the island (despite having the time to do so), Schedler and I separate from both those going to the airport and those returning to the boat to spend a last day soaking up whatever Santa Cruz might have to offer.  Both of us being SCUBA certified, that was our first option, but as all the locations are far enough away to warrant leaving by boat at eight in the morning, our window of opportunity had closed on that.  The island has several restaurants that’re higher in quality than standard Ecuadorian vittles, but far more expensive as well, bordering on “American” prices.

Other than a visit to the marginally interesting Charles Darwin Research Center, the rest of the day’s fairly uneventful.  After having tracked down a spot known for good waves, Pete’s set to go surfing the next morning.  Sleeping in a bit’s fine by me, though.  It’s “vacation.”

[This entry takes place in late November, 2008.  I'm getting caught up this week, I swear]

Nightfall descends over the small, adventure sport capital (well, one of them…) of Ecuador as I arrive, and the Ecuadorian habit of confidently responding to questions despite having no actual knowledge of the answers is screwing me over more than normal.  One part politeness and one part pride, I’ve experienced this in nearly every city I’ve visited, making me wary of any directions, despite the fiery glow of certainty their giver may give off.  Tonight, I get four different sets of directions to the popular Plantas y Blancas (translated “plants and whites,” you can probably guess the decor of the hostel) and after discovering the last set to be correct, I shudder at just how terrible the first three were (one ended in a small canyon looking over a river, actually…).

And I only asked policemen.

Baños means “baths,” rather than “bathrooms” as anyone that’s read a Spanish guidebook up to page three might be confused by, and if it were the latter, this place would probably be far less of a tourist attraction.  Though I suppose there have been times where I might’ve considered busing three hours for a pleasantly undefiled bathroom since I’ve been here.  I’m still too much of a traveling “newb” to resist uber-tourist sites like this; veteran travelers seem to make a point of getting as far off the beaten path as possible [Note: writing this in Nova Rocafuerte, I seem to have gotten off said beaten path -- this place has no internet, and electricity for only about 12 hours a day].  Three sets of baths (read: giant, pools of opaque, water the color of mucous after a slight bacterial infection — “it’s all the minerals” we’re told, which we desperately want to believe — filled with people) can be found in the city limits, though only one resides at the bottom of a scenic waterfall, with both frigid pools/fountains and nearly scalding baths heated to an almost uncomfortable level by the local volcano, Tungurahua.

Said volcano — the tallest in Ecuador — blew it’s lid last just a year ago, and nearly ruined the town with a more epic burst in 2006.  When the vast majority of cash flow into a town comes in via tourism (both from Ecuadorians and abroad), evacuating an entire town for six months can be devastating.  From the disproportionate amount of pasty white faces on the streets compared to any other town I’ve ventured into down here, clearly the place has bounced back.  Daytime tours to the volcano are available by foot, horse, motorcycle, ATV and whatever other semi-dangerous travel contraption’s hit the adventure circuit.  As more tourists swung by for the adventure sports, more adventure sports became available for said tourists utilizing the slew of natural resources in every way imaginable.  Waterfall rappelling, whitewater rafting, biking, bungee jumping, etc, all complement the scenic beauty of the idyllic little town encircled by mountains.

As I arrive, backpackers — two male and one female — are waiting at the door to Plantas y Blancas and we head in together.  There are two-bedroom and four-bedroom options, and when one of the males claims that the four bed option is fine, something almost imperceptible passes between him and the girl.  Hostel connections are built quickly (and apparently die just as quickly), and after claiming our room, three of us head out for dinner and drinks.  It’s one of my first times alone since arriving in Ecuador, so I enjoy the expediency with which I found company, and shortly through dinner we decide on taking the popular bicycle trip the following day to nearby Puyo, 60 kilometers away.

But the proximity and fame of the baths demands our attention first.

The hot baths, and the cold

Steam rains upwards from the near-scolding mineral bath, heated beyond hot tub temperatures to a level that generally evokes a soft yelp and frantic turn of the red faucet when achieved at home.  I gingerly test the waters with my foot, and fail before getting more than toe knuckle deep.  Repeated attempts bring my body almost to tolerable harmony with the waters, but never to the point where the soft, warm sting that vibrates through me recedes.  Frigid water showers out from the walls like dense man-made waterfalls, just beyond the hot bath and a steady stream of locals pass through, giving immediate shocked reactions to the icy contrast of the human stockpot they’d only recently exited.  Not so much a shower as a free-flowing beam of water emanating from a hole about five inches across, the drenching power of the torrent completely envelopes and overwhelms any daring enough to pass under it almost instantaneously.

