tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6461850367117590052024-02-07T15:12:29.303-04:00Ecuador26Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-81196884916001743172013-04-22T22:56:00.000-04:002013-04-22T23:17:24.789-04:00Miercoles 17 de abril 2013<br />
<br />
A rainy afternoon in Quito, Ecuador. My "fancy" shoes, a pair of Nike sneakers which I have taken such good care of for the past year are now soaking wet, and we all know what happens to sneakers once they have gotten wet . . . <i>que pena<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUwbCAfxD7f-3SAsiTjcPLk6XIKtknJo7R8rn-c6sT8dv94HvGf59CQ9xRwh5KVxakQqEgcaBVfUxzIGdc1iH680QgRi59vhLq-JrLl4IB6sEjpqC9a09m5dmaoFKptrNmeQB5K-hbhkt/s1600/bogota+y+mas+374.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUwbCAfxD7f-3SAsiTjcPLk6XIKtknJo7R8rn-c6sT8dv94HvGf59CQ9xRwh5KVxakQqEgcaBVfUxzIGdc1iH680QgRi59vhLq-JrLl4IB6sEjpqC9a09m5dmaoFKptrNmeQB5K-hbhkt/s320/bogota+y+mas+374.jpg" /></a></i>.<br />
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I've been walking around the city most of the day . . . earlier it was bright sun, strong enough to burn a balding head like mine in a matter of minutes. I try to find the shady side of the street about half the time as I wander around. <br />
<br />
Friends from the USA have come to visit Ecuador and they have arrived bearing gifts - 2 (!) bottles of Bushmill's Irish Whiskey - plus a few miscellaneous things from my son Joe. Some magazines, a check from a US bank to deposit here, and most importantly the second season of "Game of Thrones" burned to DVD.<br />
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As I have just returned from a pleasant trip to Colombia to visit friends, I am loaded down with additional gifts and purchases . . . some excellent Colombian coffees. Since I'm still traveling, I've decided to ship my whiskeys and coffees and other stuff up to Ibarra, rather than carry it around on these last few days of travel. I set out to find a branch of "ServiEntrega", an Ecuadorean shipping service similar to UPS. There are a dozen or so locations in Quito, and I quickly find one on the Avenida Rio Amazonas. The face of the bored clerk lights up when he sees me enter, and he turns down the volume of the salsa music he is listening to. <br />
<i><br />
"Buenos dias señor! "Como puedo ayudarte</i>?" I ask for a box large enough to acommodate my goods, and he grimaces - - "<i>oh! no tengo, se acabo</i>!" - - "oh, we don't have any, we just ran out!" - - which is a phrase heard at least once a day if one is doing any shopping. So he suggests I walk down the street to ask at any number of <i>tiendas</i> if they have any <i>cartones</i> that they can let me have. I do so, and in a few moments I have found the perfect box. Back at ServiEntrega, the clerk turns down the music again and he hands me a box cutter and a roll of tape. I carefully pack the box (don't want those whiskey bottles to break!) we label it, wrap it in tape - - <i>listo</i>. I pay 5.40 USD and the clerk tells me to be sure I pick it up in Ibarra within 5 days. We shake hands, I step out the door, and he pumps up the volume once more.<br />
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I return to my hostal - I need my passport in order to deposit the check I have received. I look for it in my backpack, but do not find it in the usual spot. I rummage around the room . . . no. I do it again, same results. Oh, shit. I'm often guilty of misplacing things, so I do not panic, and I look once more. Oh, shit.<br />
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Then a lightbulb goes on . . . the bag, the one with the coffee from Colombia in it, the one that is now neatly packed away in a shipping carton about 15 blocks from here - that's where my passport is. Why I happened to put it there escapes me for the moment, no matter. So back to ServiEntrega, which as it happens is closed for the mid-day break. I wander over to a local music store and kill some time trying out some electric guitars and effects pedals. The kid minding the shop thinks I am pretty good, as I rip out my scanty repertoire of 3 or 4 licks and play them over and over again, disguising their sameness with the effects. I play several guitars, there is a Godin model that is quite nice, but at over 600 dollars will never hang on my wall.<br />
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Time killed, quite enjoyably, I wander back to the shipper, who is now open. Still sunny, but the skies are darkening and the wind is picking up. So typically Quito! The clerk recognizes me as I walk in, turns down the music, and I am quite happy to see my carton on the floor behind him, just where it was when I left a few hours ago. "<i>Amigo, ayudame porfavor</i>" - " I think I have made an error and put my passport in the box!"<br />
<br />
He smiles and hands me the box, the cutter, and the tape. I carefully cut open the box, from the bottom, and remove the bag containing the coffees. Success! My passport IS here! I repack the box, tape it up again with the green and white tape and return the whole shebang to him. "<i>Gracias! Muy amable</i>!" I wave goodbye and up goes the music. I'm off to the bank.<br />
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Back on the street and it is now pouring rain. 2 doors down a woman is huddled in her doorway selling <i>paraguas</i>, 3 dollars. I buy one. 5 doors further down an old man is also selling umbrellas,and as I pass by he looks at me, and at my umbrella, and implores me to buy one of his. I don't.<br />
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In the bank there is a problem. My check can not be "authorized", whatever that means. I mention to the supervisor that I opened my account at his bank with a check from the same US institution 3 years ago, <i>sin problema</i>. He shrugs - - "the rules have changed, what can I tell you?". I will need to take the check to the branch in Ibarra where I originally opened the account.<br />
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Bueno . . . asi es la vida.<br />
<br />
I leave the bank, it is still pouring. I walk a few blocks in the direction of my hostal, and then duck into a used bookstore. I buy 3 used books in Spanish for 5 bucks, including what looks to be a very nice history of Lawrence of Arabia.<br />
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Back outside the rain is coming down in sheets. Across the street is a very inviting cafe, so I dash over. I order a <i>batido de fresa</i> - - a strawberry milkshake, sort of. I take out my notebook and start to write, something I've not done for many moons.<br />
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A loud and wet and happy group of 7 men and women, a very handsome bunch, swoosh into the cafe. I am sure they must be dancers . . or actors. They are amused that I am watching them, and listening to their conversation. "Where you from?", one asks. I say I am from "<i>los estados unidos</i> . . but I live here, in Ecuador." They are from Venezuela . . . dancers. <br />
<br />
We chat for a moment and then all retreat back into our respective little spheres. After a while they leave, handshakes all around. I scribble a sentence or two more into my notebook, pay my bill, and I too am gone.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-3031525444072123572012-09-10T17:08:00.000-04:002012-09-10T17:18:06.051-04:00Mornings break and nights fall quickly this close to the equator. Work days start early, at first light, for in the dry season which we are now in the blazing intensity of the sun drives many of us indoors during the middle afternoon. “Us” being those, like me, who somehow through design or dumb luck have the luxury of controlling our days as best we can, filling them, or not, as we see fit. The others, the not “us”, find their patches of shade or a cool corridor and take only a short mid-day break to eat a lunch of rice and beans, washed down with weak tea or tepid coca-cola. If time permits, a short rest, and then a reluctant return to whatever it is they are toiling at - - here in Cahuasqui, usually fieldwork. Spraying, planting, irrigating, harvesting, 12 months of the year. To protect from the sun the workers cover themselves, despite the day’s warmth, with long sleeved shirts buttoned at the wrists and broad brimmed hats. The men wear long pants and boots - some of the women as well choose the same, while others wear more traditional long and heavy skirts covered by an apron.<br />
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Ocassionally, and usually only when I want to, I find myself outdoors during these hottest and brightest parts of the day, tending to my trees and gardens. I wear shorts, and sandals, and tank top t-shirts. Passersby, if there are any, joke that I will always be white, never beautifully coffee colored as they are. Of course they are right, but I’ll keep trying nonetheless.<br />
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Far more likely during the mid-day I am indoors, working on the house, wiring a circuit, painting, or trimming out windows and doors. Truth be told, I am just as likely to be reading or napping in the brightly colored hammock I have hung from a pair of roof beams.<br />
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Shortly after four PM the angle of the sun has lowered and the light changes from brilliant blazing white to more tranquil and friendly hues of orange and gold. The gusty winds calm and I wrap up my indoor tasks (or naps) to return outdoors during this, my favorite part of the day. Watering is the main objective now, to replace that moisture that has been lost during the day. It is also a perfect time to set out young seedlings, in order to give them at least a night of settling in before facing tomorrow’s scorching rays and drying breezes. With each passing minute the illumination changes, the mountains east of me softly lit and the mountains west of me now massive shadowy outlines. My own shadow looks to be 10 times my actual height.<br />
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The blue skies fade to dusky reds and purples, temperatures drop. I put on long pants, and shoes. By 7 pm, every night of every day of the year, the light has left us. On a clear moonless night such as tonight the vastness of the dark sky is quickly filled with stars and galaxies and who knows what other mysteries. The chickens have quieted, and in the distance dogs begin their plaintive barking at unseen and imagined intruders. In a few hours they too will quiet down.<br />
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A few times a month when the spirit moves me I will build a small fire in the pit out front of the house. Sometimes I cook my dinner over the fire, other times I happily enjoy the fire for its warmth and it´s invitation to simply sit and stare, perhaps to ponder all the usual questions about life and love and the like.<br />
The village of Cahuasqui lies quietly below, the church steeple lit up for the evening Mass. Not far from the church new floodlights light up the soccer field, and voices of playing children waft gently up the hill to my ears. Across the <i>quebrada</i> is Pablo Arenas, its own brightly lit church shrouded in a fog bank creeping up from the valley. Looking farther east across the valley I can see the shimmering lights of Huacar, San Vicente de Pusir, and even Mira, 15 miles away as the crow flies. So close, it seems - - yet if I want to go to Mira I will need to travel for 3 hours. <br />
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Circling from east , to south, then west and north, the hills are emptier – lone houses sprinkled here and there, a few scattered small communities - - Palaga, Pugaran, Guanibuela, La Florida. The boonies, to be sure. Large fires sometimes burn in the mountains, a nasty holdover custom from the old days when the indigenous believed that great fires and their resulting <i>humo</i> would bring rain during a dry season. Smaller fires burn as well, but these are usually managed and meant to clean up an irrigation ditch or <i>sendero</i>.<br />
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My own little campfire fades to embers, the earth keeps on spinning, and tomorrow is another day.<br />
<br />
Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-53793465475431323912012-08-27T23:21:00.000-04:002012-08-27T23:23:23.114-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRzkVnhe3JAiah40wMnC3ru9DwygCcwcQM6HSmbuqruZQXgSTcgcJa9nJ6JhQVvlZAC7qLZyeZr_m1a55rDV2KsjjxCJR32mubeiI5PSkgoyIUkvfHm-scDEmTCKJp1Y_AUYbCfycC8MR/s1600/misc+may+2012%252C+majo%252C+house%252C+tour%252C+etc.+060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRzkVnhe3JAiah40wMnC3ru9DwygCcwcQM6HSmbuqruZQXgSTcgcJa9nJ6JhQVvlZAC7qLZyeZr_m1a55rDV2KsjjxCJR32mubeiI5PSkgoyIUkvfHm-scDEmTCKJp1Y_AUYbCfycC8MR/s320/misc+may+2012%252C+majo%252C+house%252C+tour%252C+etc.+060.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Don Arturo is one of my favorite guys in Cahuasqui, and his sister Guadalupe is one of my favorite gals. Guadalupe is married to Juan, another favorite, and they have 2 young daughters. The little one, Angela, is mentally and physically handicapped. I pass by their house frequently because they sell 15 cent homemade chocolate ice cream on a stick, and to spend a few minutes chatting with them all is always a very pleasant diversion. Juan dotes on both of his daughters, but especially little Angela. Every morning he throws her up on his shoulders for the hike into town to buy <i>huevos y pan</i>. He used to take his daughters around town on his <i>moto</i> until he saw a TV news story about a terrible accident where a little girl fell off her father’s <i>moto</i> and was run over and killed by a car following behind. He says he will never take them again, at least not until they are big enough to hold on by themselves.<br />
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Juan’s brother in law Arturo is a slightly built man who spends much of his time hiking in the mountains and picking up odd jobs in farming and masonry whenever he needs <i>plata</i>. He also raises “<i>finos</i>” (fighting cocks) and if he is lucky sometimes he will make a little money from their efforts in the ring. Of course sometimes he and especially the chicken are not so lucky . . .<br />
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A few weeks ago Arturo came by my place to say hello and to see how I was coming along. He had a huge fighting chicken in his arms, and 2 of his dogs were trailing along. I invited him inside, he made the dogs stay out but carried the big chicken in with him. We looked around and chatted, and after a while it was time for Arturo to go. As we headed to the front door the chicken grunted and then let go of an unbelievable amount of loose and wet chicken shit all over the concrete floor, which I had just painted about 2 weeks prior . . . I made some remark in Spanish about not knowing that a chicken could shit so much all at one time. Arturo, in all his magnificent innocence and naivete simply said “<i>y ahora</i>?” which in this case meant, “and now what?” It never in a million years would have occurred to him to put the chicken down and offer to clean up. Nor would I have wanted him to, because it would have compounded the mess by a factor of at least 10, probably 20. I told Arturo, “<i>no se preocupe</i>,” I’ll take care of it. Arturo tipped his cap, called his dogs and said “ <i>bueno, Don Roger, entonces que tenga un buen dia</i>” - - “well then Don Roger, have a great day” - - and he was off. I sighed, shook my head and chuckled, then got out a bag of sawdust and soaked up the worst of it, and rinsed and cleaned the rest the best I could. <br />
<br />
The floor is still stained, but it makes for a good story to explain why when visitors come a calling.<br />
<br />
- - -<br />
<br />
This summer has been long and dry, much more so than last year. We have had no measurable rain since April, and the locals believe it will be late September or even into October before we see it. Nevertheless, we all watch clouds gather in the distance and make small wagers, those betting against rain always winning.<br />
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Like everywhere else in the world, local small farmers are suffering. Don Lucho came by last weekend to pay a visit, and I have never seen him looking more down. “6 months of work down the drain,” he says. “Our bean harvest will not even cover expenses, let alone put food on the table.” <br />
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Lucho had been working in Spain making good money as a carpenter for almost 10 years when the “crisis” hit Europe and the construction market tanked. He regularly sent money home to Ecuador to support the family he had left behind. As the work dried up in Spain, he decided to move back to Cahuasqui and to start farming the family land with his 2 brothers. He has lost at least 20 pounds since coming back, and now appears downright gaunt. Even during the relatively good harvest of last year he and his brothers, after splitting the profits 3 ways, had hardly two nickels to rub together. <br />
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“One, or all of you, have to go to Ibarra and get a job,” I tell Lucho. “For the small farmer anywhere in the world it is almost impossible to make a living these days from farming alone.” Lucho agrees, but admits that he is spoiled by the good things here in the pueblo and hates the idea of working all day in a store or office. I understand him perfectly.<br />
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My own garden has suffered from the lack of rain, and I’ve decided it makes no sense to plant anew until the drops begin to fall. Between the wind and the sun it is a two to three times a day battle to keep young seedlings alive, and I am worn out from it! I have planted a few new trees, limes and oranges and a few more avocados, but they and their much larger root ball have at least a fighting chance, if I pay attention.<br />
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<br />
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When I first thought about staying in Ecuador and buying land here I had considered buying several or more hectares and making a go at farming of some kind or another. How glad I am that I settled on my little hilltop half hectare, just enough room to have a little fun with and as well with enough space to have planted half in avocados which will provide a small income beginning in another year or two. Sometimes we get lucky and a make the right decisions . . . <br />
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Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-81178440530161703362012-06-30T16:47:00.000-04:002012-08-15T08:21:47.658-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Apologies - for some reason Blogger.com is not letting me format this into proper paragraphs - - so it looks and reads like one long run on sentence! I will figure out the problem later and fix it . . .
Ibarra, Ecuador 27 Junio 2012
I love this country, even when after almost 6 years here there is still so much I don´t understand and so much that drives me crazy. Only a little of that has to do with language - - most is culture and custom.
Today I have escaped from la <i>isla en el cielo</i> to Ibarra to shop for lumber, buy groceries, surround myself with people and to have lunch with a friend. I am quite fond of Ibarra and a visit here always lifts me when I am feeling a little low or lonely.
Everyone seems to be in a good mood on this sunny sunny day. Now on the bus, returning home, I have already had 3 conversations about the plants I am carrying back (<i>aliso</i>, a native tree); Don Umberto the bus driver has slowed the bus down twice to pick up vendors - - a middle aged man in a blue jump suit selling frozen treats “<i>bon ice, bon ice, yogurt, bon ice</i> . . .” - - and also the pretty young <i>negrita</i> who is always on the corner selling <i>caña</i> (sugar cane). The <i>vendedores</i> make their way up and down the narrow aisle of our bus, a few sales are made, and after a few minutes the negrita calls out “<i>gracias</i>!” and Don Umberto slows down the bus as both she and the blue jump suit hop out, and we pull away as they cross the street to hopefully make a few more sales on another bus heading back to their respective corners.
