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.

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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.

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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.

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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.)

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.

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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.

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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 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.

--

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 . . .)

8 mayo, domingo

So much happening, and so little time to sit down to write a bit about it. Here it is the second week of May already, the rains have stopped and it looks like summer has finally come to Cahuasqui. Crisp cool mornings followed by brilliant blue skies and hot sun, and clear nights perfect for stargazing. Every tractor and every team of draft animals in town is busy with plowing and disking, irrigation ditches are being cleaned out, fields are being planted to beans and peas and tomatoes and peppers, and just about everyone in town seems to be happily occupied with the business of farming.

I am happily occupied, as well, slowly but surely coming closer to the morning when I can wake up in my “new” house on the hill, brew a cup of coffee and sit outside for a few moments enjoying the sun, the breeze, and the view. When people ask me (everyday) “are you done yet?”, my stock response is “falta un mez!” But the months come and go, Don Fernando and I are working hard just about every day, yet it always seems we are still about a month away from “finishing.” Good thing I´m not in a hurry, and as a matter of fact I sometimes find myself enjoying the process of building so much that I´m not sure I want it to end . . .

In addition to the construction, I have finally cleared a bit of land to start a little “huerto” where I´ll plant tomatos, zuchinni, spinach, lettuce, herbs and more. I have started about 500 tomato seedlings in flats, and they´ll be ready for transplanting out in about 2 weeks. I also decided to plant 15-20 more avocado trees, in addition to the 40 I planted last November - when they start producing in about 3 or 4 years they´ll provide a little bit of welcome income. Last week in Atuntaqui I bought a truckload of plants – the avocados, oranges, mandarinas y limon, and a whole mess of flowers and medicinales. Later on a couple of apple trees, and maybe peaches, and I think I´ll be set.

A truckload of plants – what a luxury. For the months of May and June I have the use of a Chevy LUV pickup – loaned to me (in exchange for new tires and some TLC) by my friend Jill Sare, (she writes a great blog at ------) who has gone visiting in the US. After 10 days I am already completely spoiled, and I know that one way or another I am going to have to have my own truck. After 4 years of traveling by bus, I am more than ready. What freedom, what utility!

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Now that summer has come I´ve decided that I should get out of my levi´s and put on a pair of shorts every now and again. In the early morning while it´s still cool I pull on long pants, but by about 8.30 the sun is hot enough to change into an old pair of Carhartt shorts that I keep up at the house. One day last week, shortly before the lunch break, I had to hike down the hill to pick up something at the ferreteria, so in shorts, tank top and ratty old cowboy hat went into town. The hardware store was empty, except for Fernanda the clerk and an old lady who had stopped by to visit. The old lady, with a great big smile showing off her one and only tooth, could not keep her eyes off my legs. I finally asked her, “so what do you think of my white gringo legs?” and she smiled even more broadly and said “que lindo, que lindo, your legs are the color of yucca!” This was not exactly a compliment in my book, although she certainly meant it as such, and Fernanda, behind the counter, could barely keep herself from bursting out loud in laughter. The old lady also commented on my various shades of whiteness - “que lindo, your legs are so white, your shoulders are so red (burnt) and your arms are the color of an Indian! Que hermoso!” Sigh . . . there are times I feel like a living and breathing entertainment center.

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13 mayo, viernes

Rain! A much needed day off after a week of hauling and loading and digging and mixing and pouring. I hired 2 “officiales” (day laborers) Juan y Segundo, to help Fernando and I and it paid off. We poured concrete floors in 4 rooms, installed the water and drain lines, cleaned up the piles of dirt and block that had accumulated around the house and hauled up at least 100 wheelbarrows full of arena and another 50 of piedra to have ready for next week. What a difference 2 extra pairs of hands make, and Juan and Segundo have a smile on their faces every moment, no matter how hard the work. For that matter, so do Fernando and I – we are all having a pretty good time up there.

I´m happy for the break the rain provides, it gives me an excuse to drive into Ibarra today and it will help settle in the fruit trees I planted yesterday evening. But with the rain my thoughts return to my problematic roof, which I´ve been able to forget about during these past 2 weeks of dry weather. It´s a flat roof, with just enough slope to shed rainwater, and it´s planked with a very water resistant and very pretty reddish-yellow wood from the coast called “llano”. Turns out though that llano likes to shrink (a lot) when exposed to heat or sunlight, and my roof is opening up a little. I was assured that the wood was good and dry when I bought it in Ibarra, and I kept it stacked for a month before installing, but around here you never know. Kiln drying is virtually non-existent, and someone´s idea of air “dried” lumber might be cut the tree, leave the logs on the ground for a month, cut into planks – listo. Hecho y seco, but not really.

The learning curve in this little project has been daunting, and in the end very useful. How spoiled I was, and how easy it was, in the US, to run off to Requarth´s Lumber Yard or Home Depot, to buy good lumber with standard dimensions, to not have to negotiate every price (“well, how much do you want to pay?) And to know if I need more, it´s always there. Here, if I run short of anything by a few pieces, it may be weeks or months (if ever) before the aserradero has the same wood again. The upshot is, for my next Ecuadorean project, whenever and wherever, I am now far more prepared than I was 6 months ago. Not to say I don´t have a lot left to learn, and I´m still not sure how I´m going to fix my roof, but I reckon I´ll think of something.