There’s no middle ground here — only the strangely compelling extremes from hot to cold.

“Gringo.”  An older woman calls over to me.

In slow Spanish, she explains that these pools have been providing health and long life to the people of Baños for hundreds of years, simply by following a simple routine: Five minutes in a hot bath followed by one minute under the freezing shower.  Repeat seven times.  The most amazing thing about all of this is that I was able to grasp it with my limited Spanish.

Then again, she might’ve just been asking me what time it was.

Muscles lock as my still steaming body takes the single step forward that places me directly underneath the outpouring of liquid ice, and a sharp, involuntary exhalation passes through my clenched teeth.  For several seconds, I forget to breathe.  Or maybe I just don’t want to.  The discomfort passes quickly though, and gives way to an almost hypnotizing sense of calm that I’d experience seven more times over the next forty-two minutes.

“Do you really think this routine is good for the body?” Lucia asks me.

“Sure,” I say, pointing at a decrepit elderly man being lifted up in a daze after collapsing under one of the cold showers.  “He’s only 27…”

The long descent (halfway) down to Puyo

Lucia, the female of the group, originally from Slovakia, stayed up with me in much hyped (all well-deserved) rooftop terrace of the P&B until 3ish, so the bike trip begins a bit later than anticipated.  Almost entirely built around tourism, the center of Baños seems to have more adventure sport companies than restaurants and tiendas, with bike rental options both immediately next to and directly across the street from Plantas y Blancas.  Because when I’m intending to participate in hours of cycling exercise, the last thing I’d want to do is have to walk more than a block to pick one up.

We grab the last three bikes at a cost of four dollars each for the entire day, and head off.  Helmets are included, as are bike chains and archaic repair equipment, though should the latter have come into play, we likely would’ve walked back carrying our bikes rather than attempt any advanced roadside engineering.

Few roads lead into or out of Baños, and the love this road gets from biking tourists for being almost entirely downhill for the sixty kilometers it takes to get to Puyo must thrill local commuters forced to dodge oncoming traffic while keeping their vehicular manslaughter points low.  Returning, therefore, would be a major problem, were it not for trucks that make a habit of picking up exhausted foreign cyclists and their gear for a marginal fee.  The first half of the trip is famous due to a deep, precarious valley that runs alongside the road, dropping off hundreds of feet down to a river fed by a series of waterfalls.  The seven major falls make for a ride that’s as gorgeous as it is relaxed and breezy, and several of them have treacherous paths leading down for those with exploratory natures.

Despite little word of this from the guidebooks, there are segments of uphill riding that my out-of-shape ass struggled with a bit, though I did my best to disguise my panting to my younger and slightly more fit partners in crime.  David, a well-educated young Englishmen on the last leg of his South American trip, came along for the ride along with Lucia and myself.  The first three falls made for decent rest stops and vistas, but didn’t seem worth the hike down.  It wasn’t until the fourth, made slightly more prominent by a cable car running across the valley, and a suspension bridge further below, that we opted for a more hands-on approach.

Every awkward, weighty step downward drenched in sweat through the steep descent is an uncomfortable reminder that at some point, past swimming and exploring, past waterfalls and bridges, flora and fauna, we’ll have to climb back up to the bikes.  The bridge is sturdy, but old, and the occasional broken board adds to the sense of excitement as it slowly rocks from side to side as we cross.  It’s nice to have access to potable water and changing rooms at the base of the falls, but the 75 cent entrance fee felt about as warranted as any nature tax that doesn’t seem to go in any way towards enhancing the actual site.

Mist clouds the air for our long walk to the falls, and while it’s refreshing at first, our clothes are uncomfortably drenched before we take notice how dense the mist truly is.  The bottom of the falls is craggy and shallow, making for a poor swimming arena; we opt for a small pool further down to cool off before beginning our long ascent back to the road.  The pool was almost dizzyingly refreshing, but halfway up the hill, any of its curative effects on us have already be fully drained.