I have passed through several worlds while wandering through Ibarra today - - beginning at the upscale (for Ibarra) “Plaza Shopping Center” which boasts not only a SuperMaxi grocery and KYWI hardware and building supply, but a KFC, a Marathon sports and clothing store, several cell phone and computer storefronts, and an upstairs food court. There is also an escalator, the first and I do believe only one in Ibarra, and for a year or two after the shopping center opened it was great fun to enjoy a cup of coffee and watch as people figured out how to negotiate the moving stairway. Many turned away and simply climbed the old fashioned stairs out back . . .
Just a few moments and a few blocks from the “wealth and glitter” of the Plaza shopping is <i>el Mercado</i> - - here old barefooted women sit on curbs selling 50 cent packages of clothespins, matches, and tire tube repair kits, among other things. Men wander the streets and corridors hawking TV antennas and universal remote controls. Indigenous women from Otavalo and Lago San Pablo offer buckets of plump and juicy strawberries while their beautiful little children play nearby, oblivious to the passing automobiles, horse drawn carts, the noise and the chaos.
A little later, after lunch, I will sit for awhile in <i>Parque</i> Pedro Moncayo, in the heart of Ibarra, and enjoy the passing parade of life - - old men in rumpled suits out for a stroll, couples old and young passing by hand in hand or with arms draped over one another, an occasional jogger, children running and laughing, dogs looking for dropped bits of food. It´s a lovely small park, only one block square, full of trees including old palms and <i>ceibos</i>, and surrounded by beautiful colonial buildings - - mostly churches and municipal offices. During the past few Christmas seasons the city has gone all out in lighting up and decorating the park, and also providing entertainment such as <i>musica folklorica</i>, fashion shows, and theatre. I always try to spend a night or two in Ibarra during this time to enjoy the offerings.
Meanwhile, my lunch date is still 2 hours away, and I am hungry now. Still in the marketplace, I make my way through the crowded (always!) food stalls with their hot gas fired stoves filled with pots of soups and meats and intestines and chicken feet and potatos and yucca and god knows what else. Old wooden booths and plastic tables are filled shoulder to shoulder with diners – digging into plates piled high with rice, lentils, various animal parts and some shredded lettuce or cooked beets. The patched up corrugated tin roofs are low hanging and rusty, and it´s the kind of place where you would expect to see Anthony Bourdain showing up at to sample some succulent goat´s eyeballs or calve´s brains . . . I keep moving to my destination - - a little juice stand on the edge of the market. I order a <i>batido</i> - - fresh fruit juice mixed with milk and a few “secret ingredients”. “<i>Quieres hielo, tal vez?</i>” the mixmaster asks me - - maybe you want ice? “<i>Claro que si</i>”, I respond, and she drops a chunk of ice in the blender. She pours me a tall mug - - the one dollar size - - it is delicious and refreshing, and in about 45 seconds, gone. I put my mug on the counter - - “<i>gracias</i>!”, but before I can leave she pours the remaining contents of the blender into it and almost fills the mug again. “<i>Toma no mas</i>” she says cheerfully, and I do.
I was not very hungry by the time lunch rolled around.
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Cahuasqui Monday June 11--------------------
There is a “regional” high school in town, and the students are in final exams, which means that they all get out of classes even earlier than normal. So as I wait for the 11 AM bus to Ibarra there are scores of boys and girls wandering through town. They are all wearing their “dress up” school uniforms, white button down shirts topped with grey v neck sweaters, the boys in maroon colored pants and the girls in matching knee length skirts and high white socks. Most of the boys are in groups of 4 or 5, snacking on 10 cent <i>panecitos</i> and <i>funditas</i> of yogurt. The girls walk by mostly 2 by 2, arms hooked, and engaged in smiling, quiet conversation.
In another week or two the school year will come to an end. Many of the students will leave town to go spend the vacation period with relatives in Ibarra, Quito, and Guayaquil. Those that remain will work in the fields and try to keep themselves occupied, the boys mostly by playing <i>futbol</i>, perhaps drinking a little to much <i>cerveza</i>, and bothering the girls – who in turn will help their mothers in the house, watch the boys play soccer, and do their best to ignore (usually) the pleading refrains and cooings of the enamored suitors.
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If I were inclined to write about people´s private lives here on these pages I would have some tales to tell - - of loves found and loves lost, of dreams crashing headlong into reality. Not to mention bad judgement, illogical and immature behavior, unsavory liaisons and oh, so much more!
But I am thankfully not inclined to write about such private and personal things, whether they be mine or someone else´s. So I am stuck writing about the hum-drum day to day of my fairly quiet and boring life.
I am currently on a bus, which is traveling recklessly and at a very high rate of speed. I am north of Ambato, and this stretch of road is under construction - - no lines, no lanes, no shoulders. It is absolute anarchy, cars, trucks and busses all behaving as if they are the only ones around for miles and miles . . . Sometimes it feels good to have no control over your life – let someone else deal with it for awhile!
This past week I felt the need for a little break, so I went down to visit friends in Riobamba, then spent the past 4 days in my old haunt of Salinas de Guaranda. Took a nice little side trip from there up to Simiatug, and also had a chance to visit some of the communities where we had built greenhouses in 2010. All in all it was a very pleasant stay, I reconnected with some old friends including Padre Antonio, and I’m looking forward to going again, maybe in 2 or 3 months.
I actually owe a debt to Antonio, and to the <i>Fundacion Familia Salesiana</i>, because they were instrumental a few months ago in helping me renew my visa for another 2 years. Some of you who read this blog may know that although I was raised as a Jew and although I doubt the existence of god I am nevertheless the proud owner of a missionary visa here in Ecuador. I went to work in Salinas in late 2009 and the visa I held then was set to expire in a few months. I explained my situation to the Padre, and some of the other Catholics in the foundation, and they offered to help me get the missionary visa. Of course I felt compelled to explain that I was neither Catholic nor a believer, but the <i>Padre</i> was unfazed - - he made the sign of the cross and proclaimed me to be a “missionary of the <i>buen corazon</i>”. I suggested that he may want to wait and see about that, but thanked him nonetheless, and went to Quito to get my new visa.
2 years later, in February of this year (2012), that visa was set to expire, and I have not spent enough money on my house and land to request an “investor” residency visa. So I contacted the Padre, explained myself, and he came through for me again. So although I may perhaps have a <i>buen corazon</i>, I am also watching out for my own interests, and to carry a missionary visa is quite a coup - - I am pretty much left alone at police and border controls once I show them the thing, which is an excellent fringe benefit, especially when they call me “padre”.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-27663523469797125502012-04-18T17:24:00.005-04:002012-04-18T17:41:26.737-04:00a donde vas?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41URrxzI5vhJrieauJY9h7fRcE2e6R3U3D-rWqBGXBggg36JUJQr8q5gTeAdSU42rHZ6M1-DbKbnzpg9XVhyHKVFD7sqfTjACEz6Pt-MvYZ3VvZl6ghFMoyVCvRWxwBPSXpZT2EFsQDop/s1600/12.12.10+019.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41URrxzI5vhJrieauJY9h7fRcE2e6R3U3D-rWqBGXBggg36JUJQr8q5gTeAdSU42rHZ6M1-DbKbnzpg9XVhyHKVFD7sqfTjACEz6Pt-MvYZ3VvZl6ghFMoyVCvRWxwBPSXpZT2EFsQDop/s320/12.12.10+019.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732856794201395698" /></a><br />One Friday a few weeks ago I had to leave Cahuasqui <span style="font-style:italic;">en la madrugada</span> in order to meet a friend in Ibarra - - from there we were driving down to Quito to spend a “city day.” Dragged myself out of bed, made a pot of coffee and put on some relatively clean clothes, and was out the door by 5.20, in time to catch the 5.40 bus. It was lovely to walk down the hill in the pre dawn; a few people were out and about, chatting idly by front doors, others lined up at the panaderia buying the first warm batch of the day´s bread ration, but mostly all was still and quiet. Despite all my best intentions, I´m rarely up and around in these last few moments of nights´ darkness; usually the best I can do is get out the door by 7am, and by then the sun has been up for almost an hour and the town is a beehive of activity.<br /><br />As I rounded a corner I saw my friend Rene sitting in his old truck, with the engine idling. “<span style="font-style:italic;">A donde vas</span>?” I asked, and he said he was off to Ibarra, via the Salinas road. “Come on in and ride with me, I don´t have a radio and it will be good to have company!” It was a good offer, so I said sure - - but explained carefully that I was on a bit of a schedule and really, really, wanted to be in Ibarra by 7. 7.15 at the latest, I added, to give us both a little breathing room. “<span style="font-style:italic;">No hay ningun problema, no pasa nada</span>!” he assured me, and that´s when I started to worry, because right then I knew that there would be a problem, and that yes, <span style="font-style:italic;">algo va a pasar</span>. I did some quick mental calculations, and did as any sensible person would have done – which was to choose Rene over the bus. I climbed in.<br /><br />A very light rain had started to fall as we pulled away from town, which prompted the usual conversation about “<span style="font-style:italic;">cambios de la clima</span>” and how messed up everything is. We passed the time, pondering, until we reached Pablo Arenas, where we were delayed for a few minutes by a small gathering of devout Catholics marching down the street bearing a baby Jesus and singing, apparently not minding the rain, which had picked up a little in intensity. Rene and I figured it was probably the special day of some obscure saint that only a few people seem to know about it.<br /><br />In Pablo Arenas we stopped for gas - - which is funny because there is no gas station there, as a matter of fact the closest <span style="font-style:italic;">gasolinera</span> is another 40 minutes away in Urcuqui. What they do have in Pablo Arenas is a guy who keeps 20 or 30 old plastic containers of various capacities and a 3 foot long piece of hose in the front hall of his abode, and when you need gas for the trip to Ibarra he´s the guy to see. Rene chose 2 gallon containers formerly used for antifreeze, grabbed the hose, and artfully siphoned all the gas without losing one drop. To assure that 2 gallons was enough to make it down to Ibarra Rene went to check the gauge, and decided that yes, indeed, that will do it. I was a little surprised though that he could be so sure of the gauge´s accuracy, because the truck was parked on what was at least a 30 degree incline . . . <br /><br />I had noticed when we left Cahuasqui in the darkness and misty rain that Rene was not using the windshield wipers. I also noted that his truck had no headlights, and no taillights – only a single red running light mounted midway up the front of the cab. When I asked Rene if he didn´t need the wipers to “see” (in the darkness) he said “no I don´t need them, and besides they don´t work anyway.”<br /><br />Now, the road from Cahuasqui to Pablo Arenas, although much improved since I first traveled it in 2007, is closely related in design to a typewriter ribbon that has fallen to the floor and become unspooled - - a narrow, twisty, turning series of hairpin curves bordered by rock on one side and some 500 feet of air on the other – and generally uninterrupted by any encumbrances such as guardrails, signals, or signs. Traveling down this road with Rene, his one hand shifting and steering, the other hand working his cell phone, no lights, no wipers . . . well, let´s just say I had many thoughts about my children, and how badly I felt that I had almost nothing to leave them, and that my body would never be recovered.<br /><br />But my worries were for naught, as always. As we advanced down the hill the darkness faded, and until the rain stopped Rene jumped out of the cab at least twice to wipe the windshield with an old rag, just to make me feel better. <br /><br />Rene´s phone rang several times while we were on our way. It turns out we were to pick up a paying passenger in Salinas (<span style="font-style:italic;">de Ibarra</span>) - - and the phone calls were from the father wondering what´s the hold up, why aren´t you here yet, etc. etc. As mentioned, he called several times. We hightailed it through Tumbabiro , hit the long straightaway into the valley, crossed the railroad tracks on the edge of town and pulled up to the passenger´s house, where I was expecting he would be waiting, impatiently. As usual I was wrong, there was no one. Rene tooted his horn a couple of times and in a few minutes a man (the father who had called several times) steps out of the house, relaxed, smiling, and uttering all the requisite morning phrases. Our passenger, he tells us, has just rolled out of bed, but “<span style="font-style:italic;">no se preocupe</span>, he´ll be right out after he gets dressed.” I look at Rene, glance at my watchless wrist, and roll my eyeballs. Rene smiles. Rene always smiles. I send a cell phone message to my friend saying I´m going to be a little late, please wait. It´s almost 7 and we are still a good half hour from Ibarra.<br /><br />A few moments later the boy staggers out of the house, crawls over me and crams himself into the middle “seat”, straddling the stick shift. We get on our way, <span style="font-style:italic;">por fin</span>, and neither Rene nor I bother to ask the father “what in the hell were all the hurry up phone calls about?” There would have been no point in it, and we both of us knew it.<br /><br />Five minutes later we hit the Panamericana and struggle mightily up the long winding hills and hold on to our hats while being double and triple passed with alarming frequency. Finally we arrive in Ibarra, only about 40 minutes late. It could have been worse . . . and besides, it turns out that my friend was running a little <span style="font-style:italic;">atrasado</span> as well, and did not have to wait too long for me. <br /><br />I might have had a faster trip on the bus, but then again you never know. <br /><br />The attached photo is of Rene, from last year. He's carrying a eucalyptus beam up to the house.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-4943436997941830922012-03-16T15:54:00.003-04:002012-03-16T16:08:04.286-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIErTvK6bcatvvU-6rEAKMbAWt0k5k2tpZvzCm3PAfuWnRaiXWcKOMtNPqcG6kuwNSBd70uS9pHOSg6urTIRltZ6kmycq79_HY-38moWjqG0a5K-FaWPqP5oBq98bEtDD64GongWmEQ6G/s1600/new+138.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIErTvK6bcatvvU-6rEAKMbAWt0k5k2tpZvzCm3PAfuWnRaiXWcKOMtNPqcG6kuwNSBd70uS9pHOSg6urTIRltZ6kmycq79_HY-38moWjqG0a5K-FaWPqP5oBq98bEtDD64GongWmEQ6G/s320/new+138.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720589199958564754" /></a><br />I was slightly chastised recently by a few friends for being so lazy about posting to my blog. My excuse is that I wait far too long between blog entries. And then I feel compelled to write time consuming long-ass missives that try to cover the events, (well at least what seems interesting), of the past 3 or 4 months - - and since I am not a note taker so much is dependent on my bad memory and therefore effectively lost. I really need to learn to do short, sweet, and frequent posts . . . here´s one that´s not too terribly long.<br /><br /><br /> Cue music! - - Vicente Fernandez, tal vez. At a hearty, ear shattering level of volume, of course. After a minute or two, or ten, or fifteen, the music ceases, and a voice comes booming over the loudspeakers mounted in the church steeple - - echoing through the streets and fields. “<span style="font-style:italic;">Buenas tardes moradores (dwellers) de Cahuasqui</span>! We want to announce that in this very moment Doña Maria Guajan has <span style="font-style:italic;">carne de rez</span> (beef) to sell in front of her house! If you desire to buy <span style="font-style:italic;">carne de rez</span>, then you should just go to the house of Doña Maria, at this very moment!” More than likely one of Doña Maria´s milk cows has just dropped dead at 2 in the afternoon, and by 3 PM it´s been carved up into pieces and some little kid has been dispatched to the town offices to tell the local officials, who will then make the important announcement. And it is relatively important, because although just slaughtered pig or chicken is available from street vendors every other day or so, meat of the cow is a delicacy that comes along just every so often. No matter that the cow likely died of old age and that her flesh is tough as shoe leather . . . it´s beef!<br /><br />The announcements are for me one of the most endearing things about Cahuasqui. Almost all community events are noted via the loudspeakers - deaths in the community; election of the <span style="font-style:italic;">reina</span>; meetings and <span style="font-style:italic;">mingas</span> of the water committee; arrangement of bus transport to a neighboring community for their <span style="font-style:italic;">fiestas</span>; etc. etc. All announcements are almost always preceded by a few moments of pop music, sometimes Ecuadorean, sometimes Mexican or Cuban and sometimes American. The music is a warning, a little advance notice, that important messages are about to be broadcast, so pay attention! When it comes to the death announcements the pop music is replaced by slow and solemn Andean flute songs, usually El Condor Pasa is the favorite. Most unfortunately, sometimes the recording is left running too long, and the soothing flute music eventually degenerates into a sort of reggaeton/trance version of El Condor Pasa, which is not exactly “death announcement” music. <br /> <br />Once in a while the <span style="font-style:italic;">jefe</span> of the water committee will get on the loudspeakers to go on and on about how lazy everyone is because no one showed up at yesterday´s <span style="font-style:italic;">minga</span> to clean the irrigation ditches. He really does get going, and his harangues can last a full fifteen minutes and by then everyone in town is fully ashamed of themselves for being <span style="font-style:italic;">vagos y egoistas</span> (lazy and selfish).<br /><br />On rare occasions the town officials will decide that things are just a little too quiet around here, that some life needs to be injected into the streets and fields. When that happens we get music, just music. No announcements. Sometimes the music is pretty good, maybe some <span style="font-style:italic;">bomba</span>, maybe some <span style="font-style:italic;">bachatas</span>. A few days ago the music was not so good, however, because we got over an hour´s worth of Aerosmith and Guns n Roses. Makes me wonder, who´s running this show, anyway?