13 marzo Sunday morning – Waiting my turn at the laundry tank, which has been occupied almost every minute of every day for the past 2 weeks. While construction proceeds apace at “La Loma” I am living in a small apartment in town owned by Doña Piedad and her husband Don Raul, two of Cahuasquis´ most venerable citizens. They own and farm chunks of land from Cahuasqui up to San Fransisco de Sachapamba, growing traditional crops such as corn and beans, as well as being among the first here to grow asparagus and artichokes. Every morning Don Raul is on his tractor up to San Francisco, and he reminds me a bit of Elder Welch, who many years ago in Yellow Springs, Ohio, extended his middle finger to authorities who took away his drivers license due to poor eyesight by climbing on his tractor every day and driving into town to run his errands.

The compound in which I live used to be the office and residence of the Agricultural Minister for this region, (a post once held by Don Raul and which has long ago been eliminated) and consists of 2 apartments, one occupied by a young woman named Raquel and her 2 children Pato and Maite. Raquel is about 22 years old and “married” to Doña Piedads´ son Oswaldo who is in his late 40´s and due to his work as a truck driver is rarely in town. But lately, late at night, Oswaldo has been parking his truck here for a few hours, then leaving early in the morning, just as the sun rises. I am pretty sure that the result of these late night visits will be that in 8 or 9 months time Raquel will “dar la luz” to another angelito - - right about the time Maite turns about one and a half years old.

In addition to the 2 apartments there is a very small room in the back with a kitchen and bathroom, and next to that a large one room bodega, which up to about 2 weeks ago was empty. At the first of the month I had gone to Tena and Quito for a few days with my son during the last few days of his visit, and when I returned, a whole new family had moved into the bodega – and the laundry tank has been occupied, either by the new family or by Raquel, almost every moment since.

I´d like to get up to the house to work, it´s a pretty day. But most of my work clothes are filthy and Sundays are almost the only opportunity to do washing. While I wait my turn I tidy up the little apartment, and then wash dishes to empty the kitchen sink where, given the circumstances, I wash up several pairs of socks and a couple of particularly nasty ball caps. By the time I finish these few items and get them hung on the line, my neighbor has finished up at the laundry tank and I move in with my 2 buckets of dirty t-shirts, pants, and unmentionables, which have been soaking in soapy water for a day or two.

Very few campo people have washing machines, so “doing the laundry” actually means doing the laundry, standing at the tank, drawing cold water from the tap, soaping up and scrubbing the daylights out of every single piece. For some it can be a 3 or 4 hour ordeal – luckily I have only my own clothes to wash and I can usually do what I need in under an hour. Sometimes it´s pleasant work, but other times, like today, when I´d rather be doing something else, I resolve that once I get moved in to the new house a washing machine will be one of the luxuries I permit myself (along with a refrigerator, which I have not had in my 4 years living in Ecuador). Only a washer, though – a dryer would be way too lujos and therefore out of the question.

There are 2 turtles who live in the wash tank, gifts brought to little Pato from his father whose work often takes him to coastal Ecuador. The turtles spend about half their lives in the laundry tank, the other half is spent in the hands of Pato and his little friends who grab them by their shells and pretend they are battleships or supersonic airplanes. Every time I do my laundry the turtles stretch their necks up at me and with their sad eyes seem to be saying “save us, please save us!” I have jovially suggested to Pato from time to time that hey, wouldn´t it be a great idea to take las tortugas down to the river and let them go for a nice long swim! - - - but Pato, who is 4, squares his jaw, crosses his arms and says “no, this is a very bad idea”. Last month Oswaldo brought home a yappy little puppy, but after only a few days the puppy was gone. Raquel says he was stolen, but I suspect that she did not care much for the whining and yapping all night long (I know I didn´t) and made some “other arrangements”.

20 marzo Sunday morning – Pancakes (pahnkahkes) for breakfast, and “maple syrup” whipped up by boiling together un taza de panela, un poco de canela, y un poco de aceite. It´s not too bad, and the sugar rush lasts almost until mid day. Then a little siesta y un cafecito, and the tank is full again.

As usual, Sunday is laundry day, and as usual I would rather go straight up to the house to work. But duty calls, so I step out the back door with my 2 buckets of dirty clothes expecting to find the wash tank occupied, and to my surprise it is not. Moreover, I am shocked to see a Rube Goldberg style conglomeration of tubes and plastic pipes passing through the window of the bodega and connected to . . . a washing machine!

Yes, my neighbors, my neighbors who I once felt sorry for because I thought they were so poor as to have no choice but to live in a one room bodega, have put in a washing machine. And over the last week they have carried in a big screen TV, a refrigerator, several pieces of very nice furniture. Come to think of it, I have seen no clothes hanging on the line for a few days, my god is it possible that they have a dryer, as well?!? Who are these people? Who do they think they are? We live in Cahuasqui after all, and aren´t all Cahuasquireños hard working and honest but poor as church mice?

Apparently not. I guess Cahuasqui is just a lot like the rest of Ecuador, which is to say a lot like the rest of the world. There´s thems that got, and thems that ain´t got. Twas ever thus . . .

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Cahuasqui has a new internet “café”, and it is actually open from time to time. A few days ago I went down after work to give it a whirl. I took the shortcut to town, which means sliding down the hill at the bottom end of my land on the seat of my pants and hopping over an irrigation ditch. I walked on past 2 or 3 old mud houses, their teja roofs broken and decrepit, sliding off except where the moss keeps the tiles stuck together. I holler “buen provecho” to an old man sitting in a tree eating guayaba fruit. I pass two burros quietly grazing in the fencerow, and a young man on horseback trots by and greets me with a happy sounding “buenas noches!”

