Sunday, June 29, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Adentro (pt.1)
(this post has turned into a ridiculous length, so I am splitting it into 2, or maybe 3, parts.)
I passed the last week of May and the first week of June in El Oriente, invited by my Peace Corps friends Jeremy and Susan King who live and work in Puyo. Most of Susans´ work is with the Huaroni tribe (these are the Indians depicted in the movie ¨End of the Spear¨ as well as the subject of a great book by Joe Kane titled ¨Savages¨) Like all natives in the Ecuadorian Amazon the Huaroni have been impacted by 50 years of oil exploration and extraction, illegal logging, and a steady stream of missionaries. More info about the Huaroni people and history can be found at Wikipedia, or amazingly enough, at http://www.huaroni.com/. Although the Huaroni have a long history of violence against outsiders and against neighboring clans the people we encountered in Menapare and Tepapare were anything but ¨violent savages¨.
Our trip adentro began in Puyo, where Susan, Jeremy and I met up with another PC friend, Kris Pedings. The four of us had trained together in La Esperanza, so it was a nice reunion – although I was dismayed that my Spanish lagged far behind theirs! In the morning we went to the offices of AMWAE, the agency Susan works with, to pick up supplies and to meet the 9 students from Duke University who were here to construct a water collection system and also to determine the community´s interest in solar derived electricity. With a grant from somewhere, AMWAE had recently purchased a brand new Yamaha 40HP outboard motor for one of its dugout canoes – we all watched in awe as one of the Huaroni men carried it down the stairs from the office and loaded it into the back of the chartered bus. This was only the first of many outrageous feats of strength that we would witness in the coming week. As the morning wore on, Duke students straggled in as did the Huaroni who were heading back to their villages. Our scheduled departure time became a distant memory as we gathered food and water, loaded bags and gear, and waited for something to happen. Ya mismo.
All of a sudden, the driver fired up the bus – it was packed to the gills with people and stuff, a gigantic water tank tied to the roof along with metal roofing, tubing and other various and sundry work related supplies; bags of cement, tanks of gasoline, and the 40 horse outboard all stashed in the compartments below. That the bus even moved was somewhat a shock. We had a beautiful and uneventful drive to Puerto Napo, where we took on 2 more passengers – Jeff Brown, another PC volunteer from up in Chaco, and Mary Fifield, who lives and works in Tena. She is affiliated with Global Pediatric Alliance and a friend of Jeremy and Susan´s. We then made a short stop in Misahualli where we had to track down a component of the outboard motor that was vital to its operation, namely, the key. A key was located, and as we left town crossing the rather suspect bridge over the Rio Napo, our driver forgot about the water tank strapped to the roof and inadvertently pulled down an electric wire. Thus, to cross the bridge we had to remove the tank, then walk across the bridge as it had been determined that the bus along with passengers would be too much of a load. We all waited on the other side with our breath held as the bus lolled over the bridge and made it safely to the other side, where we repacked the water tank and went on our merry way.
Our next stop would be Menapare, about 2 hours away and the end of the road. Along the way we passed settlements of colonistas, people who work for ¨The Company¨ (the oil companies). We passed parts of the pipeline, and at least one compound where supplies for oil extracting were piled up, waiting to be utilized. Towards the end of the road we came across a guarded checkpoint – we were about to enter Huaroni territory – and we wondered if the suspicious guard would allow this overloaded bus with its motley crew of gringos to pass. He did, and we cruised on in to Menapare.
We were staying only one night in Menapare, in the morning we would be traveling 2 -3 hours by canoe downriver to Tepapare. We unloaded the bus, and reloaded all work related supplies (including the gigantic water tank) into a dugout canoe waiting below the bridge, to be taken to Tepapare. The canoe would return for us in the morning. There had been rain, and the river was muddy and fast. There were some concerns that if it rained more during the night that we would have to wait to continue on, but as it turned out the night passed clear and quiet; we set up our tents and mosquito netting, prepared dinner for ourselves and the villagers, told stories and sang songs, and later crawled into our bags.