The bikes pleasantly unmolested, we ride through tunnels, down dirt detours and through small, lackadaisical towns before reaching Rio Verde.  Literally “Green River,” it hosts the largest waterfall along the Baños-Puyo route — “El Paílón del Diable” (no idea what a “Pailon” is, but the devil apparently has one — and is the largest town we’ve hit since leaving.  Craft stands (again with a focus on jewelry devoted to either Che “viva la revolution” Guevara or Bob “I wear this to display that I enjoy marijuana” Marley) dot the top of the path before it descends down to the base of the falls.  Far more intense than its cascading cousins we’d passed earlier, it costs a dollar to get to the observation deck for a proper view.  Having come this far, we bite the bullet and pay, getting access to both a precarious stone vista directly in front of the falls and a cave-like tunnel that leads to a vantage point behind the falls.  If you’ve got the buck, it’s probably worth the view; frugal travelers already don’t need to be told to skip it.

My legs are long dead by the time we finish our final ascent back up, and it’s nearing dusk.  Rio Verde’s about 30 kilometers through the run, and from what we’ve heard, most of the scenic splendor is used up by this point, making the remainder of the trip to Puyo fairly uninteresting.  A quick late lunch and we negotiate our way back to Baños with the local truck; he wants ten for the three of us, but we get him down to six.

No one respects you if you pay full price here.

Rafting out those bad Poudre vibes

Getting knocked from my raft towards the beginning of a class IV (was it a V?  I’ll take the extra badass points that’d offer…) rapid along the Poudre (pronounced “POO-der”) River in Colorado wasn’t one of my finer moments.  It was the third time I’d ventured into white waters, and supposedly the least dangerous of the set, but it was the only river that almost sucked me down to a watery grave.  Well, “extreme watery discomfort,” at least.  As I hit the water with a soggy thud, I immediately reached for the raft and began climbing back in with the assistance of friends, only to have the guide press his paddle to my head and push more forcefully back into the maelstrom.  Floating through the torrent unaided, I kept my feet forward, my body loose and my mind clear save for an extended “FUUUUUUCK,” with a new diphthong added by each rock hit that lasted the entire thirty second ride, uninterrupted by any other intelligible thoughts.

No major damage, other than being bruised, battered and winded, but after that, I was quite content with never rafting again.

Two things brought me back into the wetsuit fold: 1) It couldn’t hurt to counter any irrational (or hell, even rational) fears I might have and 2) Lucia really wanted to go, and it would’ve been a terrible show of masculinity to cower away from the activity in even the slightest way.

The boat’s an interesting mix of tourists: an engineer from Australia and his British wife, on holiday; a African-American principal from Texas that was surprisingly a Bush supporter (”he was really good to teachers as Governor”); a German computer guy without enough English for me to find out anything about him; Lucia, David and myself.

My heart races through most of the trip, despite the rapids falling mostly in the III category, with only the occasional IV mixed in for good measure.  Despite the low grading of the water, I can’t ignore the sheer force of the torrents as they toss the boat about.  It’s an adrenaline-inducing experience, but on the whole not terribly dangerous.  The guides are all fairly experienced and even speak relatively decent English.  For 25 bucks, it’s a better deal than any similar rafting trip you’re likely to find in the States, and it even comes with free lunch if you survive.

Waterfall Rappelling

It’s like regular rappelling — attach yourself to a rope, ignore survival instincts and steadily bounce down a sheer rock face — except that a waterfall drenches the rappeller through the entire descent, and the added slickness level of the stony surface helps kick things up a notch as well.  It’s both unique and heavily recommended by past visitors to Baños, and despite the occasional vertigo, the guides maintain control of everyone’s drop at all times, should any rappeller be foolish enough to let go of his rope.

The biggest danger I faced was embarrassment; forgetting early on to keep my legs spread apart, I lost my stance, slipped over the slick, wet rock and slammed sideways into a crevice.  Once sideways in an awkward position, it’s a bit more tricky regaining the right footing.

Probably the only really negative aspect of the activity is the initial climb to the summit.  From the top, there are five distinct waterfalls to rappel down, but the van drops all rappellers off at the base, and the tight, sock-less shoes they offer for better traction are terrible for actual hikes.  Things culminate in what amounts to a slick natural sliding board that dumps participants off gracelessly into a final muddy pool.

It’s probably far less dangerous than the rafting, but those with a fear of heights should take precaution.