A few moments later I leave the dirt road and turn onto the cobbled street to town. It dawns on me that each step takes me out of one century and into another. The internet is open, it´s a little room with 4 computers, and one is available. I am glad to see they are busy, because this means they will stay open more frequently and maybe for longer than a few weeks or months. I take my place and while waiting for the machine to boot up I notice that to my right two of the cutest little 8 year old girls in the world are playing “Grand Theft Auto”, or some such thing, the high school student to my left is doing her homework, and further to my left, at the first machine, a young man is watching video footage from the Japan earthquake. His friend is looking over his shoulder and every few seconds one of them will mutter “increible” or “caramba”, or “dios mio”.

I find I have little interest in the world outside of my own little life at this moment, so I spend only a few moments checking headlines and emails before signing off. Next week, I promise myself, I´ll be sure to write to friends and family, to download news articles to my flash drive to read at home, and to generally be a better world citizen and better person all around. We´ll see how that goes.

Dec. 13

Waiting. Doing a lot of it lately. For the officials from el municipio to come connect the water lines; for los oficiales y inginieros del EmelNorte to string the wires para la luz across the 3 eucalyptus posts I put in weeks ago. And, at the moment, waiting for Carlos, the roofer. Carlos always says 1pm, or 7am, but he really needs to attach :45 to whatever hour he promises. For now, I am grateful for the brief respite, my body exhausted from weeks of some of the hardest physical work I´ve made it do in years, and my brain somewhat frazzled from learning a whole new vocabulary of construction terms and from weeks of making decisions about materials and design.

Despite all the waiting we are making some progress. I am spending money at an alarming rate (and not earning any at the moment,) but I knew ahead of time that this would be the case while putting on the roof, which I think (hope) will be the most costly part of the construction. Carlos is a local carpenter, and he builds very nice and very simple furniture. He also does a more than passable job with doors and windows, and I will have him make all of mine. Roofs, however, are not his specialty, as I am finding out, and I´ve made some major changes in the design of the house in order to get Carlos on his way as quickly as possible without hinting that he seems to not know what he is doing and without hurting his feelings.

All of my roofing lumber (vigas) were cut from a massive old eucalyptus tree about an hour up in the mountains from here by Carlos´ brother Rene. Using only a chainsaw, Rene cuts the vigas to length (3-4 meters) and roughly squares them up out in el bosque. Then he hauls them (80 – 110 lbs. apiece) one by one on his shoulders down from the woods and into the bed of his old truck. He brings them to Carlos´ taller, where they are planed down to their finished dimensions, then loaded back on the truck , and then again on his back, for the trip up to my house. I tried to shoulder one of the shorter pieces and nearly crumpled under the weight. I am a full foot taller than Rene and outweigh him by 50 pounds, if not more. The strength of every man woman and child who is helping me on this project is simply mind boggling.

So, to make a long story short, lumber can be somewhat hard to come by here in Cahuasqui. When mistakes are made or when you find you may have miscalculated, you face either a long wait or a long trip to Ibarra to try and make it up. Imagine my chagrin when Carlos ruined 2 beautiful vigas by erring egregiously in his measurements and cutting the birds´ mouths (with the chain saw) a good handspan from where they needed to be. According to Carlos, to say the vigas are “ruined” is a bit strong, after all “we” can just cut off the bad parts and bam!, good as new - - except of course that they are now rather short and will not serve their intended purpose, a fact that Carlos does not really want to talk about. I tell him that in the US, when I frame a roof, or anything else for that matter, if I make a mistake (and I´ve made plenty) then it is my responsibility to replace, out of my own pocket, the wood I have butchered. His eyes grow wide and his face tightens as he considers what I am saying. I am not asking Carlos to do this of course, because he is poor enough already as it is, but I do take a few moments of perverse enjoyment watching him try to grasp this awesome concept of taking responsibility for mistakes.

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Carlos was to meet me in town after lunch, but he didn´t show. I walked up the hill and found him at the house, working along with his brother Segundo and his son Estefan. There were 2 sets of vigas in place up on the roof, and while not perfect, and really not even very good, they will do. Certainly they are far better than the first attempt made yesterday.

Carlos´ sister-in-law Anita is also working up at the house, helping to clean teja. She has become very concerned about my estado civil (marital status), and claims to be a little worried about my living up here on la loma without a mujercita to cook or clean for me, and to take care of the place when I am not around. But what really worries her are the mumias, fantasmas, y duendes who will come to haunt me every night. According to locally accepted folklore my land and house are up on a tola - - a kind of lookout hill constructed by either the Incans or the Caras. In years past a few pieces of ancient pottery, both large and small, have been found up here, along with a smattering of human remains, including the skull we found within the first hour of our excavations around the house. When I showed the skull to Anita she gasped “dios mio” and crossed herself several times to make sure the evil spirits will stay away from her.

All the rest of us had a nice laugh at her expense, and Anitas´ husband Segundo suggested that I find a very ugly woman to marry, one who can not only cook and clean but who can also keep the ghosts at bay. I told him I would keep an eye out for just such a woman . . .

Odds and ends, in no particular order.