<br />- -<br />Last week I made an early morning trip down the hill to the <span style="font-style:italic;">ferreteria</span> for a few supplies, and on the return busied myself with keeping an eye out for stray plants and flowers that I could dig up later to plant up at my place. For a short while I lose myself in my scheming, but in a quick moment the sound of charging hooves snaps me out of it. I look up, and racing down the narrow path is a rather large cow with an impressive set of horns on her, and alongside her a calf, struggling to keep up. Ten meters behind them a man is running down the hill crazily waving his arms and yelling for me to “stop the cows! Stop the cows!” All I really want to do is get the hell out of the way, but I instinctively grab a stick, and start swinging the stick to and fro while calling out in a shouting whisper “shoop, shoop, shoop.”<br /> <br />The distance between the cows and I is shrinking rapidly, but with three or four meters to spare the momma digs her heels into the ground, almost just like in the cartoons, and the calf follows suit. Coming to a full stop, she puts her head down, tears a tuft of grass from the ground, nonchalantly turns and heads back up hill where she belongs. The owner shouts out the obligatory “<span style="font-style:italic;">Que Dios le paga</span>!” as he too turns back up the hill. I take the stick, break it into a few pieces, and mark the locations of the plants I want, and then I also head up the hill, back to the house.<br /><br />I bought my little piece of land in November of 2010. As work progressed on the house I confidently told anyone who would listen that I would be moved in by May. Little did I realize then that it would be almost May of 2012 before I actually made that happen. It´s kind of shocking to see how quickly the past 16 months have come and gone - - but little by little I´m finishing up and moving in. Pretty soon it will be time for the <span style="font-style:italic;">huasipichay</span> (housewarming party), and all 2.3 readers of this blog are invited.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-20384113479808555402011-12-23T22:00:00.003-04:002011-12-23T22:14:30.328-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOeRuGFDoLNj6Wl1dz_NIZ0l3qVxg9PU3mEaFbCAhKJdmjhMb3FYay08fS0kFF_NtKRXVPgKjvxjq2jG06EftR0Ny-VY3JGHz_2TuJ5Y6lWxuJZW93C2EhoJiGyR99P3_BnVpue5Gp2-uO/s1600/DSC08292.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOeRuGFDoLNj6Wl1dz_NIZ0l3qVxg9PU3mEaFbCAhKJdmjhMb3FYay08fS0kFF_NtKRXVPgKjvxjq2jG06EftR0Ny-VY3JGHz_2TuJ5Y6lWxuJZW93C2EhoJiGyR99P3_BnVpue5Gp2-uO/s320/DSC08292.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689510893269816130" /></a><br />martes<br /><br />Sleep! Am I drugged? Adjusting once again to the altitudes and attitudes here in Ecuador, or just letting my body and mind rest after 3 and a half months of being constantly “on” while in the US?<br /><br />I worked up at the house yesterday, and came down to my “town quarters” at about 2 PM to eat and fetch my telephone. I lie down on my bed ostensibly to give some rest to my right knee which has been very bothersome since my work in New Mexico, and promptly dropped off into one of the longest and groggiest naps I have ever taken. I wake up some three hours later, not sure of where I am, not even sure if I am really awake, alive or dead. The only thing I´m sure of is that I want to return immediately to the sweet oblivion of just a few moments ago. I roll over, and sleep.<br /><br />This morning, more of the same. Deep deep sleep, intensely real dreams, and waking not knowing once again where I am, who I am. I dozed back off, but only for a few moments, and then forced myself up to make coffee. The coffee has done its job, for now, but I will sit here and type a little longer before hiking up the hill.<br /><br />It is a luxury that I appreciate – the luxury to listen to my body and to let it rest when it wants or needs to. Not that I (my thinking part, my work ethic part) want to sleep my days away, no, there is far too much to be done here and I would miss too many interesting sights and sounds for that. But on occasion, <span style="font-style:italic;">de vez en cuando</span> - - damn, it feels good.<br /><br />#####<br /><br />Despite all appearances of a laid back and responsibility- free lifestyle I have a lot on my mind. Obviously the house – lots of finish work still to do, some nagging but not serious problems with the roof, and the necessity of furnishing the place, at least a little, remains. What will I buy, what will I build?<br /><br />Either way means several trips to Ibarra.<br /><br />A bigger concern even than the house is the question of my visa, which expires in mid February 2012. I have some options, all of which will require a lot of friendly persuasion and leg work, and none of which are worth pursuing during these weeks preceding Christmas and New Years. Just like in the US, very little gets done during this holiday time of year. <br /><br />The small matter of how to earn a little bit of a living and provide for my old age is something I´d rather not discuss at the moment. <br /><br />#####<br /><br />miercoles<br /><br />Ah, the evening´s reward for a good day. A room temperature Coca-Cola made palatable by a few onzas of cheap scotch (namely, Grant´s). No ice cubes though, dammit. Even more luxurious, a bag of salted and shelled peanuts that I bought while in Ibarra the other day - - now all I need is a football game, and a TV.<br />I woke up this morning fresh as a daisy (I think I am over the sleeping sickness) and then killed an hour while I hemmed and hawed over making another trip to Ibarra. The argument between my virtuous side and my avoid work at all costs side got hot and heavy at times and finally the responsible virtuous side scored a rare and stunning victory by declaring out loud “haul your lazy bony ass up to the house and get some work done.” <br /> <br />So that´s what I did. Indoor plumbing connected, drains working. Check. Kitchen and “living room” painted. Check. (well, almost. I´ll finish it tomorrow, promise.) I even plundered around in the muddy garden, picking beets and a few leaves of spinach. The beets go to a neighbor and the spinach goes to my salad. <br /><br />####<br /><br />It´s fiesta time in Cahuasqui which means a lot more people and noise than normal. (“Normal” meaning not many people and so quiet at times you can hardly believe it) Family and friends of family visiting from Ibarra or Quito, usually spending a few days and nights out here in the <span style="font-style:italic;">campo</span> before returning to their busy city lives.<br /> <br />Something I have noticed here, and also in Ambuqui when I lived there, is that these city visitors tend to treat the little towns as their own private playground. “Oh how quaint! Let´s drink a <span style="font-style:italic;">jabba</span> of beer and then race our cars up and down the street at 3AM while blowing our horns!” or “Oh how quaint! Let´s now park our cars and drink another <span style="font-style:italic;">jabba</span> of beer while listening to reggaeton and 80´s American pop music at a volume that will wake the dead for miles around!” or “Oh how quaint! Let´s drink yet another <span style="font-style:italic;">jabba</span> and play with our car alarms at 5 in the morning to see how many different kinds of sounds they will make!” Notice please that there are a few common threads here, namely beer, noise, and cars. <br /> <br />Beer (or insert <span style="font-style:italic;">otro tipo de licor </span>here) and noise I guess have always been and always will be part of the Ecuadorean social landscape. Cars of course have been around in Ecuador for a while too, what is changing and changing rapidly is how many cars. In the short five years that I have been in Ecuador, it seems that the amount of privately owned cars has grown at an astonishing rate. I have no data to back this up, just my own eyes and ears, sitting in a noisy traffic jam in Quito or Ibarra, or watching from the window of a bus the proliferation of late model automobiles.<br /> <br />Except for during the fiestas we do not have many cars here in Cahuasqui. I would venture a guess that there are 20 or less cars in town, and most of them are small pickup trucks. There are also 8 to 10 <span style="font-style:italic;">furgones</span>, or larger trucks, that are used for transporting agricultural produce to Ibarra and Quito, and locally used to haul rock, sand and stone, etc. So it was easy for me to notice that 2 of my <span style="font-style:italic;">vecinos</span> in town had recently purchased vehicles. Both are used, one is a nice little 2 wheel drive white pickup truck manufactured in China, and the other looks to be an 80´s vintage Toyota LandCruiser, 4WD of course.<br /><br />Now I want one . . . But then I would never get any work done . . . <br /> <br />And to be fair, the nuisances mentioned above occur (thankfully) very infrequently, and to someone less sensitive and more tolerant then me would probably not warrant a strenuous complaint. Yet it is a happy day when the visitors go home, all their <span style="font-style:italic;">basura</span> is cleaned up, and we return to the normalcy of quiet days and nights interrupted only by a shoed horse clomping along the pavers, pealing church bells, and occasional civic announcements from the local authorities.<br /><br />(The photo above has nothing to do with this post. It´s one of my favorites, two young girls who live in a small community at about 4200 meters in la provincia Bolivar, where I was working last year. As for the last photo, the big chicken on top of the big Suburban - - a few folks liked that one! It´s from this past summer, in Hatch, New Mexico.)Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-86351632152764283072011-12-19T20:59:00.005-04:002011-12-19T21:17:43.317-04:00a los tiempos . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNRgGjv2xI-wnGaJbmlhtWd0ZR5gp8FGybcqVY3SgHS3x1QuK69PzhahgLKh4JwPG9-3xZC45N0rpn5D-0U6WZMp0Ul4JqyygHlr5nVgMft7g8eLzugc_HhlKWwJhMkakapRpKCuDcLxH/s1600/USA+2011+389.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNRgGjv2xI-wnGaJbmlhtWd0ZR5gp8FGybcqVY3SgHS3x1QuK69PzhahgLKh4JwPG9-3xZC45N0rpn5D-0U6WZMp0Ul4JqyygHlr5nVgMft7g8eLzugc_HhlKWwJhMkakapRpKCuDcLxH/s320/USA+2011+389.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688012582795145826" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Let´s see - agosto,septiembre, octubre, noviembre, y la mitad de diciembre - - a long time without posting. Hope one or two of you are still listening, let me know!<br /><br />18 diciembre 2011<br /><br />I was getting ready to go to Ibarra this morning, thinking that it would be a nice way to spend my first Saturday back in Ecuador. Not to mention that I could pick up a few hardware items, do a little grocery shopping, and meet my friend Sarah for a cup of coffee, since she was coming up from Quito to visit her in-laws.<br /><br />I called Sarah to make sure we were still on, and to suggest that we meet earlier than 3 PM, the time originally planned for. She answered the phone, apologizing profusely - - Roger I am so sorry I could not meet you yesterday, blah blah blah . . . I said no worries we are going to meet today right, Saturday? Sarah says - - Roger, yesterday was Saturday, today is Sunday. <br /> <br />Oh. <br /> <br />I had been wondering why it seemed so quiet around town this morning. <br /><br />It´s not the first time during my nearly 5 years in Ecuador that I have lost track of the calendar, and I expect and hope that it will not be the last.<br /><br />#####<br /><br />My recent 3 month trip to the U.S. was mostly a success. The only serious blip was the heart attack my brother Dave suffered while I was up in New York City visiting with my daughter Anna on what was to have been my last night in the states. I spent the evening haggling with the airline and sending emails to friends in Ecuador who were expecting me the next day, and on Monday I lugged my ridiculously excessive luggage back down Anna´s 5 flights of stairs, grabbed a cab to Penn Station and then caught a bus back to Baltimore. My nephew Ian met me with his truck at the bus- stop, we loaded the luggage and then headed off to the hospital where Dave had undergone a quadruple bypass that morning.<br /><br />I stayed in Baltimore for a week, running errands for David and visiting him in the hospital, but mostly nagging Ian with reminders that he was going to have to step up to the plate for the next few weeks at least to make sure laundry got done, food got bought, etc. etc. When I finally left for Ecuador on the following Tuesday, Dave was back home, doing well, and as we drove to the airport I gave Ian just a little more friendly nagging and told him that I expect a visit from him before too long. I hope he takes me up on it someday. <br /><br />#####<br /><br />It is good to be back, even if I don´t know what day it is. After 2 very easy and pleasant flights, first from Baltimore to Atlanta (a stupendously clear sky and we followed the Appalachians all the way down to Georgia from Maryland) and then the 5.30 PM ride to Quito, I arrived just before 11 PM local time. The paperwork (passport, visa) was easy, as was the luggage check and exit. It was by far the most relaxed arrival I have yet had coming into Ecuador.<br /> <br />My friend Gabby had said she would meet me, and she did, along with her aunt and niece. It was the first time I had ever been met at the airport - - and by 3 lovely women, to boot. We taxied over to the small apartment where Gabby lives with her mother, Silvia, (essentially at the very end of the runway) and as always when they have visitors Gabby and her mom slept in Gabby´s bed and I slept in Silvia´s. I used to argue about this arrangement, but it gets me nowhere, so now I just appreciate the gesture and the firm mattress.<br /><br />Although anxious to return to Cahuasqui I decided to stay the following day in Quito. Gabby and I bussed into <span style="font-style:italic;">el centro</span> where she had some errands to run, and then we spent a few hours wandering around looking at Spanish schools. My son Joe is coming to Ecuador in January and he may take a few weeks of classes - - - and it wouldn´t hurt for me to consider doing the same. I certainly get by with my hackneyed Spanish, but I´d like to, and should, take it to the next level.<br /> <br />We visited a few schools, liked some more than others, and then got back to the house just in time to watch championship soccer, where Ecuador´s <span style="font-style:italic;">equipo</span>, Liga, lost badly to Chile. Oh well.<br /><br />The next morning, after another good night of sleeping on Silvia´s comfy mattress, I got on a bus to Ibarra and then to Cahuasqui. By 3 PM I was home. <br /><br />I´m going to do my best to post again before the new year . . .Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-22403829070390871912011-08-03T18:56:00.003-04:002011-08-03T19:17:29.300-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BOCUizwI5Ywhsv25ybr57o8BPwCF95fpll1TU9xFP1XH-QcsnI3uUJ48XM-BRI330jkVZOFrrJVikmaGsYS1NU4AVjba9IYwHhwIO_h2e7jvPdmKgxLYiBGoNwxH4CswwLZPwZSsgvxK/s1600/11+june+004.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BOCUizwI5Ywhsv25ybr57o8BPwCF95fpll1TU9xFP1XH-QcsnI3uUJ48XM-BRI330jkVZOFrrJVikmaGsYS1NU4AVjba9IYwHhwIO_h2e7jvPdmKgxLYiBGoNwxH4CswwLZPwZSsgvxK/s320/11+june+004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636772635965764562" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76-Ykw8Zwl-ZAIDRy7qXyr3BfikDNAfcqoMIhybhTIBYJ2QKlkIsmvK5CQrN789PZf3f3Phdadh0zEZoSvh8h16rE-WOG96p-VyBMmlSsO7h910TFhJfvE4IBYsCbLhM9n94PUn2ZbAM0/s1600/11+june+031.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76-Ykw8Zwl-ZAIDRy7qXyr3BfikDNAfcqoMIhybhTIBYJ2QKlkIsmvK5CQrN789PZf3f3Phdadh0zEZoSvh8h16rE-WOG96p-VyBMmlSsO7h910TFhJfvE4IBYsCbLhM9n94PUn2ZbAM0/s320/11+june+031.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636772639485612066" /></a><br />(continued from previous post, more or less)<br /><br />All my visitors gone, I got back to work on the house.<br /><br />I had a few weeks of work in front of me, and a lot to complete before taking advantage of Jill´s truck for an Ecua road trip I was planning around the middle of June. Although walls were up and windows were in, I was still door-less and the floors in the original part of the house were still dirt. <br /><br />Before pouring the floors we had to lay in the water and waste lines to the kitchen and bathroom. This was relatively easy work and took only a day. I plan to someday build an <span style="font-style:italic;">inodoro seco</span> (dry toilet) a few meters away from the house, along with an outdoor shower, but thought it a good idea (being 2011 after all) to have indoor plumbing as well.<br /> <br />We got to work hauling rock and sand and cement up to the house, which due to lack of road access is at least half the battle. Literally thousands of rocks, maybe tens of thousands, who knows, I didn´t count them. But I´m sure that I touched every one of them. The sand we hauled in from the local “mine” – thousands of shovelfuls and hundreds of wheelbarrow trips up the hill.<br /><br />I had considered doing compacted earthen floors in one or two of the rooms, but in the end my concerns about dampness convinced me to go with concrete floors. We excavated to level, laid down a plastic vapor barrier, then started putting the rocks in place. Every one of them placed and tamped, just so. Many of the larger rocks we broke into pieces with the <span style="font-style:italic;">combo</span>. The concrete is mixed with <span style="font-style:italic;">arena y tierra y ripio y agua</span> outside on the dirt. A big pile of ingredients, mixed to one side and then the other, then wetted and mixed again. Then we pour, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow, pushing the <span style="font-style:italic;">mescla</span> into the spaces between the rocks. Little by little the concrete comes up to level, and then is screeded off. Lastly we sprinkle pure cement over the drying floor and trowel it smooth for a nice finish. We tried mixing some pigment into the mix to give the floors color, but it did not work out very well so we abandoned that idea. We worked on the floors every day for a week and a day, and needless to say it was quite a relief when they were done.<br /><br />With the floors poured I could now install the 2 exterior doors, which I ´d already purchased in Ibarra. <span style="font-style:italic;">Don</span> Fernando, whose help and knowledge has been indispensable, was taking some time off to work on other projects and to plant his fields, so I had the better part of 2 weeks alone to work and putter as I pleased. I installed the doors, did some more work on the roof to ensure it was watertight, planted some tomatoes, spinach, and zuchini in the garden, got the place cleaned up and moved a bed and cookstove up into what someday will be the kitchen. A few nights later I slept up there for the first time – built a small fire outdoors and when it died down I spent a long time looking up at the stars scattered across the super clear sky. <br /> <br />Back a few years ago, when I first moved into the house I was rehabbing in Dayton, for the first few nights I slept with a baseball bat next to my bed. Never had to use it, though the house did get broken into, twice, during daylight hours when I was away. Here, lacking a baseball bat, I gently laid my machete on the floor next to the bed. When I woke up in the morning, I laughed at my silly fears, and put the machete back in the bodega, where it belongs.