Look, at just under a hundred bucks for three and a half days down here, it’s far more than I’m used to spending.  But the conflagration of so many different and unique activities in one gorgeous spot allowed me a pass, I think…

[Note: This took place November 2, 2008.  I'm a little behind.  Also, I'm leaving on a boat cruise into the heart of the jungle, so there might not be any more updates for a month or so]

Cellmate: …and when there was no meat, we ate fowl and when there was no fowl, we ate crawdad and when there was no crawdad to be found, we ate sand.
H.I.: You ate what?
Cellmate: We ate sand.

-From “Raising Arizona”

The Magical Gringo as an eater of sand

Gringos tend to be a spoiled lot, so I’ve done my best not to pitch whiny gringo fits when things are a bit less convenient than 21st century US living might’ve left me accustomed to.

But seriously, Ecuador: What’s with the plantain-and-queso-mash for breakfast every day?  Hell, I dig plantains.  Queso’s just mozzarella’s semi-retarded cousin, and almost as versatile as far as cheeses go.  On their own, they’re a welcome supplement to any food in the “succulent” or even “savory” categories, yet the combination of the two without the kind assistance of any other ingredients is so dry and bland, it’s really about on par with eating a giant ball of wet sand.

Yes, the exciting, home-cooked Sunday brunch in Guayaquil is once again the dense, dry, flavorless plantain/queso mix I had the privilege of knowing, mildly liking and then subsequently hating in Chone.  As a twist, I offered to cook this time under the expert tutelage of Nancy and Monsy, whose stunning company almost makes my my least favorite breakfast food palatable.  I steam up some plantains before using a large, round stone to squash the queso into the still-finger-burning hot starchy mix until a dijon-mustard colored mash with small white specks is ready to be shaped.  With free reign over the choice of shaping the fresh mixture, I opt for balls over patties simply for the infantile comedy fodder.

The starchy denseness proves too much for me, like four meals condensed into something the size of a tennis ball, and I bail with half a ball crumbled sadly on my plate.  If you can look beyond flavor when it comes to food, there really is no better way to get four people completely stuffed for under two bucks.

The Magical Gringo as an Actor

Three bucks gets us into the expansive park — it’s no Six Flags, but has a zoo, performance center, cheap rides and interactive (pettable) livestock.  Pestering the parrots that mark the entrance to the zoo section gets us nowhere and we proceed deeper in, past more varieties of vivid birds, howler monkeys and other bizarrely shaped local land mammals.  It’s no National Zoo, but the hands-on nature and scenic backdrop makes for a nice walk.

Monkeys at the end of the zoo section stop short of hurling feces at us, but glare with a fierceness rarely seen from their North American counterparts.  Hissing while maintaining eye contact, we stay longer than necessary, impossible to escape the draw of being so unintentionally taunting.  The dense, woody section of the zoo opens wide to 19th century style bulidings — the church is authentic, but the empanada stand’s about as valid as fried macaroni on sticks sold at Rennaisance festivals.  Time’s a factor, as the hour-long performance begins every hour on the hour.  We’ve got ten minutes to spare, but when taking in a play in a non-native tongue which I barely grasp enough of to handle talking about where to meet, greet and excrete, I’d rather not be in the nosebleed section.

Ok, fine.  The “nosebleed section” is only five rows back, but it looks to be made from a less comfortable cut of bamboo.

The stage is the front patio of a colonial era farmhouse, lined with a few tables and chairs as props but fairly sparse otherwise.  There’s enough slapstick in the show to keep a gringo like me from pulling my hair in consternation for an hour, but constant laughter at much of the dialogue leaves me feeling a bit left out.  I’d imagine it’s much like how my parents felt watching me do Shakespeare…

The characters are fairly textbook, but played with enough energy and joy that it rarely drags, despite the lack of subtitles.  Basically, three hombres work for a fairly wealthy farmer that, surprisingly enough, has an attractive and available daughter.  Naturally, the youngest of the farmhands is the pauper with the heart of gold that falls for her.  The two others are comic relief, with the tallest of the three getting involved in a comic subplot between the local maid and a black woman with exaggeratedly padded T&A that arrives unexpectedly with a suitcase about twenty minutes in.

