Mas cerca del cielo

FEB 1, 2010
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.

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 . . .

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 “casa de padre antonio” – 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.

March 1, 2010
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 misionero de buen corazon” . Hell, I can do that, I thought, and we shook on it.
-----------
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.

Ecua-nomics

20 diciembre 2009
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.

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 gringitos, 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.

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.

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?

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.
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.)

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 gringo as I throw my backpacks and cardboard boxes into the camionetta or on top of the bus . . .

------

I went “downtown” tonight to grab a beer and some grilled chicken and llapingachos, 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.

- Oh, so you are returning to the United States?
- No, it is here, in Ecuador.
- Blank stares.
- Near Riobamba.
- Blank stares.
- Near Ambato.
- Blank stares.
- Ma o meno por la mitad de su pais (more or less in the middle of your country)
- Ah!! Por la mitad!! Como Quito!! (ah, in the middle, like Quito!)
- Casi, pero cinco horas mas de sur. (sort of, but 5 hours further south)

More blank stares. Not one of them knew. Not even the 2 university students sitting with us.

Not to suggest that everyone in Ambuqui is deficient in their geography; nevertheless it was sobering.

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.

It was a good day in Ambuqui, and as I walked home it was with a tinge of sadness, to be leaving.

More about busses

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. Entonces, a toast to bus drivers, ayudantes, smoking brakes, burned out clutches and mangled guard rails – salud!

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 “ocupado” – 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 ayudante who could only shrug his shoulders, and then I sheepishly turned away.

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 bandidos 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.

The good part of this journey begins about 10 minutes later when we pick up a passenger who appears to be a vendedor – 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.

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 “que le vaya con dios” and then added, under his breath” me voy con la plata!” and the bus erupted in laughter once again. (May you go with god – I`m going with the money!)

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 . . .

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.
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.

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.

When the ayudante 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 “que suerte, no?” and I reply, “para ti, tal vez, si”. “Ojala”, he says, handing me my change and turning up the aisle to try his luck.

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.

Ciao, Ambuqui

My planned 3 week “trial run” in Salinas de Guaranda turned into a stay of just over a month. It went well, and I am looking forward to returning in January, or sooner if possible. For now I am back in Ambuqui, and as always this little house feels a lot like home, yet this “homecoming” I do believe will be my last.

I have been nursing a cuba libre for half an hour (I would kill for an ice cube), staring at the keyboard and hoping my fingers will start moving. No dice. But I would like to post something – it`s been over a month.

- Noted today that bus drivers are most reckless and therefore most dangerous when a pretty girl is sitting in the jumpseat up front next to his. Most of the time he is checking out her cleavage and making small talk, only occasionally bothering to glance at the road. When he does take a moment to have a look at the road it is only to perform a nearly impossible pass on a blind curve or some other life threatening maneuver meant to gain her respect and admiration. The drivers helper, el ayudante, obligingly serves as wing man , keeping the conversation moving along briskly and occupying her momentarily while the driver catches a closer look at the goodies. Amazing what you can learn by keeping your eyes on the big mirror in the front of the bus. After a while I dozed off and when I woke up 15 minutes later the pretty girl was gone, and the driver stared blankly out at the road ahead.

- My favorite breakfast place when in Ibarra is the Pushkin Café. I have no idea where the name comes from, (I will ask someday) but I love the Soviet/Eastern European literary allusions that it evokes. I ate there this morning (dos huevos con tocino y hamon, queso, jugo de mora, café y pan –$2.30) and was happy when the proprietress noted that I had not been in for awhile. I told her I had been away, but would come back soon. I`ll ask about the name.

- On my way from Ibarra to Salinas last month I took a bus that routinely bypasses Quito but makes a stop in an outlying community called Pifo. There we are allowed a few moments to stretch our legs, use the bathroom, grab a bite to eat – very civilized, actually. I leaned up against a wall which had been warmed by the sun for a minute while the bus was unloading passengers and goods not traveling on. As I watched, a little girl of about 10 or 11 years motioned for me to come help her. At her feet was a large canvas bag loaded with godknowswhat. She asked me to lift it and put it on her back. I did, just barely – the bag surely weighed 100 pounds, if not more. I held it there while she wrapped a blanket around her huge load and her little body. She said “gracias” and trundled off, nearly bent in half. I shook my head in disbelief and hoped she did not have far to go.