Cahuasqui 5 PM. Oct 31. Up at the house en la loma. It´s a beautiful day, and I´m punching 10 inch diameter holes through the 2 foot thick rammed earth walls to see just how hard it´s going to be to put a few windows in the place. Right now there are none;imagine generations of the same family living in a house almost continuously for almost 100 years and never once thinking “hmm, a window over there might be nice.” Well maybe they did think about it, who knows. Perhaps so many hours were spent outdoors in the daily routine that when sunset came it was a relief to go inside, shut the door and forget about the damned fresh air, the sun, the heat, the cold, and the rain for a little while.

Down below in town the weekly soccer game is in progress, the rivals to the locals having come in by bus from Pablo Arenas or Urcuqui. The sound system as usual is blaring away, and everyone up and down the entire valley is at this very moment listening to “Call Me” by Blondie. I wonder who chooses the music at these things. . .

Ibarra 6.30 AM Oct 1 - The day after the “attempted coup” and I am in the Ibarra bus terminal on my way to Natabuela to work at the hogar de los discapacitados. President Correa has made his triumphant return to the palace and given his rousing and defiant speech, denouncing the striking police and as well his political foes. In the “battle for his release” from the police hospital 4 or 5 young men have been killed, several more badly injured. Correa calls them heroes; he takes no responsibility for the series of events and his own provocations which led to this senseless, and some say choreographed, violence. In Guayaquil, Quito, and throughout the country dozens if not hundreds of stores have been looted, banks robbed, automobiles burned or overturned, etc. etc. Correa, standing late last night on the balcony of the presidential palace - with large screens, cameras and sound systems somehow, mysteriously, already in place - pounds his chest and vows to punish those responsible. . .

The terminal, normally bustling at this hour, is quiet. Wafting sweetly from the overhead speakers, heard only by a few and likely understood only by me, comes a poignant lament from the band REM - “Everybody Hurts.” So true, on this particular morning.

Salinas de Guaranda 1.30 AM Nov 5 - Someone is ringing the church bells. The Padre is out of town, in Ambato, so I figure that one or two of the local delinquents or borrachos are out having a lark and a laugh - but the peal of the bells is so sweet and soulful, totally without malice, honestly one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. On and on it goes, or so it seems in my half awake state, and before the mysterious bell ringer tires of his folly I drift back off to sleep.

A day later there is an afternoon mass. A matriarch of the town, 90 years old and whose name is unknown to me has died the night before, about 20 minutes before the sound of ringing bells gently roused me from my sleep. And although it is not at all original, I found myself for several days thereafter recalling lines from John Donne “never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”

November 5 2010

And now, all of a sudden, I find myself back in Salinas de Guaranda for a few days. 150 miles from Cahuasqui as the crow flies, the trip consumes almost 10 hours in bus. Today was a very bad travel day, 2 accidents on the Panamericana north of Quito, and to the south heavy and slow traffic, leftovers from the week of feriados to celebrate el dia de los santos y el dia de los difuntos.

I hadn´t planned to return here until mid or late December, but I received a phone call telling me that two separate groups of potential project funders will be coming from the US and Austria this weekend. So on short notice I very reluctantly left Cahuasqui and made my way here. Hopefully all will go well over the next few days and we will end up with some thousands of dollars to build a few more greenhouses . . .

Talking to the Padre this evening upon my arrival he noted that it might be difficult for me “to have my heart in two places”. I assured him rather quickly that my heart was fully in Cahuasqui, but that it held in it a special and very warm spot for Salinas.

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And it´s true. I´m very happy to be maintaining a relationship with Salinas and my friends and co-workers there. At the same time, little by little, the realization that I am no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer, o algo como asi, (or something like one) is dominating my thinking. I am ready to move on to building a life of my own here in Ecuador, with a place I can call home and a little piece of ground to take care of. While in the US for 3 months this past summer my thoughts were, almost daily, of mi casita propia, a little garden and a few chickens wandering around on the front porch. I am ready, at the ripe old age of 55, to settle down. At least for a while, anyway.

The life of a Peace Corps Volunteer is a good one, if you take it seriously and make earnest attempts to do the job you are charged with. What exactly is that job, well that´s a good question. For your first 6 months you think your job is to save the world, and for the next 6 months you more or less lock yourself in your room brooding and wondering why you have failed. With luck, on the first day of your second year, you open your door, let some of the mustiness escape, then walk outside and say “the hell with saving the world, I´ve got to save myself!” And then you get to work, and 12 months roll by like nobody´s business and you find yourself ready to stay. Maybe for another 6 months, maybe a year, maybe a lifetime.

Which is more or less what happened to me, except that I really did not sit in my room brooding for 6 months. Although for a while there my consumption of cheap rum did increase precipitously . . .

So I completed my 2 years of service, traveled a little, then returned to Ecuador and got a job here in Salinas, and it was almost like being back in Peace Corps all over again. As much as I like being a “do-gooder” after a few months I began to realize that enough is enough . . . I wanted my own life, my own schedule, and most importantly, work that I had total control over, inasmuch as that is possible. Enough of waiting for meetings that never happen, enough of sitting through interminable meetings that do happen, enough of depending way too much on other people to care as much as I do, enough of just about everything.

So, I bought my little piece of land in Cahuasqui with a house built of straw and mud sprouting from the ground like a great extension of the earth, ready to plant and rebuild, ready for some chickens, a rocking chair and a refrigerator full of cold Pilseners. Ready to eke out a living, on my own terms . . .