With time to spare, the pauper is accepted by the once reluctant father, grasping the glimpse of true love in his daughter’s eyes.  This leaves ample time to the bizarre love triangle formed between the farmhand, the maid and the fake-assed visitor whose direct connection to the farm I never accurately guessed.  For simplicity’s sake, they’ll just be Maid and Visitor henceforth.  What matters is that Visitor doesn’t much care for getting the shaft, figuratively speaking, and she’s about to play some dirty pool.

Music blares from behind the faux shutters over the faux windows from the second story of the faux farmhouse, and Farmhand’s giddily expressive face makes it more than clear what his feelings about the attentions of his dance partners means to him.  Weaving in and out between the two, Maid — the more quiet and forlorn of the women, leaving the comic relief to Visitor, whose ass is, of course, faux — is alternately overjoyed and downtrodden depending on his attentions.  Visitor opts for a more fierce route, clutching him tightly and shooting beams of furious hate at him upon each departure.  Eventually, she opts for the “jealousy as a weapon” route and brings in a new character to enact her revenge upon her less-than-focused suitor.

Me.

It’s got to be a standard part of the show, and the crowd clearly approves of her light-skinned, lanky choice.  Farmhand is less enthusiastic.

She speaks to me in Spanish and quickly grasps my inability to quickly grasp anything she might say, and shifts instead to body motions, flapping her arms.  I get it!

“It’s the chicken dance– ehh, pollo bailar, si?”

Her eyes inform me that my wording was painfully incorrect, but her smile’s content with my understanding of things, and we flap with wild abandon as Farmhand looks on.  Maid’s taken a liking to me now as well, and Farmhand walks off in shame as I enjoy the affections of his ladyfriends.  They’re a bit older than I typically go for, but I seem to be far better at this style of dance than salsa, based on my few embarrassing attempts.  The crowd’s uproarious applause feeds my sense of showmanship, and even if they’re laughing more at than with, I can take it: I used to wear a Captain Morgan suit through bars for a living, after all.

My quick dismissal of Farmhand appears to have been premature.  He’s back, and packing heat this time, which is 19th century Ecuadorian terms means he’s brandishing a machete at me in a way I can only describe as “comically threatening.”  Visitor hugs me in as tightly as she can, the sunglasses riding on my top shirt button devestated by her embrace.  He swings at me, but it must be fairly well choreographed as she momentarily takes the lead in our close dance and spins me out of the way before he can make contact.

Dialogue returns to the show as they begin to scream at one another and I take it as a cue to sneak back to my seat, as strangers pat me on the shoulder as a show of appreciation for my acting chops.  Sadly, the show had developed a new character and couldn’t let him just vanish without a proper exit.  Thus, I am called back to the fray.

Farmhand has a friend with a lesser role in the play, and he approaches me with his hat and machete, not to attack but as a means of fighting back.  He’s rambling in Spanish and who knows what the hell he’s saying, but with a hat and a machete, I can make my owned damned plot twist.  Fully in character — a confused gringo with complete encouragement from all to succumb to maximum obnoxiousness — I jump from my seat with machete held high.  Farmhand, unarmed and attempting woo his way back into both previously scorned hearts, looks over at me and I run towards him, sparks flying from my machete as I drag it along the concrete (a maneuver I’d learned early from watching him), and I chase him across the grounds and through the gates of the performance area.

The crowd goes wild.

The Magical Gringo as a Singer

Down a makeshift alley formed by rows of corn, pass a small petting zoo and a lone donkey, a folk act’s set up shop in a small wooden hut.  We’re early enough to get one of the spots inside the shack, which is beneficial to my less-than-magical gringo complexion.  The prior playhouse had a crowd of well over a hundred, but the intimate nature of this performance limits the audience to around forty or so, and many of those are crammed outside with the pigs and geese.

From the laughter, the music is clearly comedic in nature, and often sing-a-long as well.  A new song begins and builds to a loud, repetitive chorus of “Kee Kiri Kee.”

“Is that Spanish?” I ask Nancy.

“No.  Rooster.”

Apparently “Kee Kiri Kee” is Ecuador’s take on “cock-a-doodle-doo.”  I can’t say I agree, but as far as choruses to Spanish songs go, it’s fairly easy to get into.

KEE KIRI KEE!

The guitarist stops abruptly and one of the singers retrieves a plastic flower for an elderly woman he claims was the most spirited rooster in the crowd.

KEE KIRI KEE!