- Today (Dec.8) is my fathers` birthday. If still living he would be 89 years old. He died at 84, which isn`t too bad. I`m not sure I want to live that long – another 30 years. Can`t imagine it. 20 years more seems sufficient. Happy Birthday, Dad, I miss you.

11 diciembre

Back in the dark ages, when black vinyl and a turntable were your only real option for listening to recorded music, a British blues-rock band called Ten Years After put out a great album which I have forgotten the name of. One of the songs on this LP was called “leavin`again” and I have been singing it to myself all day. Have made the decision that it is time, after 2 years and 2 months, to wave goodbye to Ambuqui. It has been a good, good home to me, but as I have mentioned before – if I have a future in Ecuador it is not here. So the day has been spent, like so many other days in my life, packing boxes, dividing stuff into piles, filling wastebaskets, re-reading parts of favorite books, repacking, and wondering where did all this shit come from???

I thought about counting up all the houses, apartments, rooms, tents, motels, camper vans, etc. that I have lived in thus far – then decided against it, figuring it would either be too depressing or too exhilarating. Better to stay on an even keel, keep working, keep packing. At times in my life I have left a home with great sadness and with very little hope, but that is not the case now. As I look out my window at the scrubby mountainside, I know I will miss the dry and hot beauty of Ambuqui, and at times I will miss the languorous indifference of my friends here; their wistfulness, and their seemingly complete dedication to never change. Nevertheless for me, no sadness, plenty of hope, and eyes on the future. Imagine that.

Some of my stuff, tools, a few books, and warmer clothing will go back with me to Salinas. The rest I will leave with some friends in Ibarra, or give away here in Ambuqui. Next week I will go to Quito armed with a slew of papers from the foundation in Salinas, all and more of which are required to renew my visa. It could be easy, just a few hours, or it could be hell – days, even weeks, return trips to Quito, etc. – possibly without success. I`m rooting for easy.

--

“There`s a lot of beauty and a lot of good folk in this old world, child. Don`t you ever forget that.”

Travel Journal - part 3

Arequipa, Peru

(part 3 of my travels with Tia through Peru, Ecuador and Colombia back in April and May of this year. Part 1 was posted Sept 1, and part 2 on Sept.8, and can be found by scrolling down. Parts 4 and 5 will be posted,someday, tal vez.)

Most unfortunately, our trip from Puno to Arequipa took us back through Juliaca, where we stopped once again for an interminable amount of time. After a while, many of the passengers had had enough, and they started stomping the floor of the bus and slapping their hands against the windows. Accompanied by shouts of “vamos, vamos” these folks were making a lot of noise, and Tia and I happily joined in. The driver and helper climbed back on board, nonchalantly, and we began to move, ever so slowly, through the streets. The driver was “trolling”, a fairly common tactic on local busses but rare on long distance runs. While the driver moves along at about 3 mph the ayudante shouts destinations out the door, and sometimes will address an individual or group in an imploring manner that seems designed to convince them that, no matter what their plans for the day might have been, they really should, they really want to, get on this bus headed to . . . wherever.

After a quarter hour of this nonsense, the passengers got restless once more, and began their stomping and chatting with even more fervor than before. Exasperated and unable to fill the few seats remaining, the ayudante moped aboard and the driver finally shifted into second gear, then third. We were on our way. It was late afternoon, and again I was disappointed that much of our trip would be in darkness, therefore I would see very little of the passing scenery.

We arrived in Arequipa around 10 PM. We had had no luck phoning ahead for hostal reservations from Puno but we tried again, this time successfully, from the Arequipa bus terminal and then climbed into a taxi for the ride downtown.
The streets were filled with people, especially in the center city. Churches and significant government buildings were awash in colored lighting and the large central park was likewise beautifully illuminated. Couples, families, and groups of friends strolled without hurry, arms draped over shoulders or around waists. Although my daughter was by my side I had a momentary longing for “home”, a place where I belonged, where I was known, and where I was loved.

A few minutes later our driver announced “ha servido”, and we were at our hostal. A lovely old colonial building, we checked in and were led to our room, which was cavernous and very comfortable. Dead tired, yet hungry and anxious to be part of the throng on the street, we splashed some water on our faces and headed out. It was a lovely night, crisp and clear, and we wandered for blocks and blocks, making circles and getting our bearings, whetting our appetites for more the following day. On our way back to the hostal we found a little hole in the wall pizza joint and decided to eat there. We were chatting with the owner, a pleasant Peruvian in her late 40`s, when “the cook” stepped into the room. A gringo, about my age, sporting a red and white Ohio State Buckeyes ball cap, who just happened to be the owner`s husband. We ordered our pizza and talked a little about life in Ohio and what particular circumstances found us each where we were at this moment. I wanted to tell him that if he knew of any other nice Peruanas who were single and owned pizza joints to let me know, but I kept my mouth shut, for once. The pizza, cooked in a giant microwave oven which dimmed all the house lights while running , was not too bad.