And here I am again, in Salinas de Guaranda. Where we all sit around the table together for breakfast, lunch and dinner, talking in Spanish and Italian and French and English about lofty goals and likely impossible dreams. Where a room and a comfortable bed have been set aside for my exclusive use, whether I show up once a month or once every 6 months, and quite frankly at the moment is the closest thing in the world I have to a home, at least until I get my little Cahuasqui house in livable condition.

So maybe my heart really is in 2 places, as the Padre suggested a couple of days ago. And maybe that´s not so bad, after all.

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The US funders, (potential funders that is), have come and gone. Mostly Rotary Club members, they were a friendly bunch of people and I think we might have a chance to make use of some of their money some where down the road. The Austrian contingent arrived on their heels, and I gave them my little song and dance late this afternoon, with a repeat performance scheduled for tomorrow. During my presentations I found myself talking up Cahuasqui, and as my lips continued moving I was startled to hear myself suggesting that perhaps one day they will have the opportunity to visit and consider funding some projects that my friends and I are considering for Cahuasqui and environs . . . Dammit, still acting like a Peace Corps volunteer – and again, maybe that´s not so bad, after all.

Fever,headache and chills. Just 2 days ago I was marveling at how good I felt, just goes to show ya . . .

Back in Ibarra after a week in Salinas and another week of visiting friends and some side trips outside of Riobamba. Salinas was very cold, and as I was packing light was totally unprepared for it. When the sun did come out it was as spectacular as always . . . but mostly it was cold.

One day while in Riobamba I hopped on a bus to parts unknown, one of my favorite things to do. My destination was a small pueblo called Alao, at the foot of the Sangay National Park. There were no direct busses, so I caught one to Licto, and then hiked the several kilometers to Pungala, where I had heard I could catch a bus on up the valley to Alao. The weather was clear and cool as I hiked down the sendero from Licto to the bridge where it looked like I could connect to the road to Pungala.

After 20 minutes or so of slipping and sliding down the loose rocky footpath I made the bridge, and as I slogged back up the steep highway to Pungala, passing by a small hydroelectric plant and a Catholic sanctuary, it began to rain. Luckily my friends in Riobamba had insisted I take a raincoat with me so I reached into my pack and grabbed the trusty thrift store jacket my son Joe had brought for me a couple of years ago. My god I was glad to have that raincoat! As I climbed the temperatures dropped and the rain poured, and when I arrived in Pungala the only thing I could think about was a cup or two of very hot coffee.

Now, as I have no doubt mentioned before, Ecuador is a country full of friendly people. And on this particular day it appeared to me that the friendliest of them all live in Pungala. I drifted into town, feeling like the first gringo to ever lay a boot on the brick paved streets. Of course I wasn´t, as it turns out a young Peace Corps volunteer from New York City lived there for 2 years back around 2001. I learned this from the first person I encountered in Pungala, after inquiring about a cup of coffee. Mariano is a storekeeper/pharmacist who runs a little botiquin, selling 10 cent bags of snacks, 25 cent bowls of chochos and on occasion an aspirin or two. After first inviting me to stay at his house for a few nights (I thanked him and suggested I would stay with him and his family on my next visit to Pungala), Mariano took me by the arm to the little bakery across the street and ordered la dueña to boil some water for un cafecito. We returned to the botiquin and while we waited the half hour for the coffee to be ready we talked of life and the obvious advantages of living in Ecuador as opposed to anywhere else in the world. Well, according to Mariano anyway, who has never been anywhere else in the world, but who does go to Quito every now and again. Midway through our conversation Mariano pulled out his cell phone and had me call the former Peace Corps volunteer, a young woman whose number was on his speed dial. I did, and left her a rambling message in English saying that I was also a former Peace Corps volunteer who had just happened to wander into town and that Mariano and his family wanted to say hello and that they missed her and hoped she would come visit soon or at least call to say hello . . . I wonder if she did.

From across the street the bakery lady called out to say that at last my coffee was ready and I took my leave from Mariano. La dueña, a very round and pleasant woman, sat me down at a table and brought me my coffee, along with a couple of hardboiled eggs and some rolls. We made small talk for a little while and when I was ready to leave, and to pay, she refused me, saying that this was comida de la amistad, a meal of friendship. I argued weakly, and solved the dilemma by convincing her to sell me a bag of cookies and a few pieces of pan for the road.

I still had an hour or so to kill while waiting for the one o´clock bus to Alao. The day had warmed up and dried up, so I stuffed my raincoat back into my pack and wandered around town, which took all of about 8 minutes. I returned to the botiquin where Mariano and I ate cookies and bread and solved all the worlds´ problems until the bus came.

A weekday bus around noon or 1 PM in Ecuador is not usually where any sane person wants to be because they are very often jam packed with about 100 students, give or take, returning to their homes in outlying communities after a grueling academic day of playing soccer and marching in place. My bus to Alao arrived in Pungala already packed to the gills, with about 25 kids on the roof and 6 or 7 more clinging to the ladder. I muscled my way into the bus, and as we slowly got under way an old woman who had a seat pulled at my pocket and told me that she was getting off soon and if I acted fast I could have her seat. So the moment she made a move to stand up I maneuvered my ass into position, and was ready to violently block any one of the little urchins who had ideas of beating me to the seat. Fortunately all went smoothly and I settled into the seat, opened up my sack full of cookies and bread to share with the 10 or 12 kids nearest me who were plastered together like sardines, and we all headed up to Alao, becoming more comfortable along the way as the bus stopped every 40 seconds or so at some random sendero to discharge a kid or two. I imagine many of these kids had another hour or so of walking in front of them, because until we reached Alao I saw only 2 or 3 houses dotting the rugged countryside.