The song continues with louder screams from the audience and the new winner, a younger woman, gets something that looks a bit like incense.  It’s too loud to ask the girls what’s going on, but whatever the singer coyly says to her while passing off the prize earns laughter from the crowd and a slightly embarrassed smile from the winner.

KEE KIRI KEE!!!

My talents finally noticed, the band sets their attention on me.  it was the final verse and apparently a special gift is waiting for me.  Already people are laughing through the longer-than-usual introduction while my surprise is held aloft before all, encased in a cheap, brown paper bag.

Lots of laughter now.  With the showmanship of a magician, the contents of the bag are displayed, slowly at first and then in a grand, sweeping gesture.  It’s two dried corn cobs, kernals removed.

What a shitty prize.

An old man sitting next to me makes a circle with the thumb and index finger of one hand, then repeatedly sticks the index finger from his other hand into the makeshift hole.  His grin is politely mischievous, but with the combination of the generally perverse gesture he comes across as downright creepy.  I nod my head and laugh at whatever he’s saying to me (”Oh?  Si.. si”) and wait for the first pause in his speech to look in the other direction toward the girls and bi-lingual sanity.

Nancy explains while everyone else is still cracking up.

“They’re saying that in the old days, villagers would use the corn cobs to clean themselves after going to the bathroom, so you are to take those with you next time you have to go.”

“Oh.  OHHHHH!”

What a shitty prize.

The Magical Gringo as a Body of Desire

It doesn’t seem to be a special birthday year for Manuel, but even at first glance, the party well exceeds any expectation I might’ve had for it.  Nancy’s friend Carolina was a leopard girl or some other sexily anthropomorphic cat at the Halloween party two night’s prior, and we’re all dropping in to celebrate the anniversary of her brother’s birth.  My initial trepidation of standing out as the white fish in a small sea are dashed when I get a look at just how expansive this sea is.

The Larreas (Carolina, Manuel and family) live in a cul-de-sac which has been effectively closed to handle the massive event.  A stage has been erected at the far end of the circle, with rows of seats cascading out for the sea of celebrants, likely numbered around 200.  Families are already quite large here, and when you’re closing down a neighborhood for a party, it makes sense to invite the whole neighborhood, just so everyone’s chill with what would otherwise be an inconvenience.  Despite the food, music and barrage of non-stop entertainment on stage, most of the crowd seems a bit sedentary — not unhappy, certainly, but quiet and only rarely venturing forth from their seats.

We walk through the crowd, stopping only once for some free iced cream before finding a spot near the front to watch the current spectacle.  Seven women — Carolina amongst them to the far left — stand in a horizonatal line upon the stage while a clown taunts them from below.  His style and make-up are different from those of his American counterparts, but there can be no doubt of his clownish nature.  The large red shoes are universal clown apparel, but his red nose is far more long than globular, and after making apparently witty or sarcastic remarks, he was able to make it jerk upwards in a succession of three to four quick bursts that made it come across as awkwardly phallic.

The clown’s said something just now that’s set the crowd off — “corpo”?  “cuerpo”? — and I settle in for another incomprehensible show that I hope includes more slapstick and less chatter, as I’m already completely confused by the act.  For instance, why is Nancy pointing at me?  And why’s the clown walking over?  What the hell’s a “cuerpo”?

“What the hell’s a cuerpo?”

He’s getting closer.  Nancy’s too excited.

“It’s ‘cuerpo del deseo‘! The Body of Desire!  It’s you!  You are the Body of Desire!”

“I’m wh–?”

This clown’s in my face now, his penile nose bouncing furiously above me as he takes my arm with one bizarrely gloved clown hand and lifts his other into the air officially pronouncing me the “body of desire.”

Ok.

Music from Rocky is now blaring and the clown motions for me to run with him in slow motion, which I am capable of doing.  Good start.  I can do this.  I am el cuerpo del deseo.

So far the crowd is content with the choice.  They’re laughing at me, at least.  We stop in front of the stage and he crosses my arms for me and poses me in the shape you’d expect of a, well, body of desire.  I stare at the ladies on stage, mustering up as much desire as I can for each of them.  They appear to be sorted by age, with Carolina at one end and the oldest women — likely the grandmother — on the other end.  I’m assuming sisters, mothers and aunts in between, but a body of desire need not concern himself with such things.