In the morning we woke to find that one of the Huaroni men had killed a small caiman with a machete blow across the skull, and that it was being roasted over a fire at another hut as part of breakfast. Hard boiled eggs, oatmeal, coffee and crocodile – the breakfast of champions! The meat was tender and tasty, much more palatable than I had expected.
After eating and washing up we broke down camp and started loading canoes. It was a short hike from the village to the river, and everything was carried down. We packed out 2 canoes – both appeared overladen, with only 4 – 6 inches of gunwale visible above the waterline. A light drizzle was falling, and as we left for Tepapare I noticed I was cold – something I never would have expected in the Amazon. The river was still up, but not dangerously so. As I looked around, at the river, at the jungle, at the water sloshing around my feet in the canoe, and at the people I was with, I had another of those moments of recognition where I just grin a little and say to myself ¨holy shit, I´m in Ecuador¨.
I would like to report that during the two hour cruise down to Tepapare that I saw great stands of primary jungle and thousands of exotic birds, butterflies, and flowers, not to mention some rare example of one endangered creature or another, but I can´t. Although far from Tena, we were still too close to civilization and its´ effects – oil extraction, colonization, illegal logging and hunting. Nevertheless, it was beautiful, and quiet (when the outboards were turned off), and I was thrilled to be there. We floated and motored downriver, and as we made a wide turn in the river we were greeted by 20 or 30 souls standing on a muddy bank, the people of Tepapare.
I passed the last week of May and the first week of June in El Oriente, invited by my Peace Corps friends Jeremy and Susan King who live and work in Puyo. Most of Susans´ work is with the Huaroni tribe (these are the Indians depicted in the movie ¨End of the Spear¨ as well as the subject of a great book by Joe Kane titled ¨Savages¨) Like all natives in the Ecuadorian Amazon the Huaroni have been impacted by 50 years of oil exploration and extraction, illegal logging, and a steady stream of missionaries. More info about the Huaroni people and history can be found at Wikipedia, or amazingly enough, at http://www.huaroni.com/. Although the Huaroni have a long history of violence against outsiders and against neighboring clans the people we encountered in Menapare and Tepapare were anything but ¨violent savages¨.
Our trip adentro began in Puyo, where Susan, Jeremy and I met up with another PC friend, Kris Pedings. The four of us had trained together in La Esperanza, so it was a nice reunion – although I was dismayed that my Spanish lagged far behind theirs! In the morning we went to the offices of AMWAE, the agency Susan works with, to pick up supplies and to meet the 9 students from Duke University who were here to construct a water collection system and also to determine the community´s interest in solar derived electricity. With a grant from somewhere, AMWAE had recently purchased a brand new Yamaha 40HP outboard motor for one of its dugout canoes – we all watched in awe as one of the Huaroni men carried it down the stairs from the office and loaded it into the back of the chartered bus. This was only the first of many outrageous feats of strength that we would witness in the coming week. As the morning wore on, Duke students straggled in as did the Huaroni who were heading back to their villages. Our scheduled departure time became a distant memory as we gathered food and water, loaded bags and gear, and waited for something to happen. Ya mismo.
All of a sudden, the driver fired up the bus – it was packed to the gills with people and stuff, a gigantic water tank tied to the roof along with metal roofing, tubing and other various and sundry work related supplies; bags of cement, tanks of gasoline, and the 40 horse outboard all stashed in the compartments below. That the bus even moved was somewhat a shock. We had a beautiful and uneventful drive to Puerto Napo, where we took on 2 more passengers – Jeff Brown, another PC volunteer from up in Chaco, and Mary Fifield, who lives and works in Tena. She is affiliated with Global Pediatric Alliance and a friend of Jeremy and Susan´s. We then made a short stop in Misahualli where we had to track down a component of the outboard motor that was vital to its operation, namely, the key. A key was located, and as we left town crossing the rather suspect bridge over the Rio Napo, our driver forgot about the water tank strapped to the roof and inadvertently pulled down an electric wire. Thus, to cross the bridge we had to remove the tank, then walk across the bridge as it had been determined that the bus along with passengers would be too much of a load. We all waited on the other side with our breath held as the bus lolled over the bridge and made it safely to the other side, where we repacked the water tank and went on our merry way.