Alao was cold and rainy, very green and very beautiful. It reminded me a lot of Salinas de Guaranda, except that Alao has the advantage of a relatively large and relatively clean river passing through it. This rio is known for its trout fishing, and someday, when I go back to visit with Mariano and his family in Pungala, I hope to get a chance to wet a line and try my luck.

Almost 3 weeks now since I have been back in Ecuador. I´ve made a few attempts to write something interesting here on the blog, to no avail. And this short entry will not win any prizes, but maybe it will break the ice . . .

Not that life hasn´t been interesting since I´ve returned. A few wonderful days wandering in Quito; time spent catching up with friends in Ibarra, Ambuqui and the Chota Valley; riots by the police; a suspected (and suspicious) “coup attempt”; 9 days I´ve spent volunteering in Natabuela (just south of Ibarra) at a home for children and adults who are mentally or physically handicapped where I cleaned up vomit and shit, spoon fed breakfast and lunch to those who couldn´t feed themselves, changed bed linens, and took the children who were able out for long walks in the countryside, built a small greenhouse and oh yes where I cried a little but laughed everyday maybe as hard as I´ve ever laughed in my life.

Last but not least, I bought a small piece of land called “la loma” in Cahuasqui. There are still a few scraps of paper to sign and a few dollars left to exchange hands, but it´s a done deal. It´s small, only about an acre, with a 100 year old rammed earth house (in need of repair) and 360 degrees of some mighty fine views. In November I´ll get up there for a few days to plant avocado trees and to figure out how to tackle the remodeling project.

Today I reluctantly leave Ibarra, which has regained its standing as my favorite city in Ecuador, and travel to Quito and then Riobamba (formerly #1). By the middle of next week I should be back in Salinas de Guaranda, where I will find out what they have for me to do down there.

Today was one of those rare days when just about everything goes about as good as it can go. I will be leaving Ecuador soon, for a few months, and in recent days have been wrapping up my workload. Almost daily trips to Verdepamba, Pambabuela, and other communities to check on existing greenhouses and to check measurements of those still pending. Today was spent out in the plaza here in Salinas cutting plastic, doling out seed and compost, and answering a ton of questions about just about anything.

Some of the gardening questions are so basic - - how do I plant this seed? When will I know when it is time to harvest? I am always surprised by these queries until I remember (again) that almost none of these campesinos have any experience at all in growing vegetables. How could they, after all, living in the paramo at 4000 meters, or more?? Nothing grows outdoors except paja and some scrubby stunted potatos.

Our project has been wildly successful in terms of numbers. With a budget of 10,000.00 dollars we have overseen and helped in the construction of 150 family sized (5 meters x 8 meters, on average) in-ground greenhouses. The project goal was 100 greenhouses in one year, we’re in the 8th month, 150 and counting, and there is still about 1000.00 dollars in the account. That was the easy part. The hard part lies ahead – teaching people. Not just how to plant a seed, but how to imagine the unimaginable, how to make possible something that seems impossible. How to experiment, how to accept failures as part of a process and not as an excuse to quit trying something new. We might need more than 10 grand for this part . . .

I try to imagine telling a group of people in the US -- “OK, listen up! We, your benevolent benefactors, are going to give you – absolutely free! – a big piece of plastic so you can build a greenhouse and grow vegetables – absolutely free! - All you all have to do is dig a hole in the ground, 16 feet wide by 24 feet long, and 5 feet deep. Then you have to cut some trees or find some wood to make a frame for the plastic --- y nada mas!! After that, we will give you – absolutely free! – this big piece of plastic worth about 50 dollars!! Whaddaya say – who`s interested??¨

I am pretty sure 100% percent of my imaginary audience would call me a madman, or worse, and leave the room, sorry they had wasted an hour or two. Here, it is a different story. The enthusiasm and energy of the people is so . . . so . . . pure. Unaffected. Honest. I don`t know what to call it. It is something, I think, that I have never known - - maybe something that many if not most of us have ever known. How lucky I am to see the light in the eyes of a man or woman who cannot even sign their own name, as they head back, usually on foot, to their communities 2 miles, 4 miles, 6 miles away, with a big piece of plastic strapped to their back. Happy, they are.

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I`m happy too, about my coming trip “home”. Is the US home to me still? Yeah, I suppose it is, but I am also very happy to have a return ticket to Ecuador for September. Slowly but surely this is becoming home as well.

From the journal of Henry David Thoreau 22 January 1852: “But why I changed? Why I left the woods? . . . to speak sincerely, I went there because I had got ready to go. I left it for the same reason”.

It`s not the first time I`ve thought I`m ready to leave Ecuador. Some days I think about it all day long. And sometimes weeks or more will pass and the idea never crosses my mind. There`s no particular reason, really, it just feels like it’s time to go. Will I go? Don`t know yet. If I do, where? Well, most likely back to the US, where I hope to earn a few dollars to fund another year or two here. Will I come back to Ecuador? Yes. Soon.