We were woken at 7 the next morning by someone shouting “hellooo down there” through the skylight in our ceiling. I looked at Tia across the room and we both shook our heads in disbelief. We got up and went out to the common room of the hostal where a rudimentary breakfast was served, and we came face to face with the culprit, a middle aged city councilman from Hood River, Oregon. He apologized profusely – “I didn`t know you guys were in there, I was just goofing around with my kids!” – and I commented that my ex-wife and I had lived across the Colombia River from Hood River in a little town called White Salmon, Washington many years ago. He of course knew the area well, and we murmured a few things about what a small world it was. Then his 2 young daughters showed up, and I blurted out – “I know you two, I`ve seen you in the corner internet café in Otavalo!” Otavalo is about 45 minutes south of Ibarra, in Ecuador, and indeed I had seen these little tow headed gringitas a few times when I had been there. The mom comes out to breakfast, and it turns out that she is a doctor who has been working with a medical mission for several months and the family came down with her this time around. We chatted for a while, and then they were off – returning to Ecuador for just a few weeks, and then back to Hood River. Small world, indeed.

Arequipa is a beautiful city, the second largest in Peru, bordered to the east by magnificent snowcapped mountains and opening up to the west into one of the driest desert regions in the world. We should have stayed longer than 2 nights, but movement was in our blood by now, and we rationalized our decisions to keep moving by telling ourselves that this trip was “exploratory” and someday we would be back. We did wander extensively through the city, and particularly enjoyed the Plaza de Armas in el centro, the Cathedral, which boasts the second largest pipe organ in South America, among other wonders, and La Compañia, a Jesuit church built in a Baroque style. A major earthquake hit Arequipa in 2001, and caused major damage to many of the older buildings and churches in the center city, but all seemed to be in good repair during our visit. Just a short walk out of the center we found the barrio of Yanahuara where there is a beautiful mirador (viewpoint), a lovely park, and a very old church with an incredibly carved stone façade. The snow capped volcano, El Misti, towers over Arequipa and there are great views from here. Although we did not visit either, it`s worth noting that near Arequipa are the 2 deepest canyons in the world, Cotahuasi and Colca. Colca is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon in the US – Cotahuasi is deeper yet.

Along with another guest, we cooked a delicious meal in the hostals` kitchen that night. It was great to eat a “home-cooked” meal after so many restaurants and so much street food. The three of us polished off a good bottle of wine which led to a good night of sleep. In the morning we did some laundry, wandered about town for a last look around, and later in the day we headed off to the bus station. As we stood in line waiting to board our coast bound bus, we were shocked to see that all passengers were being fingerprinted and filmed with a video camera. It was a grim reminder that although Peru seemed to be a model of tranquility this was not always the case. While true that the Shining Path rebels are now mostly underground, splinter groups and factions were busy taking up the slack, not to mention less organized groups leading strikes and transit blockades, which often led to violent retaliation from the police and military often leading to injury and death on both sides. For more info, go to ---- http://www.ens-newswire.com/ens/jun2009/2009-06-06-01.asp

We had our pictures and fingerprints taken, then settled in for the trip through the desert to Camaná, on the southern coast of Peru.

It dawned on me that some portion of the 3.67 readers of this blog might be wondering how I am passing the time here in Ecuador, now that I am no longer trying to save the world as a Peace Corps Volunteer. So the following is an attempt to show how I fill the hours – that is, those not spent reading, sleeping, or checking sports scores and random air-fares on the internet. Oh yeah, and the half my life I spend on busses. And the hours spent wandering aimlessly around Ibarra.

Actually, I am not even sure where to begin – but maybe August 15 is as good a date as any, that being the date I flew back into Quito after spending 2 months in the US. I`ll try to be brief, but will likely fail. Listo?