Our next stop would be Menapare, about 2 hours away and the end of the road. Along the way we passed settlements of colonistas, people who work for ¨The Company¨ (the oil companies). We passed parts of the pipeline, and at least one compound where supplies for oil extracting were piled up, waiting to be utilized. Towards the end of the road we came across a guarded checkpoint – we were about to enter Huaroni territory – and we wondered if the suspicious guard would allow this overloaded bus with its motley crew of gringos to pass. He did, and we cruised on in to Menapare.
We were staying only one night in Menapare, in the morning we would be traveling 2 -3 hours by canoe downriver to Tepapare. We unloaded the bus, and reloaded all work related supplies (including the gigantic water tank) into a dugout canoe waiting below the bridge, to be taken to Tepapare. The canoe would return for us in the morning. There had been rain, and the river was muddy and fast. There were some concerns that if it rained more during the night that we would have to wait to continue on, but as it turned out the night passed clear and quiet; we set up our tents and mosquito netting, prepared dinner for ourselves and the villagers, told stories and sang songs, and later crawled into our bags.
In the morning we woke to find that one of the Huaroni men had killed a small caiman with a machete blow across the skull, and that it was being roasted over a fire at another hut as part of breakfast. Hard boiled eggs, oatmeal, coffee and crocodile – the breakfast of champions! The meat was tender and tasty, much more palatable than I had expected.
After eating and washing up we broke down camp and started loading canoes. It was a short hike from the village to the river, and everything was carried down. We packed out 2 canoes – both appeared overladen, with only 4 – 6 inches of gunwale visible above the waterline. A light drizzle was falling, and as we left for Tepapare I noticed I was cold – something I never would have expected in the Amazon. The river was still up, but not dangerously so. As I looked around, at the river, at the jungle, at the water sloshing around my feet in the canoe, and at the people I was with, I had another of those moments of recognition where I just grin a little and say to myself ¨holy shit, I´m in Ecuador¨.
I would like to report that during the two hour cruise down to Tepapare that I saw great stands of primary jungle and thousands of exotic birds, butterflies, and flowers, not to mention some rare example of one endangered creature or another, but I can´t. Although far from Tena, we were still too close to civilization and its´ effects – oil extraction, colonization, illegal logging and hunting. Nevertheless, it was beautiful, and quiet (when the outboards were turned off), and I was thrilled to be there. We floated and motored downriver, and as we made a wide turn in the river we were greeted by 20 or 30 souls standing on a muddy bank, the people of Tepapare.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
la lluvia
May 25 2008
It´s been raining more than usual in Ambuqui these past few weeks; the locals don´t know what to make of it. Normally this is the start of a very dry season in a very dry region. But things are different this year, everyone says so; no one knows why. Along with the rains have come chillier temperatures, though nothing compared to the damp piercing cold of places set in higher altitudes, places like San Gabriel, La Paz, or Tulcan. Especially Tulcan. Nevertheless the people of Ambuqui walk about, (or huddle under awnings, depending on the rain) in sweaters and shawls, muttering phrases like ¨Aychaychay¨ (Quichua for cold), and ¨bien frio hoy¨ which in loosely translated Spanish means ¨damn it´s cold today.¨ Luckily for us, here in the valley, the rain and cooler temps do not usually stay long; they are often bracketed by glorious days of bright hot sunshine, blue skies and windblown clouds, wispy remnants of the rainmakers still active up in the mountains.
The rain in the mountains has been another matter altogether. Dry quebradas flood with rushing waters, cutting pueblos off from one another, from markets, from communications. Soils and rock erode unchecked from steep hillsides and either block, or cause the collapse of, the dirt tracks that pass for roads in the less inhabited parts of the province. The mud is so deep and so slippery that it is all but impossible to walk any path; rubber farm boots with deeply lugged soles are the preferred footwear for those who can afford such a luxury. Others go barefoot, toes curled, calves and thighs tensed against the inevitable slipping and sliding. Roofs leak, crops are ruined, chickens die. The people wait for the rains to end, but when?