<br /><br /><br />- (next post – Ecua road trip!)Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-66286721104809929332011-07-20T13:37:00.002-04:002011-07-20T13:49:13.506-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_7vu3fate76S55Z4acfNpMLpnzcsu24lRVi0x60qEUqj4komyAIIHAGoAjUCPV2X6GmUnf9q5Jpk59ly9V2ei4okLh6Q7gZpMyugNkCcdNA43_gXih57pPBQFPKXf6_N-AkdoX0fMvH-/s1600/11+june+065.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_7vu3fate76S55Z4acfNpMLpnzcsu24lRVi0x60qEUqj4komyAIIHAGoAjUCPV2X6GmUnf9q5Jpk59ly9V2ei4okLh6Q7gZpMyugNkCcdNA43_gXih57pPBQFPKXf6_N-AkdoX0fMvH-/s320/11+june+065.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631492979124711154" /></a><br />I am so far behind in this chronicle that I am not even sure where to begin . . . so I may as well begin with today, or these past few days, and see where that leads us. That´s the royal “us” - referring to myself and the 2.76 readers who check in here from time to time. <br /><br />I faced up to a fact today that I have been avoiding for the last several months. To wit, I am in love with the process of building my house . . . so much in love, as a matter of fact, that I keep thinking of ways to prolong the ordeal. I simply do not want to be finished – for then what? Then I have to move in, furnish the place to a degree, keep some food and drink handy, sweep and tidy up every now and again, etc. etc. etc. All that housekeeping sounds like a lot of work - so much easier and much more fun just to keep digging, cutting, nailing, pouring and whatnot. None of that is work – it´s just all play. Luxurious labor - - no bosses, no deadlines, no reports, no<span style="font-style:italic;"> nada</span>. Finishing, and then moving in, will require me to deal with the question of what comes next - - and the fact is that I don´t have a clue. Of course something will come up, it always does (or at least always has) Nevertheless, I really don´t want to think about it . . .<br /><br />But I do think about it – my vaguely obsessive/compulsive mind momentarily agonizing over a bad decision made 3 weeks or 3 months ago, worrying about cash flow (which is flowing in only one direction these days) or fretting over how to rectify my tenuous visa situation or how to best care for my tender young avocado trees. Oh how I sometimes long to emulate my <span style="font-style:italic;">campesino</span> friends who truly take one day at a time . . . <br />----------<br /><br />As we all know, sometimes it´s good to get away for a while, far from those and that which we love. I´ve had several little trips and adventures of late which provided good fun and great therapy. Back in April, my good friend Colin, along with fellow Buckeyes Dana and Kat (but without his lovely wife Lori this trip) came to Ecuador, and I met them down in Quito the night of their arrival. Next morning we made the 3 hour trip by bus down to the Latacunga terminal, where the threesome jumped on the noon bus to Laguna Quilotoa, which is certainly one of the oldest and funkiest busses still running in Ecuador. I watched them pull away, gave a wave for good luck, (they were going to need it, traveling in that old piece of junk) and then walked across the street to the Santa Maria supermarket to meet up with Jill Sare (owner of the truck I mentioned in a previous post). <br /><br />Jill was parked just outside the market and was hastily making tuna and pickle roll-ups for the road on the front seat of the truck, so I stepped into the Santa Maria to buy a few beverages. Sandwiches ready and drinks at hand we hit the long and winding road down to Baños, where we were treated to the roarings, rumblings, and spewings of Volcan Tungurahua, which was clearly visible from the home we stayed in. I had planned to stay only one night in Baños, but the volcano was so intriguing that I decided to stay on for a second, hoping the skies might clear and I´d get a good night time view of the eruptions. After dinner out (and some great home-brewed beer) with a few of Jill´s friends I hit the sack, a little disappointed that it was still overcast. I fell asleep to the jet like roar emanating from the crater, about 8 kilometers away.<br /><br /> About 2 in the morning Jill is pounding at my door – “did you hear that? did you feel that? Wake up and come see the volcano!” A thundering explosion had woken Jill, but I had slept right through it. I got up and went out on the porch and I can only say I´ve never seen anything like what I was seeing. The sky had cleared completely, and lava and flames were shooting from the crater, red and orange and yellow. It was a hypnotic and spectacular light show, complete with sound effects, and we sat in silence for a long while, for there were no words to describe what we were seeing. <br /> <br />A few hours later we were on the road, making the 6 hour drive in Jill´s truck to Cahuasqui. After an easy and pleasant trip Jill settled in at the hostal of <span style="font-style:italic;">doña</span> Mariana Fuentes and I went up the hill to check on the house. The next day we walked over to Yanarra Guayasamin´s house, where Yanarra and friends and family from Quito were gathered under the trees sitting around the picnic table. We ate good food, drank good wine, played guitars and sang. A lovely time and the whole afternoon had a very cinematic feel to it . . . <br /><br />The next morning, Jill, who was off to the US for two months, said goodbye to “Morci”, (her truck) handed me the keys, and then caught a ride to Quito with Yanarra´s husband Olivier.<br /><br />A few days later I drove down to Otavalo to meet up again with Colin and company, who had bussed back up north from Latacunga. We went to Ibarra, ate <span style="font-style:italic;">fritada</span>, and then came back up to la isla. Kat and Dana stayed at Marianna´s hostal, and Colin camped out at my place. The next day we all met up at the house and just relaxed for a few hours enjoying the sun and the views. <br /><br />A day later we were on the road to the Ecuador/Columbia <span style="font-style:italic;">frontera</span>. About 20 kilometers south of Tulcan we were stopped at a police control, where our friendly and corrupt interrogator threatened to impound Jill´s truck, claiming it was “improperly registered” (it was not, all papers were in order) Obviously we (being 4 gringos in a private vehicle), were good shakedown material, and thinking quickly, I lied, telling him “Why, I was stopped at another control just yesterday and they said all the papers are fine” . This threw him, and he stepped away from the truck for a few minutes to think about his next step and to give us time to (he was hoping) slip him a twenty dollar bill. We sat, and waited, for what seemed like a long time but probably wasn´t. We were at a stalemate, I wasn´t going to give up the truck (!) nor were we going to knuckle under and give up the bribe. I felt badly for Colin, Dana, and Kat, who were anxious to get up to Las Lajas in Columbia - - but they were backing me up all the way. Dana is a policeman in Ohio and even though his Spanish is not up to speed he fully understood what was going on. After a while our man reappeared, apparently convinced that we were not particularly afraid of him, and he told us to move on – “but get this problem taken care of”. I was tempted to remind him that there was no problem, but kept my mouth shut for once. Four sighs of relief, and we pulled away. <br /><br />I dropped Colin and friends off at the border, where they caught a taxi into Columbia, and I parked the truck and mostly napped while waiting for them to return. I did walk over the bridge into Columbia looking for internet, and chatted a while with a few friendly Columbian policemen. The border at Rumichaca is a schizophrenic place – I´ve crossed it several times now, and sometimes, like on this day, it feels easy going and relaxed, almost festive. Other times the police and/or military on both sides seem to be on high alert and the atmosphere can be very tense. I´m not sure what accounts for the differences, but more than likely it is just posturing by one government or the other to show that they can muscle up if needed. <br /> <br />Four or so hours later the Ohioans returned, and we headed south back to Tulcan to visit the beautiful topiary gardens at the cemetery there. But first I scared the bejesus out of myself and my passengers by turning left into oncoming one-way traffic . A couple of choice phrases and a quick retreat put us on the right path, and off we went. I was beginning to feel like a normal Ecuadorean driver.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Our drive up to Tulcan had been fairly easy, except for the shakedown. Early morning traffic had been light, and it was essentially a pleasure to wind our way north along the twists and turns of the <span style="font-style:italic;">panamericana</span>. Leaving Tulcan was a different story. By late afternoon traffic had increased by tenfold, and at least half of that was heavy trucks and buses. The slower <span style="font-style:italic;">mulas</span> crawled along in the uphills, the faster buses and smaller trucks and cars impatiently waiting to pass at first opportunity – weaving in and out, sometimes taking advantage of a 15 foot opening to advance one car at a time. When traffic in the oncoming lane lightened a little, all of a sudden a group of 2 or 3 cars, trucks and buses would pull out in unison, and then abreast of one another, with headlights flashing to signal “get out of my way” they would negotiate a triple, (sometimes quadruple) pass. Any oncoming traffic is forced over onto the shoulder, because the passers have nowhere else to go. <br /><br />I was somewhat familiar with this driving style, mostly from watching it as a passenger in a bus. My three passengers, pale by now, were not, and could not believe what they were seeing, especially Dana, the policeman. “So, I guess they don´t bother with the rules down here, do they?”, he said, and Colin, who`s been many times to Mexico and Ecuador and other Latin American countries chuckled and said “what rules”? For me, as <span style="font-style:italic;">el chofer</span>, it was more than a little stressful, but as I got more accustomed, and comfortable, during my 2 months use of the truck, I would begin to appreciate the system of unwritten driving “rules”, the various meanings of headlight flashes and vague hand signals. But I never did get used to the ridiculous practice of vehicles pulling right in order to make a LEFT turn . . . <br /><br />Traffic lightened somewhat as we started the long downhill run from Carchi Province into Imbabura province and <span style="font-style:italic;">el valle de Chota</span>. The late afternoon light was spectacular and we were treated to beautiful views of a snowcapped Cayambe (highest point in the world through which the equator passes), and the lower but closer peaks of Imbabura and Cotocachi. We left the <span style="font-style:italic;">panamericana</span> at the Salinas “Y” and returned to Cahuasqui via Tumbabiro - the sugar cane, <span style="font-style:italic;">espinas</span> and the beautiful yellow flowered <span style="font-style:italic;">cholan</span> pressing in close from both sides of the narrow and winding road.<br /><br />The next morning my friends were on their way back to Quito, Dana and Kat returning to Ohio and Colin continuing on to Peru, where he would meet up with Lori in Cusco and from there they would go on to the Sacred Valley and Macchu Picchu. <br /><br />I got back to work on the house.<br /><br />(to be continued . . .)Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-2074828514720208182011-05-13T19:20:00.005-04:002011-05-13T20:54:58.288-04:008 mayo, domingo <br /><br />So much happening, and so little time to sit down to write a bit about it. Here it is the second week of May already, the rains have stopped and it looks like summer has finally come to Cahuasqui. Crisp cool mornings followed by brilliant blue skies and hot sun, and clear nights perfect for stargazing. Every tractor and every team of draft animals in town is busy with plowing and disking, irrigation ditches are being cleaned out, fields are being planted to beans and peas and tomatoes and peppers, and just about everyone in town seems to be happily occupied with the business of farming.<br /><br />I am happily occupied, as well, slowly but surely coming closer to the morning when I can wake up in my “new” house on the hill, brew a cup of coffee and sit outside for a few moments enjoying the sun, the breeze, and the view. When people ask me (everyday) “are you done yet?”, my stock response is “<span style="font-style:italic;">falta un mez</span>!” But the months come and go, Don Fernando and I are working hard just about every day, yet it always seems we are still about a month away from “finishing.” Good thing I´m not in a hurry, and as a matter of fact I sometimes find myself enjoying the process of building so much that I´m not sure I want it to end . . .<br /><br />In addition to the construction, I have finally cleared a bit of land to start a little “<span style="font-style:italic;">huerto</span>” where I´ll plant tomatos, zuchinni, spinach, lettuce, herbs and more. I have started about 500 tomato seedlings in flats, and they´ll be ready for transplanting out in about 2 weeks. I also decided to plant 15-20 more avocado trees, in addition to the 40 I planted last November - when they start producing in about 3 or 4 years they´ll provide a little bit of welcome income. Last week in Atuntaqui I bought a truckload of plants – the avocados, oranges, mandarinas y limon, and a whole mess of flowers and <span style="font-style:italic;">medicinales</span>. Later on a couple of apple trees, and maybe peaches, and I think I´ll be set. <br /> <br />A truckload of plants – what a luxury. For the months of May and June I have the use of a Chevy LUV pickup – loaned to me (in exchange for new tires and some TLC) by my friend Jill Sare, (she writes a great blog at http://www.travelblog.org/Bloggers/Sra-Sare/) who has gone visiting in the US. After 10 days I am already completely spoiled, and I know that one way or another I am going to have to have my own truck. After 4 years of traveling by bus, I am more than ready. What freedom, what utility!<br /><br />----------------------<br /> <br /> <br />Now that summer has come I´ve decided that I should get out of my levi´s and put on a pair of shorts every now and again. In the early morning while it´s still cool I pull on long pants, but by about 8.30 the sun is hot enough to change into an old pair of Carhartt shorts that I keep up at the house. One day last week, shortly before the lunch break, I had to hike down the hill to pick up something at the ferreteria, so in shorts, tank top and ratty old cowboy hat went into town. The hardware store was empty, except for Fernanda the clerk and an old lady who had stopped by to visit. The old lady, with a great big smile showing off her one and only tooth, could not keep her eyes off my legs. I finally asked her, “so what do you think of my white gringo legs?” and she smiled even more broadly and said “<span style="font-style:italic;">que lindo, que lindo</span>, your legs are the color of yucca!” This was not exactly a compliment in my book, although she certainly meant it as such, and Fernanda, behind the counter, could barely keep herself from bursting out loud in laughter. The old lady also commented on my various shades of whiteness - “<span style="font-style:italic;">que lindo</span>, your legs are so white, your shoulders are so red (burnt) and your arms are the color of an Indian! <span style="font-style:italic;">Que hermoso</span>!” Sigh . . . there are times I feel like a living and breathing entertainment center. <br /><br />-------<br /><br />13 mayo, viernes <br /><br />Rain! A much needed day off after a week of hauling and loading and digging and mixing and pouring. I hired 2 “<span style="font-style:italic;">officiales</span>” (day laborers) Juan y Segundo, to help Fernando and I and it paid off. We poured concrete floors in 4 rooms, installed the water and drain lines, cleaned up the piles of dirt and block that had accumulated around the house and hauled up at least 100 wheelbarrows full of arena and another 50 of piedra to have ready for next week. What a difference 2 extra pairs of hands make, and Juan and Segundo have a smile on their faces every moment, no matter how hard the work. For that matter, so do Fernando and I – we are all having a pretty good time up there.<br /><br />I´m happy for the break the rain provides, it gives me an excuse to drive into Ibarra today and it will help settle in the fruit trees I planted yesterday evening. But with the rain my thoughts return to my problematic roof, which I´ve been able to forget about during these past 2 weeks of dry weather. It´s a flat roof, with just enough slope to shed rainwater, and it´s planked with a very water resistant and very pretty reddish-yellow wood from the coast called “<span style="font-style:italic;">llano</span>”. Turns out though that <span style="font-style:italic;">llano</span> likes to shrink (a lot) when exposed to heat or sunlight, and my roof is opening up a little. I was assured that the wood was good and dry when I bought it in Ibarra, and I kept it stacked for a month before installing, but around here you never know. Kiln drying is virtually non-existent, and someone´s idea of air “dried” lumber might be cut the tree, leave the logs on the ground for a month, cut into planks – <span style="font-style:italic;">listo</span>. <span style="font-style:italic;">Hecho y seco</span>, but not really. <br /><br />The learning curve in this little project has been daunting, and in the end very useful. How spoiled I was, and how easy it was, in the US, to run off to Requarth´s Lumber Yard or Home Depot, to buy good lumber with standard dimensions, to not have to negotiate every price (“well, how much do you want to pay?) And to know if I need more, it´s always there. Here, if I run short of anything by a few pieces, it may be weeks or months (if ever) before the <span style="font-style:italic;">aserradero</span> has the same wood again. The upshot is, for my next Ecuadorean project, whenever and wherever, I am now far more prepared than I was 6 months ago. Not to say I don´t have a lot left to learn, and I´m still not sure how I´m going to fix my roof, but I reckon I´ll think of something.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-49852818293710060122011-03-20T20:48:00.004-04:002011-03-20T21:09:16.236-04:00Sunday Mornings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEU7lSmJIu94tXRNQmJUqd9Z-ksPT8uo4IMBf0fai0JpL3WUvKGNVSK4Qpm5WsFHsFV5Vr0qwm61NdMAoWMoDrf_TSj4CgdvTuYSCET3xe3CmF1tyHklcpDxsfegbhFmQBhH-mixx30bwT/s1600/cahuasqui+2010+019.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEU7lSmJIu94tXRNQmJUqd9Z-ksPT8uo4IMBf0fai0JpL3WUvKGNVSK4Qpm5WsFHsFV5Vr0qwm61NdMAoWMoDrf_TSj4CgdvTuYSCET3xe3CmF1tyHklcpDxsfegbhFmQBhH-mixx30bwT/s320/cahuasqui+2010+019.