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 isla en el cielo 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 (aliso, 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 “bon ice, bon ice, yogurt, bon ice . . .” - - and also the pretty young negrita who is always on the corner selling caña (sugar cane). The vendedores 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 “gracias!” 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 el Mercado - - 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 Parque 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 ceibos, 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 musica folklorica, 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 batido - - fresh fruit juice mixed with milk and a few “secret ingredients”. “Quieres hielo, tal vez?” the mixmaster asks me - - maybe you want ice? “Claro que si”, 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 - - “gracias!”, but before I can leave she pours the remaining contents of the blender into it and almost fills the mug again. “Toma no mas” she says cheerfully, and I do. I was not very hungry by the time lunch rolled around. ---------------------------- 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 panecitos and funditas 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 futbol, perhaps drinking a little to much cerveza, 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. ------------------------------------------ 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 Fundacion Familia Salesiana, 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 Padre was unfazed - - he made the sign of the cross and proclaimed me to be a “missionary of the buen corazon”. 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 buen corazon, 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”.

a donde vas?

One Friday a few weeks ago I had to leave Cahuasqui en la madrugada 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.

As I rounded a corner I saw my friend Rene sitting in his old truck, with the engine idling. “A donde vas?” 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. “No hay ningun problema, no pasa nada!” 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, algo va a pasar. 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.

A very light rain had started to fall as we pulled away from town, which prompted the usual conversation about “cambios de la clima” 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.

In Pablo Arenas we stopped for gas - - which is funny because there is no gas station there, as a matter of fact the closest gasolinera 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 . . .

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.”

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.

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.

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 (de Ibarra) - - 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 “no se preocupe, 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.

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, por fin, 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.

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 atrasado as well, and did not have to wait too long for me.

I might have had a faster trip on the bus, but then again you never know.

The attached photo is of Rene, from last year. He's carrying a eucalyptus beam up to the house.

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.


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. “Buenas tardes moradores (dwellers) de Cahuasqui! We want to announce that in this very moment Doña Maria Guajan has carne de rez (beef) to sell in front of her house! If you desire to buy carne de rez, 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!

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 reina; meetings and mingas of the water committee; arrangement of bus transport to a neighboring community for their fiestas; 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.

Once in a while the jefe 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 minga 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 vagos y egoistas (lazy and selfish).

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 bomba, maybe some bachatas. 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?
- -
Last week I made an early morning trip down the hill to the ferreteria 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.”

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 “Que Dios le paga!” 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.

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 huasipichay (housewarming party), and all 2.3 readers of this blog are invited.

martes

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?

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.

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.

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, de vez en cuando - - damn, it feels good.

#####

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?

Either way means several trips to Ibarra.

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.

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.

#####

miercoles

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.
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.”

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.

####

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 campo before returning to their busy city lives.

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 jabba 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 jabba 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 jabba 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.

Beer (or insert otro tipo de licor 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.

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 furgones, 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 vecinos 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.

Now I want one . . . But then I would never get any work done . . .

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 basura 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.

(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.)

a los tiempos . . .

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!

18 diciembre 2011

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.

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.

Oh.

I had been wondering why it seemed so quiet around town this morning.

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.

#####

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.

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.

#####

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.

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.

Although anxious to return to Cahuasqui I decided to stay the following day in Quito. Gabby and I bussed into el centro 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.

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 equipo, Liga, lost badly to Chile. Oh well.

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.

I´m going to do my best to post again before the new year . . .

(continued from previous post, more or less)

All my visitors gone, I got back to work on the house.

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.

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 inodoro seco (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.

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.

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 combo. The concrete is mixed with arena y tierra y ripio y agua 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 mescla 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.

With the floors poured I could now install the 2 exterior doors, which I ´d already purchased in Ibarra. Don 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.

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.


- (next post – Ecua road trip!)

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.

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 nada. 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 . . .

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 campesino friends who truly take one day at a time . . .
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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).

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.

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.

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 doña 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 . . .

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.

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 fritada, 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.

A day later we were on the road to the Ecuador/Columbia frontera. 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.

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.

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.

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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 panamericana. 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 mulas 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.

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 el chofer, 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 . . .

Traffic lightened somewhat as we started the long downhill run from Carchi Province into Imbabura province and el valle de Chota. 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 panamericana at the Salinas “Y” and returned to Cahuasqui via Tumbabiro - the sugar cane, espinas and the beautiful yellow flowered cholan pressing in close from both sides of the narrow and winding road.

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.

I got back to work on the house.

(to be continued . . .)