That night, August 15, I camped out on the spare mattress in the very small Quito apartment of Peace Corps friend Mary Ollenberger, better known as Mo. Mo has extended for a third year and is kind enough to make her place available every now and again. During my 2 month absence the entire transportation system through Quito was overhauled, and over coffee and oatmeal the next morning Mo was kind enough to explain the changes and new terminal locations to me. “It`s a pain in the ass”, she said, but actually it`s not all that bad. I thanked her for the hospitality, grabbed my gear and found my way to the new north Quito terminal, where I caught a bus to Ibarra, then from there to Ambuqui. Arriving back in Ambuqui was a pleasure, and entering my humble abode I was thinking, home again! I fell on my bed and slept for the next 10 hours.

During the next several weeks I was occupied on several fronts. They were (1) Despite the warm fuzzies I had felt returning to my little casita in Ambuqui the truth is I was ready for a change and had plans to find a place in Ibarra. (2) I needed and wanted to find a job – pretty much any job, so long as it could get me an extension on my 6 month visa. (3) I had to make several trips back to Quito to register my visa and to get an identification card. This was way more difficult than it sounds. First of all, none of the offices I had to visit were where they were supposed to be, according to the information I had been given. After hours afoot in Quito, I finally found the first office, and after an hour wait I turned over my passport (scary) and was told to return in 48 hours. I bussed back to Ambuqui, and 2 days later bussed back to Quito. I picked up my passport, relieved and amazed not to hear “it`s been misplaced, come back again tomorrow”. Thinking for once, I checked with the official as to the whereabouts of the next place I had to go to, to get my ID card, and of course it was not where I had been told it would be. But at least I knew, and headed off on foot, not in any particular hurry. It was a pleasant morning and my route took me through Parque Carolina, a nice place to walk – but not at night. I find the office easily, and am told that I need to have a large manila envelope and a couple of paper clips, or something like that. So I go next door to the conveniently located office supply shop, get what I need, and return. My number comes up, I sit at a desk manned by a very pleasant police officer who takes my picture, he starts to make the card, and all of a sudden he says –“there`s a problem”. Oh, shit.

Turns out that the idiot – I am not ashamed of describing him thus – at the previous office has stamped my passport and visa as valid until 15 FEBRERO 2009 – when of course it should have been stamped 15 FEBRERO 2010. And I, too, am an idiot, because I did not take 5 seconds to check my passport when I received it back from the first idiot. “I am sorry”, said the police officer, “you`ll have to go back and have them correct it”. “Don`t worry about getting a number when you come back, just come straight to my desk”. Wow, this guy was great, truly breaking the mold of immigration officials worldwide. I rush outside, jump in a taxi. Back at the first office, there is an armed guard, private, not military, at the door. I ask to enter, explaining my situation, and he says the office is closed, they are moving everything to a new location. “But I was just here an hour or two ago, and everything was normal” I reply. “Lo siento, no puede entrar – sorry, you can`t go in.” “I`m going in” I say, and I brush past him and his machine gun and go in. The place is a mess. Papers everywhere, cardboard boxes turned on their side, a real clusterfuck. I find my guy amidst the chaos, hand him my passport and say “fix this please.” He looks at me, looks at the passport, and without a word whites out 2009 and writes in 2010. I make him stamp it again so it doesn’t look like I did it myself, which I had thought of doing. He hands me back my passport, he has not said a word. I say thanks for not shooting me to the guard as I leave, and he laughs. Back at the desk of the nice official, I get my card and think “honestly, it could have been a lot worse.”

As you can see, I am failing at keeping this brief, as I predicted. But it`s Thursday night, (party night in Ambuqui), and I have some fresh squeezed orange juice, a bottle of rum, and all the time in the world. So what the hell.
Days and weeks go by, I spend lots of time in Ibarra house hunting, but ultimately decide to stay awhile longer here in Ambuqui. It`s cheap, a nice place, and I got tired of pounding the pavement and knocking on doors. Meanwhile, my friend Jay Smith has suggested I try to get a job teaching English at the place where he works, a place called “inlingua”. I arrange an interview, which goes well, then another, with someone else. Then they send me to Quito to interview there, which also goes well. A final interview in Ibarra, where I am told, “OK, looks great, and we have work for you - in January.” The date is September something. January is a long way away.