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586333745820993378" /></a><br />13 marzo Sunday morning – Waiting my turn at the laundry tank, which has been occupied almost every minute of every day for the past 2 weeks. While construction proceeds apace at “La Loma” I am living in a small apartment in town owned by <span style="font-style:italic;">Doña</span> Piedad and her husband <span style="font-style:italic;">Don</span> Raul, two of Cahuasquis´ most venerable citizens. They own and farm chunks of land from Cahuasqui up to San Fransisco de Sachapamba, growing traditional crops such as corn and beans, as well as being among the first here to grow asparagus and artichokes. Every morning <span style="font-style:italic;">Don</span> Raul is on his tractor up to San Francisco, and he reminds me a bit of Elder Welch, who many years ago in Yellow Springs, Ohio, extended his middle finger to authorities who took away his drivers license due to poor eyesight by climbing on his tractor every day and driving into town to run his errands.<br /><br />The compound in which I live used to be the office and residence of the Agricultural Minister for this region, (a post once held by <span style="font-style:italic;">Don</span> Raul and which has long ago been eliminated) and consists of 2 apartments, one occupied by a young woman named Raquel and her 2 children Pato and Maite. Raquel is about 22 years old and “married” to Doña Piedads´ son Oswaldo who is in his late 40´s and due to his work as a truck driver is rarely in town. But lately, late at night, Oswaldo has been parking his truck here for a few hours, then leaving early in the morning, just as the sun rises. I am pretty sure that the result of these late night visits will be that in 8 or 9 months time Raquel will “<span style="font-style:italic;">dar la luz</span>” to another <span style="font-style:italic;">angelito</span> - - right about the time Maite turns about one and a half years old.<br /><br />In addition to the 2 apartments there is a very small room in the back with a kitchen and bathroom, and next to that a large one room<span style="font-style:italic;"> bodega</span>, which up to about 2 weeks ago was empty. At the first of the month I had gone to Tena and Quito for a few days with my son during the last few days of his visit, and when I returned, a whole new family had moved into the <span style="font-style:italic;">bodega</span> – and the laundry tank has been occupied, either by the new family or by Raquel, almost every moment since. <br /> <br />I´d like to get up to the house to work, it´s a pretty day. But most of my work clothes are filthy and Sundays are almost the only opportunity to do washing. While I wait my turn I tidy up the little apartment, and then wash dishes to empty the kitchen sink where, given the circumstances, I wash up several pairs of socks and a couple of particularly nasty ball caps. By the time I finish these few items and get them hung on the line, my neighbor has finished up at the laundry tank and I move in with my 2 buckets of dirty t-shirts, pants, and unmentionables, which have been soaking in soapy water for a day or two.<br /><br />Very few <span style="font-style:italic;">campo</span> people have washing machines, so “doing the laundry” actually means doing the laundry, standing at the tank, drawing cold water from the tap, soaping up and scrubbing the daylights out of every single piece. For some it can be a 3 or 4 hour ordeal – luckily I have only my own clothes to wash and I can usually do what I need in under an hour. Sometimes it´s pleasant work, but other times, like today, when I´d rather be doing something else, I resolve that once I get moved in to the new house a washing machine will be one of the luxuries I permit myself (along with a refrigerator, which I have not had in my 4 years living in Ecuador). Only a washer, though – a dryer would be way too <span style="font-style:italic;">lujos</span> and therefore out of the question. <br /><br />There are 2 turtles who live in the wash tank, gifts brought to little Pato from his father whose work often takes him to coastal Ecuador. The turtles spend about half their lives in the laundry tank, the other half is spent in the hands of Pato and his little friends who grab them by their shells and pretend they are battleships or supersonic airplanes. Every time I do my laundry the turtles stretch their necks up at me and with their sad eyes seem to be saying “save us, please save us!” I have jovially suggested to Pato from time to time that hey, wouldn´t it be a great idea to take <span style="font-style:italic;">las tortugas</span> down to the river and let them go for a nice long swim! - - - but Pato, who is 4, squares his jaw, crosses his arms and says “no, this is a very bad idea”. Last month Oswaldo brought home a yappy little puppy, but after only a few days the puppy was gone. Raquel says he was stolen, but I suspect that she did not care much for the whining and yapping all night long (I know I didn´t) and made some “other arrangements”. <br /><br /><br />20 marzo Sunday morning – Pancakes (pahnkahkes) for breakfast, and “maple syrup” whipped up by boiling together <span style="font-style:italic;">un taza de panela, un poco de canela, y un poco de aceite</span>. It´s not too bad, and the sugar rush lasts almost until mid day. Then a little siesta <span style="font-style:italic;">y un cafecito</span>, and the tank is full again. <br /><br />As usual, Sunday is laundry day, and as usual I would rather go straight up to the house to work. But duty calls, so I step out the back door with my 2 buckets of dirty clothes expecting to find the wash tank occupied, and to my surprise it is not. Moreover, I am shocked to see a Rube Goldberg style conglomeration of tubes and plastic pipes passing through the window of the <span style="font-style:italic;">bodega</span> and connected to . . . a washing machine!<br /><br />Yes, my neighbors, my neighbors who I once felt sorry for because I thought they were so poor as to have no choice but to live in a one room<span style="font-style:italic;"> bodega</span>, have put in a washing machine. And over the last week they have carried in a big screen TV, a refrigerator, several pieces of very nice furniture. Come to think of it, I have seen no clothes hanging on the line for a few days, my god is it possible that they have a dryer, as well?!? Who are these people? Who do they think they are? We live in Cahuasqui after all, and aren´t all <span style="font-style:italic;">Cahuasquireños</span> hard working and honest but poor as church mice?<br /><br />Apparently not. I guess Cahuasqui is just a lot like the rest of Ecuador, which is to say a lot like the rest of the world. There´s thems that got, and thems that ain´t got. Twas ever thus . . .<br /><br />------<br /><br />Cahuasqui has a new internet “café”, and it is actually open from time to time. A few days ago I went down after work to give it a whirl. I took the shortcut to town, which means sliding down the hill at the bottom end of my land on the seat of my pants and hopping over an irrigation ditch. I walked on past 2 or 3 old mud houses, their teja roofs broken and decrepit, sliding off except where the moss keeps the tiles stuck together. I holler “<span style="font-style:italic;">buen provecho</span>” to an old man sitting in a tree eating guayaba fruit. I pass two burros quietly grazing in the fencerow, and a young man on horseback trots by and greets me with a happy sounding “<span style="font-style:italic;">buenas noches</span>!”<br /> <br />A few moments later I leave the dirt road and turn onto the cobbled street to town. It dawns on me that each step takes me out of one century and into another. The internet is open, it´s a little room with 4 computers, and one is available. I am glad to see they are busy, because this means they will stay open more frequently and maybe for longer than a few weeks or months. I take my place and while waiting for the machine to boot up I notice that to my right two of the cutest little 8 year old girls in the world are playing “Grand Theft Auto”, or some such thing, the high school student to my left is doing her homework, and further to my left, at the first machine, a young man is watching video footage from the Japan earthquake. His friend is looking over his shoulder and every few seconds one of them will mutter “<span style="font-style:italic;">increible</span>” or “<span style="font-style:italic;">caramba</span>”, or “<span style="font-style:italic;">dios mio</span>”. <br /> <br />I find I have little interest in the world outside of my own little life at this moment, so I spend only a few moments checking headlines and emails before signing off. Next week, I promise myself, I´ll be sure to write to friends and family, to download news articles to my flash drive to read at home, and to generally be a better world citizen and better person all around. We´ll see how that goes.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-41676706398558450462010-12-15T16:52:00.003-04:002010-12-15T17:04:59.944-04:00Dec. 13<br /><br />Waiting. Doing a lot of it lately. For the officials from <span style="font-style:italic;">el municipio</span> to come connect the water lines; for <span style="font-style:italic;">los oficiales y inginieros del EmelNorte</span> to string the wires <span style="font-style:italic;">para la luz</span> across the 3 eucalyptus posts I put in weeks ago. And, at the moment, waiting for Carlos, the roofer. Carlos always says 1pm, or 7am, but he really needs to attach :45 to whatever hour he promises. For now, I am grateful for the brief respite, my body exhausted from weeks of some of the hardest physical work I´ve made it do in years, and my brain somewhat frazzled from learning a whole new vocabulary of construction terms and from weeks of making decisions about materials and design. <br />Despite all the waiting we are making some progress. I am spending money at an alarming rate (and not earning any at the moment,) but I knew ahead of time that this would be the case while putting on the roof, which I think (hope) will be the most costly part of the construction. Carlos is a local carpenter, and he builds very nice and very simple furniture. He also does a more than passable job with doors and windows, and I will have him make all of mine. Roofs, however, are not his specialty, as I am finding out, and I´ve made some major changes in the design of the house in order to get Carlos on his way as quickly as possible without hinting that he seems to not know what he is doing and without hurting his feelings.<br /><br />All of my roofing lumber (<span style="font-style:italic;">vigas</span>) were cut from a massive old eucalyptus tree about an hour up in the mountains from here by Carlos´ brother Rene. Using only a chainsaw, Rene cuts the <span style="font-style:italic;">vigas</span> to length (3-4 meters) and roughly squares them up out in <span style="font-style:italic;">el bosque</span>. Then he hauls them (80 – 110 lbs. apiece) one by one on his shoulders down from the woods and into the bed of his old truck. He brings them to Carlos´ <span style="font-style:italic;">taller</span>, where they are planed down to their finished dimensions, then loaded back on the truck , and then again on his back, for the trip up to my house. I tried to shoulder one of the shorter pieces and nearly crumpled under the weight. I am a full foot taller than Rene and outweigh him by 50 pounds, if not more. The strength of every man woman and child who is helping me on this project is simply mind boggling.<br /><br />So, to make a long story short, lumber can be somewhat hard to come by here in Cahuasqui. When mistakes are made or when you find you may have miscalculated, you face either a long wait or a long trip to Ibarra to try and make it up. Imagine my chagrin when Carlos ruined 2 beautiful <span style="font-style:italic;">vigas</span> by erring egregiously in his measurements and cutting the birds´ mouths (with the chain saw) a good handspan from where they needed to be. According to Carlos, to say the <span style="font-style:italic;">vigas</span> are “ruined” is a bit strong, after all “we” can just cut off the bad parts and bam!, good as new - - except of course that they are now rather short and will not serve their intended purpose, a fact that Carlos does not really want to talk about. I tell him that in the US, when I frame a roof, or anything else for that matter, if I make a mistake (and I´ve made plenty) then it is my responsibility to replace, out of my own pocket, the wood I have butchered. His eyes grow wide and his face tightens as he considers what I am saying. I am not asking Carlos to do this of course, because he is poor enough already as it is, but I do take a few moments of perverse enjoyment watching him try to grasp this awesome concept of taking responsibility for mistakes.<br /><br />-----<br /><br />Carlos was to meet me in town after lunch, but he didn´t show. I walked up the hill and found him at the house, working along with his brother Segundo and his son Estefan. There were 2 sets of <span style="font-style:italic;">vigas</span> in place up on the roof, and while not perfect, and really not even very good, they will do. Certainly they are far better than the first attempt made yesterday. <br /><br />Carlos´ sister-in-law Anita is also working up at the house, helping to clean <span style="font-style:italic;">teja</span>. She has become very concerned about my <span style="font-style:italic;">estado civil</span> (marital status), and claims to be a little worried about my living up here on <span style="font-style:italic;">la loma</span> without a <span style="font-style:italic;">mujercita</span> to cook or clean for me, and to take care of the place when I am not around. But what really worries her are the <span style="font-style:italic;">mumias, fantasmas, y duendes</span> who will come to haunt me every night. According to locally accepted folklore my land and house are up on a <span style="font-style:italic;">tola</span> - - a kind of lookout hill constructed by either the Incans or the Caras. In years past a few pieces of ancient pottery, both large and small, have been found up here, along with a smattering of human remains, including the skull we found within the first hour of our excavations around the house. When I showed the skull to Anita she gasped “<span style="font-style:italic;">dios mio</span>” and crossed herself several times to make sure the evil spirits will stay away from her.<br /><br />All the rest of us had a nice laugh at her expense, and Anitas´ husband Segundo suggested that I find a very ugly woman to marry, one who can not only cook and clean but who can also keep the ghosts at bay. I told him I would keep an eye out for just such a woman . . .Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-24350595076773619672010-12-02T15:33:00.008-04:002010-12-02T15:53:14.727-04:00odds and endsOdds and ends, in no particular order.<br /><br />Cahuasqui 5 PM. Oct 31. Up at the house <span style="font-style:italic;">en la loma</span>. It´s a beautiful day, and I´m punching 10 inch diameter holes through the 2 foot thick rammed earth walls to see just how hard it´s going to be to put a few windows in the place. Right now there are none;imagine generations of the same family living in a house almost continuously for almost 100 years and never once thinking “hmm, a window over there might be nice.” Well maybe they did think about it, who knows. Perhaps so many hours were spent outdoors in the daily routine that when sunset came it was a relief to go inside, shut the door and forget about the damned fresh air, the sun, the heat, the cold, and the rain for a little while. <br /><br />Down below in town the weekly soccer game is in progress, the rivals to the locals having come in by bus from Pablo Arenas or Urcuqui. The sound system as usual is blaring away, and everyone up and down the entire valley is at this very moment listening to “Call Me” by Blondie. I wonder who chooses the music at these things. . .<br /><br /><br />Ibarra 6.30 AM Oct 1 - The day after the “attempted coup” and I am in the Ibarra bus terminal on my way to Natabuela to work at the hogar de los discapacitados. President Correa has made his triumphant return to the palace and given his rousing and defiant speech, denouncing the striking police and as well his political foes. In the “battle for his release” from the police hospital 4 or 5 young men have been killed, several more badly injured. Correa calls them heroes; he takes no responsibility for the series of events and his own provocations which led to this senseless, and some say choreographed, violence. In Guayaquil, Quito, and throughout the country dozens if not hundreds of stores have been looted, banks robbed, automobiles burned or overturned, etc. etc. Correa, standing late last night on the balcony of the presidential palace - with large screens, cameras and sound systems somehow, mysteriously, already in place - pounds his chest and vows to punish those responsible. . .<br /><br />The terminal, normally bustling at this hour, is quiet. Wafting sweetly from the overhead speakers, heard only by a few and likely understood only by me, comes a poignant lament from the band REM - “Everybody Hurts.” So true, on this particular morning.<br /><br /><br /><br />Salinas de Guaranda 1.30 AM Nov 5 - Someone is ringing the church bells. The Padre is out of town, in Ambato, so I figure that one or two of the local delinquents or <span style="font-style:italic;">borrachos</span> are out having a lark and a laugh - but the peal of the bells is so sweet and soulful, totally without malice, honestly one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. On and on it goes, or so it seems in my half awake state, and before the mysterious bell ringer tires of his folly I drift back off to sleep.<br /><br />A day later there is an afternoon mass. A matriarch of the town, 90 years old and whose name is unknown to me has died the night before, about 20 minutes before the sound of ringing bells gently roused me from my sleep. And although it is not at all original, I found myself for several days thereafter recalling lines from John Donne “never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-30854157191542481472010-11-08T22:23:00.004-04:002010-11-08T22:48:29.242-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBni0hJ7Jkbho12syeu-yPEoTtEjeBAI1QwTTv5L0K8L3ODMmed3zfpnUqRva3TxqG23pc1PvNCCwa1i2nBXmZo7dLvBWuGuYtWHXza3QTWBWDlOFxEaON7VR1_TJ2Xp8Waa32WtscDR7i/s1600/salinas+etc+oct+2010+002.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBni0hJ7Jkbho12syeu-yPEoTtEjeBAI1QwTTv5L0K8L3ODMmed3zfpnUqRva3TxqG23pc1PvNCCwa1i2nBXmZo7dLvBWuGuYtWHXza3QTWBWDlOFxEaON7VR1_TJ2Xp8Waa32WtscDR7i/s320/salinas+etc+oct+2010+002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537372725999297154" /></a><br />November 5 2010<br />And now, all of a sudden, I find myself back in Salinas de Guaranda for a few days. 150 miles from Cahuasqui as the crow flies, the trip consumes almost 10 hours in bus. Today was a very bad travel day, 2 accidents on the Panamericana north of Quito, and to the south heavy and slow traffic, leftovers from the week of <em>feriados</em> to celebrate <em>el dia de los santos y el dia de los difuntos. </em> <br /><br />I hadn´t planned to return here until mid or late December, but I received a phone call telling me that two separate groups of potential project funders will be coming from the US and Austria this weekend. So on short notice I very reluctantly left Cahuasqui and made my way here. Hopefully all will go well over the next few days and we will end up with some thousands of dollars to build a few more greenhouses . . .