All is well here. I love my work, I like the town I live in, ma o meno. But I want to see my kids, my brothers, my nephew and a handful of old friends. I want to drink good beer, and I want to go somewhere to hear good live music. I want to play with power tools, go for a walk with my dog, and float in a canoe. I want to spend a few days or weeks framing a wall or a house, and I want to hang some drywall and then tape it, mud it, and paint it. I want to drive down a long straight highway with the windows open and the radio blasting. I want to be somewhere for a while where it doesn`t get dark at 6.30 every night of the year. Go to a baseball game . . . eat pastries at The Hungarian Bakery in Manhattan and then wander around the Cathedral of St. John the Devine . . . just to a name a few of the things on my list . . .

Salinas was recently in fiestas. 5 days straight of marching, dancing and drinking. A cattle show and bullfights and cockfights too. On the main square huge piles of freshly cut green pine were stacked daily, and each night gallons of kerosene or other combustible was poured on, a few hundred matches applied, and after a smoky beginning in about 45 minutes there was a roaring bonfire. Bottle rockets and fireworks went zinging about in each and every direction, and some of the best entertainment was had watching people spin and jump and dance to escape a wayward projectile. In a normal universe at least half a dozen people every night would lose an eye, or suffer burns of some degree or another – but a small town party in Ecuador is anything but a normal universe.

There have been at least 4 major fiestas here in Salinas since January; Fiesta de los Tres Reyes in January, Carnaval in February, fiesta de San Juan Bosco in March or April, and the fiestas of local autonomy and national independence are the ones we are all still recovering from. Come to think of it, it would pretty accurate to say that Salinas is always “recently in fiestas”.

By the fourth night of this latest bout I had had enough. I live just off the main square, and each night had bandas playing until 5 or 6 en la mañana, entertaining the few borrachos who were left standing and annoying the hell out of the rest of us who were trying to sleep. Ecuadorean party bands deserve a salute, not necessarily for their competence as musicians but rather for their endurance. These guys will march into town the first day of the fiesta, (already playing) and continue virtually nonstop until the crack of dawn. Then they will march out of town (still playing), their sad shuffling syncopated music trailing off behind them . . . and then 2 hours later they are back! And as good as new! It`s really something. Something awful.

So I did the only reasonable thing and got the hell out of town . . . up to the sleepy and peaceful little pueblo of Simiatug. The silence and tranquility was pure pleasure – I went to bed about 8 PM (nothing much in the way of nightlife up there) and slept straight through until dawn. I stayed for the day, worked in a friend`s garden and took a beautiful hike. I returned to Salinas that night, the last night of the fiestas, to find that the stuttering rhythms of the banda had been replaced by an incredible high energy salsa band. The green pine fire lent a smoky and sultry haze to the plaza, people were dancing (really dancing, not just shuffling) the moon and stars were shining brightly, and the music ended at about 11.30. Perfect . . .

It`s dark. It`s raining and muddy. I step out of the truck, not paying attention, and my right foot is ankle deep in a puddle. I swing my left foot in a wide arc, and reach a slightly less wet spot. Samuel, Hugo and I climb the concrete stairs to the meeting room, which is in the same building as the little nursery school. There are 3 bare light bulbs hanging from a ceiling that is not quite 6 feet high. Hugo and Samuel laugh as I crouch down to make my way to the meeting table. We are right on time – the meeting starts at 7PM. Not surprisingly we are the only ones here. At 7.10 a man walks in, wrapped in a colorful shawl and sporting a derby hat and rubber campo boots. “Most of the people will come at about 8:30 or 9” he says. Samuel and I look at each other and roll our eyes. Samuel, who is Ecuadorean, surprises me by saying “but the meeting is supposed to start at 7”. Our host smiles and says “But Samuelito, you know that the people are always late, they are accustomed to it”. So we wait.

It is cold, and damp. I have not dressed warmly enough. Hugo, unbelievably, is in a t-shirt. He claims to not be cold but I think he’s lying – he’s from the jungle for cryin’ out loud. Samuel grew up here – he’s never cold. We kill some time chatting, and then decide to figure out where to plug in our computer and projector for our 5 minute slide show. We find a few sets of bare wires hanging along one wall and our friend with the derby hat and rubber boots casually wraps the bare wires around the prongs of the extension cord we have brought. I heard somewhere once that electrical shock is the leading cause of burns and amputation in Ecuador. I try to figure out one good reason why someone doesn’t think it would be a good idea to install one or two 80 cent receptacles to the wall. I can`t think of any.

There is a wooden floor, warped by moisture. In some places the low plywood ceiling sags precipitously, probably due to the weight of bird and rat droppings. The walls are dirty and could use a good washing and a new coat of paint. On the far wall, near the entrance, someone has painted a picture of indigenous children dancing with Sylvester the Cat. I’m pretty sure that’s who it is. On another wall someone has painted “Bienvenidos estrellas brillantes del futuro!” – welcome, shining stars of the future! I am cheered by the optimism of whoever put it there.

Around 8 PM a few people come straggling in, mostly women, and they are knitting as always. I am pretty sure they knit in their sleep. (I asked a woman once how can you knit so fast and well without even looking? She told me she had eyes in her fingers.) Twenty minutes later, there are about 25 men, women, and children, and 2 or 3 dogs. Samuel and I are ready to do our thing and go home, but we are told we need to wait for el presidente before we can start. So even the head man doesn`t show up on time . . . that explains a few things.