I go for a short trip down to Riobamba and Guaranda, where I have some friends. I take a side trip to Salinas de Guaranda, a mountain community which is well known for its chocolates and cheeses – produced under the guidance of a Catholic priest from Italy who came here 30 years and has organized the community into a giant cooperative – not without its problems but pretty impressive all in all. The chocolate is exported all over the world, there is a composting facility, wool production, etc. A Peace Corps volunteer introduces me to the padre and I am tentatively offered a job helping coordinate a new greenhouse project they are contemplating. I am intrigued, and next week I am heading back down that way for a few weeks to get the details and to see if I can stand the weather, which is cold and rainy. There is a small salary, but more importantly they can get me a 2 year (missionary!) work visa.

Meanwhile, back in Ibarra and Ambuqui, I have been keeping busy. Although I had hoped to get back to my school garden projects, the prolonged teachers strike put an end to that idea. The prolonged drought has not helped either, in that it is useless to plant until some steady rain comes. If it comes. “Keeping busy” of course is a relative term – in this context it means I sleep or read or hike or socialize whenever I want – and in the hours that remain I try to make myself useful somehow.

A few weeks ago I was lucky enough to meet Robert and Kit Frank, from upstate New York. Bob builds prosthetic limbs and does consultation and therapy. Kit is a therapist as well. They have been coming to Ecuador for many years to help provide free or affordable prosthetics and care to those who otherwise would go without. They work with several Ecuadorean technicians, one of whom started a clinic in Ibarra. I had actually been to this clinic back in March, along with friends from Ohio Colin and Lori Gatland. Lori is a Rotarian and she had wanted to attend a meeting in Ibarra, and it turns out that the clinic is located on land adjacent to and owned by the Ibarra Rotary Club. Having nothing but a fair amount of free time, and being a little bored, I offered to Bob and Kit a helping hand, doing anything. So I have spent some time there – carving balsa wood arms and hands which will be later coated in polyresins and turned into usable limbs; troubleshooting some electrical problems; and sometimes just getting in the way. This past week I went to Quito to locate a firm who might be able to copy some molds in order to build artificial knees at the clinic.

As you might well imagine an hour or two, or a week or two, spent at a prosthetics clinic will bring with it some incredible sights and stories. Very young children, born without one, or two, or three limbs. Laborers, who have lost an arm or leg due to a work accident (electrical burns are one of the most common reasons for amputation) Most tragically, there are those who are the victims of violence. Two weeks ago I walked into the clinic on a Monday morning, and met a woman, 40 something, who was waiting for treatment. Some 2 or 3 years ago her husband attacked her with a machete – she lost both hands and her face and arms are covered in deep scars. We talked for a while, but she was timid and quiet. Stoic. A few days later I returned, and she had just been fitted with 2 new hands, basically flesh colored claws, and she was practicing how to open, close, and otherwise manipulate them with the harness fitted over her shoulders and back. Her face was shining, with her eyes bright and a huge smile which filled the room. She was drinking from a plastic water bottle, then transferring it from one hand to the other - pull to open, push to close, pull to open, push to close. She was working so hard, and she was so incredibly happy. Bob says he is always amazed by the patients he sees here in Ecuador – no bitterness, no complaining. Happy, despite everything.

Bob and Kit have returned to the US, but will come back to Ecuador in January. Meanwhile, I stop in from time to time to see if I can do anything – anything at all. It is a pleasure to be there, with all those tragic, yet somehow happy people.
So, that`s it. There`s more of course, including some very nice trips up to Tumbabiro, Cahuasqui, etc. but I am tired and will spare you, at least for now. Oh, I have been chasing down some leads on some properties here and there, and I have a fairly solid marriage offer “just to help you get your residency visa”. But, oh god, I am so not ready to go there.

The photo above was taken in Pimampiro, where I spent last Saturday helping put a roof on a crumbling old house. The construction was suspect enough that I refused to climb up on the roof, but the Ecuadoreans are fearless and clambered over the ridge pole and rafters like goats. I was happy to be the ground man, cutting rafters, making shims, and jokingly calling out from time to time “mas rapido, muchachos! Vayase!”

Careful what you wish for

Miercoles 15 septiembre

It drizzled for about 20 minutes in Ambuqui late this afternoon, and at sunset the skies were filled with dark towering clouds which, with any luck, will mean more rain tonight. Earlier today I had been up to see some friends in El Angel, somewhat higher in altitude than here, and as I was leaving a thunderstorm moved in with hail and heavy rain. It was the first rain I had seen in my month back in Ecuador, and the relief from sun and heat and dust was most welcome.