<br /><br />Talking to the Padre this evening upon my arrival he noted that it might be difficult for me “to have my heart in two places”. I assured him rather quickly that my heart was fully in Cahuasqui, but that it held in it a special and very warm spot for Salinas.<br /><br />------<br /><br />And it´s true. I´m very happy to be maintaining a relationship with Salinas and my friends and co-workers there. At the same time, little by little, the realization that I am no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer, <em>o algo como asi</em>, (or something like one) is dominating my thinking. I am ready to move on to building a life of my own here in Ecuador, with a place I can call home and a little piece of ground to take care of. While in the US for 3 months this past summer my thoughts were, almost daily, of <em>mi casita propia</em>, a little garden and a few chickens wandering around on the front porch. I am ready, at the ripe old age of 55, to settle down. At least for a while, anyway.<br /><br />The life of a Peace Corps Volunteer is a good one, if you take it seriously and make earnest attempts to do the job you are charged with. What exactly is that job, well that´s a good question. For your first 6 months you think your job is to save the world, and for the next 6 months you more or less lock yourself in your room brooding and wondering why you have failed. With luck, on the first day of your second year, you open your door, let some of the mustiness escape, then walk outside and say “the hell with saving the world, I´ve got to save myself!” And then you get to work, and 12 months roll by like nobody´s business and you find yourself ready to stay. Maybe for another 6 months, maybe a year, maybe a lifetime.<br /><br />Which is more or less what happened to me, except that I really did not sit in my room brooding for 6 months. Although for a while there my consumption of cheap rum did increase precipitously . . .<br /><br />So I completed my 2 years of service, traveled a little, then returned to Ecuador and got a job here in Salinas, and it was almost like being back in Peace Corps all over again. As much as I like being a “do-gooder” after a few months I began to realize that enough is enough . . . I wanted my own life, my own schedule, and most importantly, work that I had total control over, inasmuch as that is possible. Enough of waiting for meetings that never happen, enough of sitting through interminable meetings that do happen, enough of depending way too much on other people to care as much as I do, enough of just about everything. <br /><br /><em>Entonces</em>, I bought my little piece of land in Cahuasqui with a house built of straw and mud sprouting from the ground like a great extension of the earth, ready to plant and rebuild, ready for some chickens, a rocking chair and a refrigerator full of cold Pilseners. Ready to eke out a living, on my own terms . . .<br /><br />And here I am again, in Salinas de Guaranda. Where we all sit around the table together for breakfast, lunch and dinner, talking in Spanish and Italian and French and English about lofty goals and likely impossible dreams. Where a room and a comfortable bed have been set aside for my exclusive use, whether I show up once a month or once every 6 months, and quite frankly at the moment is the closest thing in the world I have to a home, at least until I get my little Cahuasqui house in livable condition. <br /><br />So maybe my heart really is in 2 places, as the Padre suggested a couple of days ago. And maybe that´s not so bad, after all.<br />------ <br /><br />The US funders, (potential funders that is), have come and gone. Mostly Rotary Club members, they were a friendly bunch of people and I think we might have a chance to make use of some of their money some where down the road. The Austrian contingent arrived on their heels, and I gave them my little song and dance late this afternoon, with a repeat performance scheduled for tomorrow. During my presentations I found myself talking up Cahuasqui, and as my lips continued moving I was startled to hear myself suggesting that perhaps one day they will have the opportunity to visit and consider funding some projects that my friends and I are considering for Cahuasqui and environs . . . Dammit, still acting like a Peace Corps volunteer – and again, maybe that´s not so bad, after all.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-84437547547994688232010-11-01T21:02:00.005-04:002010-11-01T21:28:03.958-04:0024 de octubre<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdelvWh3XnaPP05NBbmvuEvB-u9mjZH1WQl3r4pZjN6NA1Gtyz9_SSBJcEcr6cx55kq75HBrJ0hGng1kw1cgYcQfUtRWoW9kZNfpz6Ppy5WXYKnKN2w61AGs1JETq5LatcslCbD3gjc-7/s1600/alao,+pugala+067.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdelvWh3XnaPP05NBbmvuEvB-u9mjZH1WQl3r4pZjN6NA1Gtyz9_SSBJcEcr6cx55kq75HBrJ0hGng1kw1cgYcQfUtRWoW9kZNfpz6Ppy5WXYKnKN2w61AGs1JETq5LatcslCbD3gjc-7/s320/alao,+pugala+067.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534757252083700098" /></a><br /><br />Fever,headache and chills. Just 2 days ago I was marveling at how good I felt, just goes to show ya . . .<br /><br />Back in Ibarra after a week in Salinas and another week of visiting friends and some side trips outside of Riobamba. Salinas was very cold, and as I was packing light was totally unprepared for it. When the sun did come out it was as spectacular as always . . . but mostly it was cold.<br /> <br />One day while in Riobamba I hopped on a bus to parts unknown, one of my favorite things to do. My destination was a small pueblo called Alao, at the foot of the Sangay National Park. There were no direct busses, so I caught one to Licto, and then hiked the several kilometers to Pungala, where I had heard I could catch a bus on up the valley to Alao. The weather was clear and cool as I hiked down the <em>sendero</em> from Licto to the bridge where it looked like I could connect to the road to Pungala.<br /> <br />After 20 minutes or so of slipping and sliding down the loose rocky footpath I made the bridge, and as I slogged back up the steep highway to Pungala, passing by a small hydroelectric plant and a Catholic sanctuary, it began to rain. Luckily my friends in Riobamba had insisted I take a raincoat with me so I reached into my pack and grabbed the trusty thrift store jacket my son Joe had brought for me a couple of years ago. My god I was glad to have that raincoat! As I climbed the temperatures dropped and the rain poured, and when I arrived in Pungala the only thing I could think about was a cup or two of very hot coffee.<br /><br />Now, as I have no doubt mentioned before, Ecuador is a country full of friendly people. And on this particular day it appeared to me that the friendliest of them all live in Pungala. I drifted into town, feeling like the first gringo to ever lay a boot on the brick paved streets. Of course I wasn´t, as it turns out a young Peace Corps volunteer from New York City lived there for 2 years back around 2001. I learned this from the first person I encountered in Pungala, after inquiring about a cup of coffee. Mariano is a storekeeper/pharmacist who runs a little <em>botiquin</em>, selling 10 cent bags of snacks, 25 cent bowls of <em>chochos</em> and on occasion an aspirin or two. After first inviting me to stay at his house for a few nights (I thanked him and suggested I would stay with him and his family on my next visit to Pungala), Mariano took me by the arm to the little bakery across the street and ordered <em>la dueña</em> to boil some water for <em>un cafecito</em>. We returned to the <em>botiquin</em> and while we waited the half hour for the coffee to be ready we talked of life and the obvious advantages of living in Ecuador as opposed to anywhere else in the world. Well, according to Mariano anyway, who has never been anywhere else in the world, but who does go to Quito every now and again. Midway through our conversation Mariano pulled out his cell phone and had me call the former Peace Corps volunteer, a young woman whose number was on his speed dial. I did, and left her a rambling message in English saying that I was also a former Peace Corps volunteer who had just happened to wander into town and that Mariano and his family wanted to say hello and that they missed her and hoped she would come visit soon or at least call to say hello . . . I wonder if she did.<br /> <br />From across the street the bakery lady called out to say that at last my coffee was ready and I took my leave from Mariano. <em>La dueña</em>, a very round and pleasant woman, sat me down at a table and brought me my coffee, along with a couple of hardboiled eggs and some rolls. We made small talk for a little while and when I was ready to leave, and to pay, she refused me, saying that this was <em>comida de la amistad</em>, a meal of friendship. I argued weakly, and solved the dilemma by convincing her to sell me a bag of cookies and a few pieces of pan for the road.<br /> <br />I still had an hour or so to kill while waiting for the one o´clock bus to Alao. The day had warmed up and dried up, so I stuffed my raincoat back into my pack and wandered around town, which took all of about 8 minutes. I returned to the <em>botiquin</em> where Mariano and I ate cookies and bread and solved all the worlds´ problems until the bus came.<br /><br />A weekday bus around noon or 1 PM in Ecuador is not usually where any sane person wants to be because they are very often jam packed with about 100 students, give or take, returning to their homes in outlying communities after a grueling academic day of playing soccer and marching in place. My bus to Alao arrived in Pungala already packed to the gills, with about 25 kids on the roof and 6 or 7 more clinging to the ladder. I muscled my way into the bus, and as we slowly got under way an old woman who had a seat pulled at my pocket and told me that she was getting off soon and if I acted fast I could have her seat. So the moment she made a move to stand up I maneuvered my ass into position, and was ready to violently block any one of the little urchins who had ideas of beating me to the seat. Fortunately all went smoothly and I settled into the seat, opened up my sack full of cookies and bread to share with the 10 or 12 kids nearest me who were plastered together like sardines, and we all headed up to Alao, becoming more comfortable along the way as the bus stopped every 40 seconds or so at some random sendero to discharge a kid or two. I imagine many of these kids had another hour or so of walking in front of them, because until we reached Alao I saw only 2 or 3 houses dotting the rugged countryside.<br /> <br />Alao was cold and rainy, very green and very beautiful. It reminded me a lot of Salinas de Guaranda, except that Alao has the advantage of a relatively large and relatively clean river passing through it. This <em>rio</em> is known for its trout fishing, and someday, when I go back to visit with Mariano and his family in Pungala, I hope to get a chance to wet a line and try my luck.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-19216416239333313382010-10-08T11:16:00.002-04:002010-10-08T11:27:20.456-04:00Almost 3 weeks now since I have been back in Ecuador. I´ve made a few attempts to write something interesting here on the blog, to no avail. And this short entry will not win any prizes, but maybe it will break the ice . . .<br /><br />Not that life hasn´t been interesting since I´ve returned. A few wonderful days wandering in Quito; time spent catching up with friends in Ibarra, Ambuqui and the Chota Valley; riots by the police; a suspected (and suspicious) “coup attempt”; 9 days I´ve spent volunteering in Natabuela (just south of Ibarra) at a home for children and adults who are mentally or physically handicapped where I cleaned up vomit and shit, spoon fed breakfast and lunch to those who couldn´t feed themselves, changed bed linens, and took the children who were able out for long walks in the countryside, built a small greenhouse and oh yes where I cried a little but laughed everyday maybe as hard as I´ve ever laughed in my life.<br /><br />Last but not least, I bought a small piece of land called “la loma” in Cahuasqui. There are still a few scraps of paper to sign and a few dollars left to exchange hands, but it´s a done deal. It´s small, only about an acre, with a 100 year old rammed earth house (in need of repair) and 360 degrees of some mighty fine views. In November I´ll get up there for a few days to plant avocado trees and to figure out how to tackle the remodeling project.<br /><br />Today I reluctantly leave Ibarra, which has regained its standing as my favorite city in Ecuador, and travel to Quito and then Riobamba (formerly #1). By the middle of next week I should be back in Salinas de Guaranda, where I will find out what they have for me to do down there.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-52478290018132729142010-06-16T23:17:00.006-04:002010-06-17T17:19:31.769-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCcsMHHx5eDlvIXh0tATS8JIl2axTByFG2BloU6c4D0lrbl_zQki5Xpvrhs09zYseldMEaVWNMPvwItC7YpyU4wN74CVTO1kPdsnr2oI8ALyv90XusGe3IE4WINn1P32UcvJyfZylWBHF/s1600/DSC07810.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCcsMHHx5eDlvIXh0tATS8JIl2axTByFG2BloU6c4D0lrbl_zQki5Xpvrhs09zYseldMEaVWNMPvwItC7YpyU4wN74CVTO1kPdsnr2oI8ALyv90XusGe3IE4WINn1P32UcvJyfZylWBHF/s320/DSC07810.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483854347153120962" /></a><br />Today was one of those rare days when just about everything goes about as good as it can go. I will be leaving Ecuador soon, for a few months, and in recent days have been wrapping up my workload. Almost daily trips to Verdepamba, Pambabuela, and other communities to check on existing greenhouses and to check measurements of those still pending. Today was spent out in the plaza here in Salinas cutting plastic, doling out seed and compost, and answering a ton of questions about just about anything. <br /><br />Some of the gardening questions are so basic - - how do I plant this seed? When will I know when it is time to harvest? I am always surprised by these queries until I remember (again) that almost none of these <EM>campesinos</EM> have any experience at all in growing vegetables. How could they, after all, living in the <EM>paramo</EM> at 4000 meters, or more?? Nothing grows outdoors except <EM>paja</EM> and some scrubby stunted potatos. <br /><br />Our project has been wildly successful in terms of numbers. With a budget of 10,000.00 dollars we have overseen and helped in the construction of 150 family sized (5 meters x 8 meters, on average) in-ground greenhouses. The project goal was 100 greenhouses in one year, we’re in the 8th month, 150 and counting, and there is still about 1000.00 dollars in the account. That was the easy part. The hard part lies ahead – teaching people. Not just how to plant a seed, but how to imagine the unimaginable, how to make possible something that seems impossible. How to experiment, how to accept failures as part of a process and not as an excuse to quit trying something new. We might need more than 10 grand for this part . . . <br /><br />I try to imagine telling a group of people in the US -- “OK, listen up! We, your benevolent benefactors, are going to give you – absolutely free! – a big piece of plastic so you can build a greenhouse and grow vegetables – absolutely free! - All you all have to do is dig a hole in the ground, 16 feet wide by 24 feet long, and 5 feet deep. Then you have to cut some trees or find some wood to make a frame for the plastic --- y nada mas!! After that, we will give you – absolutely free! – this big piece of plastic worth about 50 dollars!! Whaddaya say – who`s interested??¨ <br /><br />I am pretty sure 100% percent of my imaginary audience would call me a madman, or worse, and leave the room, sorry they had wasted an hour or two. Here, it is a different story. The enthusiasm and energy of the people is so . . . so . . . pure. Unaffected. Honest. I don`t know what to call it. It is something, I think, that I have never known - - maybe something that many if not most of us have ever known. How lucky I am to see the light in the eyes of a man or woman who cannot even sign their own name, as they head back, usually on foot, to their communities 2 miles, 4 miles, 6 miles away, with a big piece of plastic strapped to their back. Happy, they are. <br /><br />----------------- <br /><br />I`m happy too, about my coming trip “home”. Is the US home to me still? Yeah, I suppose it is, but I am also very happy to have a return ticket to Ecuador for September. Slowly but surely this is becoming home as well.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-70492602664046750152010-06-15T23:10:00.003-04:002010-06-15T23:42:50.129-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AgqHMX3JUkwR6zU1hdVGMmjoIMXH7g8cOePHTWAOuz1r0l3COPpYoP8nitWwxfOGmUdQ1OcPWpeR4JXeWUxORYciCAwqd_BbD0GO2cQ2sBpzwkGJoP9t_UjCkh1_XgGcBPINKIYFYpd3/s1600/DSC07295.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AgqHMX3JUkwR6zU1hdVGMmjoIMXH7g8cOePHTWAOuz1r0l3COPpYoP8nitWwxfOGmUdQ1OcPWpeR4JXeWUxORYciCAwqd_BbD0GO2cQ2sBpzwkGJoP9t_UjCkh1_XgGcBPINKIYFYpd3/s320/DSC07295.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483211415069433762" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From the journal of Henry David Thoreau 22 January 1852: “But why I changed? Why I left the woods? . . . to speak sincerely, I went there because I had got ready to go. I left it for the same reason”.<br /></span><br />It`s not the first time I`ve thought I`m ready to leave Ecuador. Some days I think about it all day long. And sometimes weeks or more will pass and the idea never crosses my mind. There`s no particular reason, really, it just feels like it’s time to go. Will I go? Don`t know yet. If I do, where? Well, most likely back to the US, where I hope to earn a few dollars to fund another year or two here. Will I come back to Ecuador? Yes. Soon.<br /><br />All is well here. I love my work, I like the town I live in, ma o meno. But I want to see my kids, my brothers, my nephew and a handful of old friends. I want to drink good beer, and I want to go somewhere to hear good live music. I want to play with power tools, go for a walk with my dog, and float in a canoe. I want to spend a few days or weeks framing a wall or a house, and I want to hang some drywall and then tape it, mud it, and paint it. I want to drive down a long straight highway with the windows open and the radio blasting. I want to be somewhere for a while where it doesn`t get dark at 6.30 every night of the year. Go to a baseball game . . . eat pastries at The Hungarian Bakery in Manhattan and then wander around the Cathedral of St. John the Devine . . . just to a name a few of the things on my list . . .Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-4620129110063259102010-06-15T22:57:00.003-04:002010-06-15T23:09:53.783-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwr9OqtRNFAhi80JtLF7_XMqCqKyC4QkF5B4gfVDcmt7yGPjQZNPDgWbXJO9jzHVRTVg1xu-cwg7fx3Q03bWG6Rx3BJFWFKMMZpyiUUdqSDXCTu2piCQKTPJU9AnGNLi333AydQXo72ha0/s1600/tres+reyes+027.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwr9OqtRNFAhi80JtLF7_XMqCqKyC4QkF5B4gfVDcmt7yGPjQZNPDgWbXJO9jzHVRTVg1xu-cwg7fx3Q03bWG6Rx3BJFWFKMMZpyiUUdqSDXCTu2piCQKTPJU9AnGNLi333AydQXo72ha0/s320/tres+reyes+027.