Done instructing the girls, the clown backs off and loud music from a genre that can only be described as “70’s porn” begins to play as Carolina makes her way down the stage sultrily.  She approaches slowly, eye contact never waivering.  There’s always the possibility that I play this too well and just come off as creepy, but I opt to take the chance so as to not sully the name of el cuerpo with platonic desire and glance back with as much lust as I can muster; Carolina’s pretty cute, so it’s not tough.

One by one, the women follow, each circling me slowly, closely, with music from Neon Nights blasts in the background, until finally the last one carefully makes her way off the stage toward me.

“Come to El Cuerpo, Granny,” I mouth, with my best bedroom eyes.  I grace her with a kiss on the hand as she approaches, but from that point on, her performance is just as solid as that of her progeny.

Rocky music blasting once more, I slow-motion run, sated, from the central performance area, a body of desire no more.

The Magical Gringo as a Dancer

There’s an old saying that you have to learn to walk before you can learn to dance.  Or maybe it’s learn to crawl before you walk?  Possibly running is involved.  Whatever.

The point is, there are times where I still trip over myself while simply walking, so it didn’t surprise me much when my one attempt at taking dance lessons in the States was met with discomfort, embarrassment and shame.  About the only useful thing that did come out of the class was knowledge that the man always leads.  You can botch just about everything else up, and you’re surely not likely to win any dance competitions, but if you can at least control the flow of the dance with some kind of confidence, it’ll at least be fun.  Not necessarily graceful, technical or pretty, but fun.

With this knowledge, I jumped up with Nancy almost directly after the band began to play and spent the next hour having fun.  It wasn’t graceful, technical or pretty (well, we were kind of pretty at times), but it was fun.  She showed me some moves and I promptly forgot them as we intermittently spun one another through the crowd with uncoordinated aplomb.

The line for food is long, but I’m too sweaty to keep up the Saturday Night Fever, and too hungry to impatiently avoid the line.  The kitchen is small, and a single woman — Manuel’s mother? — serves everyone from the stove in far corner.  People press in, tightly, setting off a chain reaction where politeness is set aside in the name of accessing the fresh ham and corn mash wrapped and steamed in banana leaves (a local treat I have not yet grown tired of).

‘Anyone wanna grab a plate for the cuerpo?  El Cuerpo del Deseo?  No?  Just checking.”

At least one lady smiled at that.  I think.

Food eventually in hand, I walk through the crowd and Nancy’s giving a speech from the stage to a silent crowd.  Her friend spots me and dashes up, taking the food.

“Go up there!!  You guys won the dance competition!  You have to go up!”

“What?  Competition?  Who the hell were they watching?”

Nancy smiles as I run up.  I get there just in time to be presented with some exotic shampoo in an interestingly shaped bottle that hints toward its pricey nature.

“You have to say something!”  I’m standing in front of a silent crowd now with a bottle of shampoo in one hand and a microphone in the other.

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

“Um.” I hold aloft the shampoo, filled with uncertainty.  “I’m.. I’m definitely going to use this.” I nod my head a few times to give the statement more weight.

“Noooo — In Spanish,” she smiles.

“Oh.”

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

“Um.  Feliz Na– Cumpleanos a Manuel!  y…” Mild cheers.  Getting there, getting there…

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

A banner running over most of the crowd proclaims “Viva el Santo.”  Wait.  Long live the saint?  Man, they love this guy.

“y VIVA EL SANTO!!!!” My arms in the air, my proclamation as grand as possible, this better be good, because I only have one last line, and I’m not sure it’d work here.

(San Dimas High School football RULES! )

The crowd goes wild.

The Magical Gringo at rest

Falling from one public display that most individuals would be lucky to have happen once a year into the next at an almost hourly rate, I’m almost relieved when the magic stops and I can return to the fringe to watch the party go on.  We stay for nearly five hours, eating, talking, dancing, watching.  Carolina’s family seems made up entirely of musicians, and they (and others) take to the stage so that there’s never a shortage of background music.  Children smash a pinata, but people of all ages dive in as its insides splatter across the ground.  And with good reason — in addition to candies, there are ones, fives, tens, twenties and hundreds in there.

Getting back to the hostel, my fever’s in full swing again, but I can’t really gripe.  It granted me a reprieve through one of the more surreal days of my life, so a little late night misery’s more than acceptable.  Sleep takes me almost immediately; fun as they are, days like this can be terribly draining on a cuerpo.