ºººº

I hadn`t intended to go to El Angel today, but instead had planned to visit the school gardens in Piqiuicho and Caldera I had started while still with Peace Corps. School has been back in session for about a week now, and I thought it would be a good time to see how things were going and to gauge interest in continuing the gardens, or not. Lo and behold, there is a teacher strike, so of course the schools are closed. I had read that there was a threat of a strike, but it seemed to be only a veiled threat in order to get the government to move a little on some pretty legitimate issues. So now the question is, how long will it last. Maybe just the one day, maybe weeks and weeks.

ºººº

I`ve mentioned several times the frequent, sometimes constant and always annoying barking of dogs here in Ambuqui. Dogs who are running loose, or dogs condemned to a life tethered to a 6 foot rope or chain. Many`s the time I have remarked to friends how much I would love to have a rifle for just one night . . .

Last night I had been reading, and outside my window was muffled conversation and a scuffling noise I did not recognize. I paid little attention, figuring it was my vecina, Juanita, chatting and working late with some friends. I finished a chapter, turned a page corner to mark my place, and grabbed my binoculars and star chart and headed up to the roof, although it was not a particularly good night for star gazing. Up on the roof, now curious about the voices, I walked to the edge, and on the dusty street below me were 3 people, 2 men and a woman, watching a dog struggling and writhing, obviously poisoned. I had heard some time ago that many pueblos in Ecuador try to control the stray dog population by systematic poisoning, and I thought for a moment that I was seeing that policy in action on this particular night.

I startled them by calling down from the rooftop “que paso?” One of the men looked up, telling me the dog had been poisoned, and that 6 or 8 others had been as well. “All the others have died, quickly, but this one does not die.” The dog was lying on its side, legs pumping in agony, and her breathing was rapid and labored. The ground was covered in vomit and feces. I called down again “how long has she been like this?” and the man, who was her owner, replied “casi una hora”. Almost an hour.

I immediately flashed back to a night years ago, in the US, when, drifting in and out of sleep, I thought I heard my dog, Nico, thrashing about. I slept through it, and in the morning woke to a house covered in blood and vomit and feces. Nico was in the basement, dying . How she had been poisoned I had no idea. It was early, not yet 6 AM, but I called and woke the local veterinarian and rushed her over there. He injected her with some of his magic potions, and although it was close, very close, she pulled through. I took the day off work and stayed home to clean up the mess and to nurse her.

Here, there were no options. No vet, except those in Ibarra, and since it was night it likely would have taken 3 hours and extreme effort to get there and find one. Even if we had transport options, it was likely enough that the dogs` owner would not have the funds to pay for a trip to the vet. The dog was suffering, horribly, and from the looks of things would suffer several hours more before dying. We talked for a moment about what to do, me still up on the roof and him on the ground, clutching the burlap bag that he would use to collect the body once the dog succumbed. He felt very badly for the animal, and was troubled by the extent of its suffering. “Do you have a rifle, or pistol?”, I found myself asking. “No, señor, no tengo.” I knew that one of my neighbors had a rifle, which he used very occasionally to bird hunt. I went downstairs, and we went to borrow the rifle, and hopefully the neighbor, to shoot the dog and put an end to its misery.

The neighbor loaned us the gun, loaded and cocked. We had woken him and he did not want to come outside. He handed the rifle to the other man, and we trudged back down the street. The dog owner, who was holding the rifle, was despondent and said he could not bring himself to shoot his own dog. He asked me to do it.

Without a word I took the rifle, placed the barrel between the eyes of the dog and I pulled the trigger. She quivered a moment, blood pooled around her head, and she died. I handed him the rifle and said “lo siento, amigo.” I`m sorry, friend.
He and the other man stuffed the corpse in the sack, and they headed off to the quebrada, where they would toss the bag over the bank into the dry creek bed. I went back inside my house, drained the rest of a bottle of cheap rum I had been nursing for a few weeks, and thought about my Nico . . .

-

The dog I shot this night I had recognized as one of the loudest and rowdiest in the neighborhood. I have tossed a rock at her more than once, and I did not feel particularly remorseful about what I had done. But as the hours passed, quietly, with not a bark, not a snarl nor a yelp to be heard, I did not sleep well.

(I took the photo above about a year ago. The sweet looking dog is the subject in my story above, not looking very rowdy at all. The hombre is not the dog`s owner. He and friends had spent the night on the corner behind my house knocking off a half dozen jabas of Pilsener, and at about 6 AM they all nodded off. Moments after I took this, the man`s wife and her small daughter picked him up off the sidewalk and dragged him inside the house. The dog wandered off.)