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483202775887744338" /></a><br />Salinas was recently in <span style="font-style:italic;">fiestas</span>. 5 days straight of marching, dancing and drinking. A cattle show and bullfights and cockfights too. On the main square huge piles of freshly cut green pine were stacked daily, and each night gallons of kerosene or other <span style="font-style:italic;">combustible</span> was poured on, a few hundred matches applied, and after a smoky beginning in about 45 minutes there was a roaring bonfire. Bottle rockets and fireworks went zinging about in each and every direction, and some of the best entertainment was had watching people spin and jump and dance to escape a wayward projectile. In a normal universe at least half a dozen people every night would lose an eye, or suffer burns of some degree or another – but a small town party in Ecuador is anything but a normal universe. <br /><br />There have been at least 4 major <span style="font-style:italic;">fiestas</span> here in Salinas since January; <span style="font-style:italic;">Fiesta de los Tres Reyes</span> in January, Carnaval in February, <span style="font-style:italic;">fiesta de San Juan Bosco</span> in March or April, and the <span style="font-style:italic;">fiestas</span> of local autonomy and national independence are the ones we are all still recovering from. Come to think of it, it would pretty accurate to say that Salinas is always “recently in fiestas”. <br /><br />By the fourth night of this latest bout I had had enough. I live just off the main square, and each night had <span style="font-style:italic;">bandas</span> playing until 5 or 6 <span style="font-style:italic;">en la mañana</span>, entertaining the few <span style="font-style:italic;">borrachos </span>who were left standing and annoying the hell out of the rest of us who were trying to sleep. Ecuadorean party bands deserve a salute, not necessarily for their competence as musicians but rather for their endurance. These guys will march into town the first day of the fiesta, (already playing) and continue virtually nonstop until the crack of dawn. Then they will march out of town (still playing), their sad shuffling syncopated music trailing off behind them . . . and then 2 hours later they are back! And as good as new! It`s really something. Something awful.<br /><br />So I did the only reasonable thing and got the hell out of town . . . up to the sleepy and peaceful little pueblo of Simiatug. The silence and tranquility was pure pleasure – I went to bed about 8 PM (nothing much in the way of nightlife up there) and slept straight through until dawn. I stayed for the day, worked in a friend`s garden and took a beautiful hike. I returned to Salinas that night, the last night of the <span style="font-style:italic;">fiestas</span>, to find that the stuttering rhythms of the <span style="font-style:italic;">banda</span> had been replaced by an incredible high energy salsa band. The green pine fire lent a smoky and sultry haze to the plaza, people were dancing (really dancing, not just shuffling) the moon and stars were shining brightly, and the music ended at about 11.30. Perfect . . .Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-26206911530685694852010-04-26T22:16:00.003-04:002010-04-26T22:37:58.015-04:00a meeting in Pambabuela<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrG4BvTTqqjWIuXENkhvY0OWeeW9eOcZBtYvlqgNDjqOW0nNM5kjyHEF1jzFeL3OtYv8-1Xf3r5658luOQbhXHG1eKN006UGGFGzJWzVFsFxqP0k4wROFHA7owDuY9PqL3Tcso4PNG6fg-/s1600/april+17+253.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrG4BvTTqqjWIuXENkhvY0OWeeW9eOcZBtYvlqgNDjqOW0nNM5kjyHEF1jzFeL3OtYv8-1Xf3r5658luOQbhXHG1eKN006UGGFGzJWzVFsFxqP0k4wROFHA7owDuY9PqL3Tcso4PNG6fg-/s320/april+17+253.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464639922110321186" /></a><br />It`s dark. It`s raining and muddy. I step out of the truck, not paying attention, and my right foot is ankle deep in a puddle. I swing my left foot in a wide arc, and reach a slightly less wet spot. Samuel, Hugo and I climb the concrete stairs to the meeting room, which is in the same building as the little nursery school. There are 3 bare light bulbs hanging from a ceiling that is not quite 6 feet high. Hugo and Samuel laugh as I crouch down to make my way to the meeting table. We are right on time – the meeting starts at 7PM. Not surprisingly we are the only ones here. At 7.10 a man walks in, wrapped in a colorful shawl and sporting a derby hat and rubber <span style="font-style:italic;">campo</span> boots. “Most of the people will come at about 8:30 or 9” he says. Samuel and I look at each other and roll our eyes. Samuel, who is Ecuadorean, surprises me by saying “but the meeting is supposed to start at 7”. Our host smiles and says “But <span style="font-style:italic;">Samuelito</span>, you know that the people are always late, they are accustomed to it”. So we wait.<br /><br />It is cold, and damp. I have not dressed warmly enough. Hugo, unbelievably, is in a t-shirt. He claims to not be cold but I think he’s lying – he’s from the jungle for cryin’ out loud. Samuel grew up here – he’s never cold. We kill some time chatting, and then decide to figure out where to plug in our computer and projector for our 5 minute slide show. We find a few sets of bare wires hanging along one wall and our friend with the derby hat and rubber boots casually wraps the bare wires around the prongs of the extension cord we have brought. I heard somewhere once that electrical shock is the leading cause of burns and amputation in Ecuador. I try to figure out one good reason why someone doesn’t think it would be a good idea to install one or two 80 cent receptacles to the wall. I can`t think of any. <br /><br />There is a wooden floor, warped by moisture. In some places the low plywood ceiling sags precipitously, probably due to the weight of bird and rat droppings. The walls are dirty and could use a good washing and a new coat of paint. On the far wall, near the entrance, someone has painted a picture of indigenous children dancing with Sylvester the Cat. I’m pretty sure that’s who it is. On another wall someone has painted “<span style="font-style:italic;">Bienvenidos estrellas brillantes del futuro</span>!” – welcome, shining stars of the future! I am cheered by the optimism of whoever put it there.<br /><br />Around 8 PM a few people come straggling in, mostly women, and they are knitting as always. I am pretty sure they knit in their sleep. (I asked a woman once how can you knit so fast and well without even looking? She told me she had eyes in her fingers.) Twenty minutes later, there are about 25 men, women, and children, and 2 or 3 dogs. Samuel and I are ready to do our thing and go home, but we are told we need to wait for <span style="font-style:italic;">el presidente</span> before we can start. So even the head man doesn`t show up on time . . . that explains a few things.<br /><br />The first thing the president does is tell us we are in the wrong meeting. Tonight is the meeting for <span style="font-style:italic;">agua potable</span> – the <span style="font-style:italic;">general</span> meeting for the community is next week. Since we are here to talk about greenhouses, which have nothing to do with drinking water, we will have to come back next week, for the <span style="font-style:italic;">general</span> meeting. Samuel begs, as only an Ecuadorean can, to please allow us <span style="font-style:italic;">10 minutitos, no sea malito, por favor</span>. The boss capitulates, and we rush through our presentation, promising to return for a more thorough discussion next week, at the <span style="font-style:italic;">general</span> meeting. The wires are unwrapped from our cords, we pack up, and everyone laughs as I stand up and hit my head on the ceiling.<br /><br />Back in the truck, Samuel looks at me, smiles a tired smile, and says, “ah, mi pobre Ecuador”. “Tranquilo, amigo, esta bien, I reply. Esta noche nos sembramos una semilla, en la próxima vez vamos a poner un poco de agua”. – No worries, friend, it`s OK. Tonight we planted a seed, next time we will give it a little water –<br /> <br />He started the truck and we drove, through the drizzle and the fog, back to Salinas.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-3506792941874516512010-04-24T22:29:00.008-04:002010-04-24T23:23:13.093-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TTqyCsfxjDf3W7mxgAo5qoV0C4IE2X-hRl20Q1YpcwAXFojTDvDRgO2EELvenfLbpAY4KH7ojJtU-Oe7trwAIFtMUU1Ni7x9hPzU9bBM0JqEX3dZaYIR-L2n7yTtWtNLVjbSXfyXf9Vz/s1600/DSC07977.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TTqyCsfxjDf3W7mxgAo5qoV0C4IE2X-hRl20Q1YpcwAXFojTDvDRgO2EELvenfLbpAY4KH7ojJtU-Oe7trwAIFtMUU1Ni7x9hPzU9bBM0JqEX3dZaYIR-L2n7yTtWtNLVjbSXfyXf9Vz/s320/DSC07977.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463909014032300034" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />10 April 2010<br />Rain has come to Ecuador <span style="font-style:italic;">en abundancia</span>. The coastal regions are knee deep in water, trash and excrement. TV news is full of footage of landslides, washed away houses, schoolbooks floating in dirty pools of water and children swimming in what used to be the town park or plaza. Here in the mountains we have had 2 weeks of rain, chill and gray skies. Until today. Today was one of those glorious days that come way too infrequently, as far as I am concerned. The kind of day where children and dogs can`t help but be frisky, the kind of day where everyone loses a layer or two of clothing, the kind of day where kindness overflows and everyone has a smile on their face. The blue sky, the emerald green of pastures and fields, a hot bright sun – makes a fella glad to be alive.<br /><br />My daughter Anna came for a short (too short!) visit recently, and of course it was a treat to have her here. We spent a few grey days here in Salinas, then headed off to the beach at Puerto Lopez, where we caught a break and had a string of hot and sunny days. I had all kinds of plans to do some day trips to <em>la Isla de la Plata </em>and the beautiful beach at <em>Las Frailes</em>, but once we hit the hammocks on the beach at Puerto Lopez it was all over. We spent 3 days and 4 nights doing nothing; it was perfect. Well, we didn’t exactly do nothing . . . we ate just about everything in sight and passed plenty of time reading and playing cards and putting away sufficient quantities of rum, usually mixed with coconut <em>batidos</em>. I have been threatening for many years to treat myself to a month on the beach – Puerto Lopez may be just the spot to do it.<br /><br />It was raining the morning we left, we took a chance and caught an early bus to Guayaquil where we had a late morning flight to Quito scheduled. We got to the airport by the skin of our teeth, and were back in Quito in time for lunch. We strolled through the park and Quito´s <em>Centro Historico</em>, and later ate at one of my favorite restaurants, the aptly named “Great Indian Restaurant”. It really is. The next morning we got up before dawn, went to the airport, and poof, just like that, she was gone. I like going to airports to meet people, but hate going to see them off. <br /><br />∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞<br /><br />24 April 2010 <br />Right on the heels of Anna`s visit came my Ohio friends Colin and Lori – their third visit to Ecuador (maybe they like it here?). I met them in Ambato and they came up to Salinas for 5 days of meandering and relaxing, accompanying me from time to time to my work sites, but also spending a lot of time in front of the hostal’s fireplace. Together we went to Baños for some warmer temps, hiking, and massages. <br /><br />In addition to their usual cargo of good booze and lots of snacks Colin and Lori also packed down a chainsaw bar and 2 chains, as well as what is surely the heaviest laptop ever built, a Compaq Presario that is destined to take the place of my beloved but slowly dying Dell Latitude. Anna also brought me down a little netbook, which has its limitations, but is great for carting around from place to place. Here I am in the middle of Ecuador, with more technology than I know what to do with . . . <br /><br />I have managed to get some work done in the past weeks, despite all the fun and sloughing off that comes with visitors. I completed the constructions of the small new greenhouse at the <em>hogar feminino </em>and now all that`s left to do is plant something in it. After that we will build a hot bed and a chicken coop - - hopefully all adding up to a small food production system for the girl`s home and the attached day care center. My own greenhouse is providing us with copious amounts of produce, enough for the hoards who eat at the communal table and some left over to sell to a couple of local restaurants. No tomatos yet, but plenty of <em>espinaca, lechuga, brocoli y zuqini.</em> <br /><br />`My own` greenhouse is not quite accurate – I don`t own it. But I did build it, and I take care of it. I frequently take anyone interested up to see it, mainly to impress upon them the importance of intensive cultivation in a greenhouse – but it also serves as my own little sanctuary, somewhere to go when I don`t feel like speaking Spanish or just need a few moments alone to think about something. It has an advantage over my room - - it is almost always warm.<br /><br />Although every day brings something new, my role here is becoming clearer, and I am liking my responsibilities and the level of freedom I am allowed in carrying them out. I am trying (hopefully succeeding) to bring a higher level of . . . scratch that . . . I am trying to bring <em>any</em> level of organization to the greenhouse projects, which up to now have been managed rather - - loosely. Poor people here in Ecuador are so accustomed to paternalismo – which is (very generally speaking) a way in which the rich and their governments keep the rabble in line – a little handout every now again to ease the pain of hunger, poverty, servitude, etc. - that any program that offers a freebie, such as ours, is jumped on. Our program doles out 54 square meters of greenhouse film worth about 45 dollars – and the idea is that we will provide technical assistance to anyone who signs up and agrees to excavate (usually by hand) the rather large hole in the ground that will serve as a greenhouse. Unfortunately, up to now there has been little oversight and even less technical assistance. Which means there are many plastic covered holes in the ground – a few of which are producing small amounts of produce – many others which are used for drying clothes, or worse yet, vacant.<br /><br />So, as we try to improve the utility of the program we are now working in one community at a time, giving handouts and slide shows (when there is electricity) and then, most importantly, going to each individual site to help plan and layout the greenhouse. As opposed to the old way, where someone came into the office, signed a slip of paper, and left with a piece of plastic. Give me a few weeks to see how we do.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-62459250221391955812010-03-13T22:28:00.003-04:002010-03-13T22:35:04.751-04:00Mas cerca del cielo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW_Es67QxEEBVJ_R9fieEKKKksmia56NEvJDVafbP69VckPfmZbfdtzYMZo3bh0uswjgK9-dV974D7eRTQTmHrJqyoTma596GlxwQdm4R74Ns3w89v1lrhFQmvkKC6gw_eC3T0SHrOFCuS/s1600-h/salinas+etc.+043.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW_Es67QxEEBVJ_R9fieEKKKksmia56NEvJDVafbP69VckPfmZbfdtzYMZo3bh0uswjgK9-dV974D7eRTQTmHrJqyoTma596GlxwQdm4R74Ns3w89v1lrhFQmvkKC6gw_eC3T0SHrOFCuS/s320/salinas+etc.+043.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448311890603131026" /></a><br />FEB 1, 2010<br />Salinas de Guaranda – same country, different world. 3600 meters, about 11,800 feet above sea level. Green – oh so green, compared to Ambuqui and the Valle de Chota. Locals tell me that it is usually much more so, but the drought that is affecting almost the whole country has apparently taken its toll here as well. I don`t know – if it gets any greener my system may not be able to take it. It`s chilly here, relatively speaking. Especially on cloudy days, or when we do have a little rain. Night time temps fall to around 40F, sometimes just a tad lower. Daytime temps range from 50F to 80F, and when the sun shines, well the air just sparkles with light and solar radiation, and if I forget my hat my balding head and my face burn in about 15 minutes.<br /><br />I am here to work, but so far am unsure of my responsibilities. It`s kind of like being a Peace Corps Volunteer all over again. Ostensibly I am to head up a yearlong project to build greenhouses and native tree nurseries in Salinas and a dozen or so outlying communities – ranging from high altitude paramo at 4000 meters or more down to the subtropics, at 8-900 meters. The project is funded in part by CARITAS International and their rep from Switzerland is coming for a visit next week, so I hope by the time he has gone we will all have a handle on the thing. The project I am working on is being managed by the Salesian mission, a group of Catholics who have been in Ecuador for - well I have no idea how long – but for many many years. The Salesianos are just one of many sects of Catholicism active in Ecuador and throughout South America. Some I suppose are carrying on in the tradition of the conquistadors, others perhaps are here to make amends . . .<br /> <br />After years of living alone, and liking it, I now find myself in a communal living situation, and am a little surprised to find it enjoyable. Adjacent to the iglesia, in the centre of town, is the “<em>casa de padre antonio</em>” – and in fact it is the home of Antonio Polo, an Italian priest who has been here for almost 40 years. He is largely responsible for the fame Salinas enjoys as a producer of fine cheeses and chocolates, projects initiated by him and others in the 1970`s that have grown into very profitable enterprises. The “house” is a conglomeration of sleeping quarters and a large kitchen where anywhere from 4 to 15 of us (ecuadoreans, italians, etc.) take our meals together. Some of the rooms are shared, I am lucky enough to have private quarters. The offices of the “Fundacion Familia Salesiana” are immediately adjacent and connected by a hallway; so there is always movement, conversation, and general hub-bub. There are days when I crave a little privacy, but for now it is a good situation.<br /><br />March 1, 2010 <br />Padre Antonio is an intense and charismatic man, and he possesses a keen and active mind (at times maybe a little too active). I enjoy his company and am only mildly annoyed when he bests me (every time) in pingpong – despite the fact that he is, at 71, 16 years older than I am. “Don`t worry”, he says, “you`re still young, you`ll get better.” After visiting Salinas last November to preview the work, I told the Padre that I would accept the contract – but my current visa was to expire in February. He told me not to worry, that the Fundacion could procure a 2 year missionary visa for me. I told him that would be great, except that I am neither Christian nor Catholic, that as a matter of fact I am an atheist . . . “no problem” he replied, making the sign of the cross, “you`ll be a <em>misionero de buen corazon</em>” . Hell, I can do that, I thought, and we shook on it. <br />-----------<br />Pingpong is one of the favorite activities of the kids here, and some of them are quite good. There is also a music room, with drumset, guitars, and local instruments. We often have short impromptu jam sessions, and sometimes it even sounds good. Salinas sees a fair share of tourism, Ecuatorianos and extranjeros, and from time to time I may spend an hour or two with a group to explain our projects. The dynamism and energy here is a far cry from the languor and indifference of Ambuqui, and although at times I miss the lazy warm days there I am enjoying the fullness of the days here.