This afternoon, in the misty rain falling in Ambuqui, I was sitting on my stoop, watching the neighborhood kids play a very complex version of marbles and eating my lunch. Juanita, the mother of one of the boys, passed by in a full run and called out ¨come, come to the quebrada!¨ There were other words as well, but I did not understand. The boys stopped their game, leaving their marbles in the street, and ran off behind her. ¨What´s happening,¨ I shouted, and Jerald, the son, turned and said ¨cerdos! En la quebrada! Venga! - ¨Pigs, in the waterway, come!¨
By the time I reached the quebrada, the pigs, if there had been pigs, were long gone. The volume of water and the speed at which it flowed was mind boggling. If pigs had indeed been caught up in that torrent they would never survive. Nothing would. It was a remarkable sight, matched only by the crushing sound of rushing water. Black, muddy, angry water. I scanned the viewable length of the quebrada – and was startled to see a hundred or more people lining the banks, standing and watching. Watching for pigs? Probably not. More likely they were looking only at the water, and no doubt some were wondering why, with so much water, was there not enough for irrigation; others perhaps wondering why, with so much water, was there not enough for cooking and bathing and washing?
Somewhat later I caught up with Juanita, and I asked her about the pigs. ¨Yes there were pigs¨, she said, ¨three, but all were dead, because of the water. The owners have found them, on the rocks below the bridge, and will take them home for butchering.¨
It´s been raining more than usual in Ambuqui these past few weeks; the locals don´t know what to make of it. Normally this is the start of a very dry season in a very dry region. But things are different this year, everyone says so; no one knows why. Along with the rains have come chillier temperatures, though nothing compared to the damp piercing cold of places set in higher altitudes, places like San Gabriel, La Paz, or Tulcan. Especially Tulcan. Nevertheless the people of Ambuqui walk about, (or huddle under awnings, depending on the rain) in sweaters and shawls, muttering phrases like ¨Aychaychay¨ (Quichua for cold), and ¨bien frio hoy¨ which in loosely translated Spanish means ¨damn it´s cold today.¨ Luckily for us, here in the valley, the rain and cooler temps do not usually stay long; they are often bracketed by glorious days of bright hot sunshine, blue skies and windblown clouds, wispy remnants of the rainmakers still active up in the mountains.
The rain in the mountains has been another matter altogether. Dry quebradas flood with rushing waters, cutting pueblos off from one another, from markets, from communications. Soils and rock erode unchecked from steep hillsides and either block, or cause the collapse of, the dirt tracks that pass for roads in the less inhabited parts of the province. The mud is so deep and so slippery that it is all but impossible to walk any path; rubber farm boots with deeply lugged soles are the preferred footwear for those who can afford such a luxury. Others go barefoot, toes curled, calves and thighs tensed against the inevitable slipping and sliding. Roofs leak, crops are ruined, chickens die. The people wait for the rains to end, but when?
This afternoon, in the misty rain falling in Ambuqui, I was sitting on my stoop, watching the neighborhood kids play a very complex version of marbles and eating my lunch. Juanita, the mother of one of the boys, passed by in a full run and called out ¨come, come to the quebrada!¨ There were other words as well, but I did not understand. The boys stopped their game, leaving their marbles in the street, and ran off behind her. ¨What´s happening,¨ I shouted, and Jerald, the son, turned and said ¨cerdos! En la quebrada! Venga! - ¨Pigs, in the waterway, come!¨
By the time I reached the quebrada, the pigs, if there had been pigs, were long gone. The volume of water and the speed at which it flowed was mind boggling. If pigs had indeed been caught up in that torrent they would never survive. Nothing would. It was a remarkable sight, matched only by the crushing sound of rushing water. Black, muddy, angry water. I scanned the viewable length of the quebrada – and was startled to see a hundred or more people lining the banks, standing and watching. Watching for pigs? Probably not. More likely they were looking only at the water, and no doubt some were wondering why, with so much water, was there not enough for irrigation; others perhaps wondering why, with so much water, was there not enough for cooking and bathing and washing?
Somewhat later I caught up with Juanita, and I asked her about the pigs. ¨Yes there were pigs¨, she said, ¨three, but all were dead, because of the water. The owners have found them, on the rocks below the bridge, and will take them home for butchering.¨
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