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-84035142676953435262009-12-28T15:39:00.003-04:002009-12-28T15:51:35.504-04:00Ecua-nomics<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHvmscn2KI_Pxf3gvAx4m920pROv7ysSg9K1QVs1300-r75GFRYv4-H1DiHsAdlSeP_j9JZKQFhJq359dzsT0fUyYlp5MzkwPMyyBc3fi8ghkz8RDRecfWHF4pbYZwJ4Lir9j1OvLhj_6/s1600-h/July+08+Ambuqui+064.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHvmscn2KI_Pxf3gvAx4m920pROv7ysSg9K1QVs1300-r75GFRYv4-H1DiHsAdlSeP_j9JZKQFhJq359dzsT0fUyYlp5MzkwPMyyBc3fi8ghkz8RDRecfWHF4pbYZwJ4Lir9j1OvLhj_6/s320/July+08+Ambuqui+064.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420376770161592354" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3-xZjUPmOuWdevxVhJnaCew3XXE401aJxoFiJz3PlbgLfgZ7fKxxGP14bt8GKBtp8cDnv7QHqJfsxYhexhTZT9ksD7_xfVQUg22DRwIhgRF4OnO_kQ1wHPc_RaZRp4LcD3EyHYngTvoGQ/s1600-h/DSC06267.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3-xZjUPmOuWdevxVhJnaCew3XXE401aJxoFiJz3PlbgLfgZ7fKxxGP14bt8GKBtp8cDnv7QHqJfsxYhexhTZT9ksD7_xfVQUg22DRwIhgRF4OnO_kQ1wHPc_RaZRp4LcD3EyHYngTvoGQ/s320/DSC06267.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420376763277088914" /></a><br />20 diciembre 2009<br />I have almost nothing in the way of possesions here, yet my wealth appears to be staggering. On my “desk” – a laptop computer, a digital camera, a flash drive. 2 small speakers and a lamp. A pile of change, a bottle of cheap rum, binoculars. On the wall hangs a guitar bought second hand in Ibarra. In my kitchen, 2 pans, 2 pots, a collection of cups bowls and plates. A tank of propane gas and a 3 burner cooktop. In the corner, a machete, a rake, 2 hoes and a shovel.<br /><br />A few days ago I had a visitor, a local farmer, and when he stepped into my house his eyes lit up like firecrackers. “What things you have!” “How I would like to have these things”. “You <em>gringitos</em>, you are so rich!” I was annoyed, and embarrassed. As I looked at the tableau through his eyes, it did seem ostentatious. I protested mildly – “I don`t have a TV, you might notice”, and “I do not have a karaoke sound system that is powerful enough to wake the dead”. “Yes I see that” he replied, “but those are ordinary things, everyone has them. These things you have, they are more than ordinary!” I sputtered on about choices, about working hard and saving a little money, but my friend was not listening. He was too busy dreaming.<br /><br />Yet he was right. Kind of. Here in Ecuador, I do feel rich, though I am not. I can live, if not like a king then certainly like a minor prince for about 300 dollars a month, much less if I am thrifty. I eat well, I travel. Of course I am just one person, and I have no other mouths to feed or bodies to clothe. My friend earns about 180 dollars a month which provides not only for him but for his wife and 3 children as well. He is not as plump as I am and the farthest he has traveled is the 50 minute trip to Ibarra. He is poor, no doubt about it, but he and his family are not in a state of penury. However, many individuals and families here are in extreme poverty, especially in the high Andes and the more rural coastal areas. I have no idea how these people survive, or how they come to have a few dollars to ride a bus into town to buy a few week old vegetables or a bag of bread. In Salinas de Guaranda, where I will soon be living, a town that is famous for its progressive cheese and chocolate cooperatives, it is common to see at 6 AM an indigenous woman and her small children hauling buckets of laundry to the river to do the washing. The air is cold, the river even colder. They do not comment, or complain. Asi es la vida. Closer to my home in Ambuqui, the women and girls of Chalguayacu, an AfroEcuadorean community, spend all day in the irrigation canal alongside the road to Pimampiro washing clothes and dishes. There are frequently 20 to 30 women at any given time, the latecomers at the far end of the ditch cleaning their socks and dinner plates in the waste- water of everyone elses` washing. At least here, as opposed to Salinas, it is hot, always hot; and the negritas are always talking and laughing, joking with the truck drivers as they pass by. The Indian women on the other hand work silently, eyes cast down, pensive and broody. <br /><br />Here`s the thing: there is a staggering amount of wealth in Ecuador. OK, this is true worldwide, right? The haves and the have nots, the frightening gap between the wealthiest and the poorest, the injustice of it all, etc. etc. etc. Yet here the plight of the have nots, the gaps and the injustice seem amplified, so damned blatant and obvious. I was in Quito, a city I have grown to love, for a few days this past week to take care of passport and visa issues. As always, I was astounded by the signs of wealth. The new shopping malls, construction of luxurious new condominiums, Mercedes Benz and BMW automobiles stuck in the never ending traffic jams. Where does this wealth come from, and why does none of it seem to trickle down to the poor? <br /><br />Like many Americans of my generation, I grew up loathing and mocking the economic middle class lifestyle of my parents; yet now, older, slightly more conservative and perhaps a little wiser it seems obvious that a strong middle class is such a key component of a healthier and fairer economy. The poor, the truly poor, can never make the leap to the upper class. But maybe they could make the step to the middle, or lower middle, and certainly they could dream about it. But does it exist as an option? Forty years ago Moritz Thomsen, in “Living Poor” (the best Peace Corps book ever) wrote “In South America, the poor man is an ignorant man, unaware of the forces that shape his destiny. The shattering truth – that he is kept poor and ignorant as the principal and unspoken component of national policy – escapes him.” All these years later, despite revolution, democracy, liberal governments, promises of reform and millions and millions of dollars in aid and assistance, Thomsen`s observation can be repeated verbatim, at least here in Ecuador. And all one has to do to prove it is to point to the education system which is in shambles, and which serves mainly to foster conformity and obedience. Actual learning and the development of independent thinking and problem solving skills is rarely found. <br />According to some sources almost 7 of 10 Ecuadoreans live below the poverty line – more than in the 1970`s which is shocking and an indictment of Ecuador`s political and economic systems which are rife with corruption, nepotism and graft. IMF, World Bank and US policies play their roles as well but cannot be held entirely responsible for Ecuador`s ills. The national poverty of Ecuador is found everywhere; and increasingly so is the national wealth. In Ambuqui, rich folk from Quito and Tulcan, along with a smattering of Colombianos, are buying property left and right. Attracted by the warm climate and close access to the Panamericana hiway, they are building luxurious vacation homes, with built in swimming pools, satellite TV and concrete walls built all around the perimeter to keep the riffraff out. Immediately next door to some of these mini haciendas are 100 year old mud huts with collapsing roofs and without water or electricity where 3 generations are living together in one or two rooms. Up in Cahuasqui, a formerly isolated and insular town where I have both PC and Ecuadorean friends, there is a new element moving in. The artsy crowd from Quito have “discovered” this sleepy little place and are slowly making inroads, buying 2 or 3 acre mountainside parcels with million dollar views for 4 or 5 thousand dollars, then exquisitely remodeling the existing house for another 20 or 30 thou. The old dirt road has been recently paved, and the formerly grueling trip from Quito can now be made in private car in 4 hours. I visited one of these homes last week, and it was truly spectacular. More envious than anything else, I wonder how these new folks will impact life there in the community we all affectionately call “the island in the sky.” (and, admittedly, I think about getting in on the low prices before the demand sends them skyward.)<br /><br />So my relative wealth has been dogging me all this week as I pack up my life here in Ambuqui. I don`t have much, but nonetheless it seems like too much. I have taken boxes full of clothes and kitchen things to my neighbors and friends, who always say “may god repay you”. Boxes of seeds, hand tools, fertilizers and other goodies have been dropped off in Piqiuicho and Cahuasqui. May god repay you. Books have been returned belatedly to the Peace Corps office or distributed among gringo friends in Ibarra; most of them anyway. As always I have a few that I cannot bear to part with. Tomorrow, Monday, I will make the trip to Salinas de Guaranda with my first load of stuff – all my tools, including hoes, rake, shovel and machete, ag related books, rubber boots and miscellaneous supplies. I have so much stuff that I need to make 2 trips (by bus) to move it all - not counting all I have given away. Seems kind of excessive and gluttonous and I feel very much like a rich <em>gringo</em> as I throw my backpacks and cardboard boxes into the camionetta or on top of the bus . . . <br /><br />------<br /><br />I went “downtown” tonight to grab a beer and some grilled chicken and <em>llapingachos</em>, an Ambuqui staple every Sunday night. I sat on a large stoop along with 10 or 12 townies, shooing the stray dogs away. One of them asked me how much longer I was going to live here, and I told them I was leaving for good next week to go live in Salinas de Guaranda. <br /><br />- Oh, so you are returning to the United States? <br />- No, it is here, in Ecuador. <br />- Blank stares.<br />- Near Riobamba.<br />- Blank stares.<br />- Near Ambato.<br />- Blank stares.<br />- <em>Ma o meno por la mitad de su pais</em> (more or less in the middle of your country)<br />- <em>Ah!! Por la mitad!! Como Quito!! </em>(ah, in the middle, like Quito!)<br />- <em>Casi, pero cinco horas mas de sur</em>. (sort of, but 5 hours further south)<br /><br />More blank stares. Not one of them knew. Not even the 2 university students sitting with us. <br /><br />Not to suggest that everyone in Ambuqui is deficient in their geography; nevertheless it was sobering.<br /><br />On a similar note the vendedora expressed shock and disbelief when she learned that dollars are used as money also in the United States (#). She simply could not accept this new piece of information, and seemed on the verge of collapse when I explained that the pictures on the bills were those of former US presidents. In retaliation she produced a Sacajawea dollar coin, which are quite common here, and said, “well, this is money from Ecuador, surely they don`t use this in your country, because there are no women who look like this and no one carries babies on their back!” I did my best to explain the story of Sacajawea, but I don`t think she was buying it. (#) Ecuador dollarized in the year 2000.<br /><br />It was a good day in Ambuqui, and as I walked home it was with a tinge of sadness, to be leaving.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-646185036711759005.post-34771458280521751662009-12-18T14:44:00.003-04:002009-12-18T14:57:12.514-04:00More about busses<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZvgYgUgAi1OlP0Jd8z93WsFD1EsKyh357p2fU1Cz8Ml96nns034sVlfsxYBFtDghBLFMPIHZubaOr__C3KfvmzCgyNgVk0JRSkqwj-tlzzEpOglgQvZgg56KRatqDqUYvu6ZMiFKocc1/s1600-h/DSC07010.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZvgYgUgAi1OlP0Jd8z93WsFD1EsKyh357p2fU1Cz8Ml96nns034sVlfsxYBFtDghBLFMPIHZubaOr__C3KfvmzCgyNgVk0JRSkqwj-tlzzEpOglgQvZgg56KRatqDqUYvu6ZMiFKocc1/s320/DSC07010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416651975201035314" /></a><br />I`ve commented often (too often?) about the trials and tribulations of bus travel in Ecuador and elsewhere in South America. Therefore it`s only fair to mention that despite the frequent challenges, delays and discomforts, the bus system is truly a marvel. If you consider the kilometers logged daily, the number of people moved, the goods (fruits, vegetables, furniture, animals, etc.) transported and couple this with the fact that only a very few busses plunge off the sides of mountains each year, it is more than a marvel, it is a miracle. <em>Entonces</em>, a toast to bus drivers, <em>ayudantes</em>, smoking brakes, burned out clutches and mangled guard rails – salud!<br /> <br />Twice I have had outstanding bus trips on the 50 minute run between Ibarra and our drop off spot for Ambuqui. The first was over a year ago, the second just last night, though it did not start off well. I got to the terminal at about 6PM, and on weekends this often presents a problem because the last bus home is at 7 – and like myself, half the residents of the Valle de Chota spend all day in Ibarra and wait for the last 2 or 3 busses for the trip home. Waiting your turn in line is still a relatively unknown concept here in Ecuador, so when the bus pulls in there is a frenzied free for all to board and grab a seat. The most skillful practitioners of this maneuver are the negritas, young and old, who live in Chota, Carpuela or Juncal. Somehow they are always first on the bus, and when they get there they promptly cover the 3 or 4 seats closest to them with an item of clothing, or a bag of food, and then claim it as “<em>ocupado</em>” – or saved. I once made the big mistake of arguing with a woman over a seat once, and only once - “This seat is not occupied! There is no one sitting in it!” The woman replied with a blistering string of clipped Spanish that I did not understand a word of but without a doubt clearly meant “get out of my face before I cut your balls off, gringo!” I looked helplessly at the <em>ayudante</em> who could only shrug his shoulders, and then I sheepishly turned away. <br /> <br />So, last night a bus pulls into the slot and the melee begins – but within a few seconds another Chota bound bus sneaks in around the corner – and those of us who have noticed take off like a bunch of bargain shoppers chasing down a blue light special. I arrive at the door behind 2 small children and for a moment I consider trampling over them to assure myself of a seat – who knows, the little <em>bandidos</em> might save every seat on the bus – but I wisely hold back and once aboard I easily find a seat. Heaven, I`m in heaven. I even have a window that opens. For the next few minutes I watch the madness as passengers stream aboard; near the end of the line is a woman loudly chastising her 2 children (that I considered trampling) for not saving a block of seats for her and the rest of the family. Finally we are under way. <br /> <br />The good part of this journey begins about 10 minutes later when we pick up a passenger who appears to be a <em>vendedor</em> – someone who will try to sell us some candies, or who will open up a notebook full of graphic photos of diseased gums, rectums, stomachs or what have you and then hawk the one dollar miracle cure. Ho-hum. But no – this guy is not a salesman. He is a stand-up comedian! And he is really good, and really funny. Within minutes the whole bus is in stitches, all the earlier tension dissipating in laughter. Ecuadorean laughter, especially in young men, is a thing to behold. It is manufactured on the inhale – as if the laugher is trying to capture the joke and bring it in to the deepest parts of his belly. It is a joy to see, and hear, and the bus was full of it, along with the more subtle chuckles of women and the older folks. <br /><br />The comic gave us a good half hour – and as he went down the aisle collecting dimes and quarters from his appreciative audience he made the familiar salutation “<em>que le vaya con dios”</em> and then added, under his breath” <em>me voy con la plata</em>!” and the bus erupted in laughter once again. (May you go with god – I`m going with the money!)<br /><br />He got off at the police control point, and in the darkness we rolled on, with an occasional chuckle or burst of laughter as someone recalled a joke or two . . .<br /><br />The other outstanding trip, though considerably less so, occurred a year or more ago. I was waiting for my bus at a stop on the edge of Ibarra, near one of the main produce markets where I had been visiting some farmers I knew. It was mid afternoon, a blistering hot day, and as I crouched against a wall in a sliver of shade I hoped that the bus was not full and that I would have a seat.<br />Before long, a bus comes by. This one is a long hauler, bound for Tulcan at the Colombian border, but it will pass by Ambuqui on the way, and through the windows I see no one is standing, which is a good sign. As I step into the bus, I am overcome by a strange feeling, and it seems I am hearing angelic music coming from somewhere above, and rays of bright golden sunshine seem to fill the bus. For a brief moment I consider jumping off, for surely this bus is doomed to plunge 500 feet into the Rio Chota at the hairpin turn just before we get to Salinas – but I am too late for we are already underway.<br /><br />I step into the passenger compartment and immediately I know where the angelic music and sunbeams came from. Twenty or so seats are occupied by some of the handsomest young women I have ever seen collected in one place, along with a smattering of 4 or 5 young men quite pretty in their own right, thin as rails with hair combed down over one eye or swept back in a ponytail. The women, or girls, all appear to be in their early 20`s and most are sporting sunglasses. All are dressed casually, t-shirts, tanktops, jeans. As I wander down the aisle to my seat I find myself wishing I were 30 years younger, but then remember that even if I were I would never have the nerve to approach any one of these girls. As I settle into my seat I chuckle a little, marveling at the things you see on any given day on a bus in Ecuador.<br /><br />When the <em>ayudante</em> comes down the aisle (taking his time to smile and chat with the girls a little) to collect my fare I ask him what`s the story. Who are these kids? He tells me they are all from Colombia, and they are all models, returning to Colombia after a weekend fashion show in Otavalo (about 45 minutes south of Ibarra). He says “<em>que suerte, no</em>?” and I reply, “<em>para ti, tal vez, si</em>”. “<em>Ojala</em>”, he says, handing me my change and turning up the aisle to try his luck. <br /><br />Yes I know I write frequently about busses! But they are such a part of life´s fabric here, there is really no avoiding it. Transportation, commentary, entertainment, jean claude van damme movies, good company and so much more. Coincidentally on my way into Ibarra today the same comic mentioned above got on our bus. The heat was stifling, his crowd subdued and ornery, and he collected only a few quarters.Roger Luriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10231929090318625124noreply@blogger.com0