The first thing the president does is tell us we are in the wrong meeting. Tonight is the meeting for agua potable – the general meeting for the community is next week. Since we are here to talk about greenhouses, which have nothing to do with drinking water, we will have to come back next week, for the general meeting. Samuel begs, as only an Ecuadorean can, to please allow us 10 minutitos, no sea malito, por favor. The boss capitulates, and we rush through our presentation, promising to return for a more thorough discussion next week, at the general meeting. The wires are unwrapped from our cords, we pack up, and everyone laughs as I stand up and hit my head on the ceiling.

Back in the truck, Samuel looks at me, smiles a tired smile, and says, “ah, mi pobre Ecuador”. “Tranquilo, amigo, esta bien, I reply. Esta noche nos sembramos una semilla, en la próxima vez vamos a poner un poco de agua”. – No worries, friend, it`s OK. Tonight we planted a seed, next time we will give it a little water –

He started the truck and we drove, through the drizzle and the fog, back to Salinas.

10 April 2010

Rain has come to Ecuador en abundancia. The coastal regions are knee deep in water, trash and excrement. TV news is full of footage of landslides, washed away houses, schoolbooks floating in dirty pools of water and children swimming in what used to be the town park or plaza. Here in the mountains we have had 2 weeks of rain, chill and gray skies. Until today. Today was one of those glorious days that come way too infrequently, as far as I am concerned. The kind of day where children and dogs can`t help but be frisky, the kind of day where everyone loses a layer or two of clothing, the kind of day where kindness overflows and everyone has a smile on their face. The blue sky, the emerald green of pastures and fields, a hot bright sun – makes a fella glad to be alive.

My daughter Anna came for a short (too short!) visit recently, and of course it was a treat to have her here. We spent a few grey days here in Salinas, then headed off to the beach at Puerto Lopez, where we caught a break and had a string of hot and sunny days. I had all kinds of plans to do some day trips to la Isla de la Plata and the beautiful beach at Las Frailes, but once we hit the hammocks on the beach at Puerto Lopez it was all over. We spent 3 days and 4 nights doing nothing; it was perfect. Well, we didn’t exactly do nothing . . . we ate just about everything in sight and passed plenty of time reading and playing cards and putting away sufficient quantities of rum, usually mixed with coconut batidos. I have been threatening for many years to treat myself to a month on the beach – Puerto Lopez may be just the spot to do it.

It was raining the morning we left, we took a chance and caught an early bus to Guayaquil where we had a late morning flight to Quito scheduled. We got to the airport by the skin of our teeth, and were back in Quito in time for lunch. We strolled through the park and Quito´s Centro Historico, and later ate at one of my favorite restaurants, the aptly named “Great Indian Restaurant”. It really is. The next morning we got up before dawn, went to the airport, and poof, just like that, she was gone. I like going to airports to meet people, but hate going to see them off.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

24 April 2010

Right on the heels of Anna`s visit came my Ohio friends Colin and Lori – their third visit to Ecuador (maybe they like it here?). I met them in Ambato and they came up to Salinas for 5 days of meandering and relaxing, accompanying me from time to time to my work sites, but also spending a lot of time in front of the hostal’s fireplace. Together we went to Baños for some warmer temps, hiking, and massages.

In addition to their usual cargo of good booze and lots of snacks Colin and Lori also packed down a chainsaw bar and 2 chains, as well as what is surely the heaviest laptop ever built, a Compaq Presario that is destined to take the place of my beloved but slowly dying Dell Latitude. Anna also brought me down a little netbook, which has its limitations, but is great for carting around from place to place. Here I am in the middle of Ecuador, with more technology than I know what to do with . . .

I have managed to get some work done in the past weeks, despite all the fun and sloughing off that comes with visitors. I completed the constructions of the small new greenhouse at the hogar feminino and now all that`s left to do is plant something in it. After that we will build a hot bed and a chicken coop - - hopefully all adding up to a small food production system for the girl`s home and the attached day care center. My own greenhouse is providing us with copious amounts of produce, enough for the hoards who eat at the communal table and some left over to sell to a couple of local restaurants. No tomatos yet, but plenty of espinaca, lechuga, brocoli y zuqini.

`My own` greenhouse is not quite accurate – I don`t own it. But I did build it, and I take care of it. I frequently take anyone interested up to see it, mainly to impress upon them the importance of intensive cultivation in a greenhouse – but it also serves as my own little sanctuary, somewhere to go when I don`t feel like speaking Spanish or just need a few moments alone to think about something. It has an advantage over my room - - it is almost always warm.

Although every day brings something new, my role here is becoming clearer, and I am liking my responsibilities and the level of freedom I am allowed in carrying them out. I am trying (hopefully succeeding) to bring a higher level of . . . scratch that . . . I am trying to bring any level of organization to the greenhouse projects, which up to now have been managed rather - - loosely. Poor people here in Ecuador are so accustomed to paternalismo – which is (very generally speaking) a way in which the rich and their governments keep the rabble in line – a little handout every now again to ease the pain of hunger, poverty, servitude, etc. - that any program that offers a freebie, such as ours, is jumped on. Our program doles out 54 square meters of greenhouse film worth about 45 dollars – and the idea is that we will provide technical assistance to anyone who signs up and agrees to excavate (usually by hand) the rather large hole in the ground that will serve as a greenhouse. Unfortunately, up to now there has been little oversight and even less technical assistance. Which means there are many plastic covered holes in the ground – a few of which are producing small amounts of produce – many others which are used for drying clothes, or worse yet, vacant.

So, as we try to improve the utility of the program we are now working in one community at a time, giving handouts and slide shows (when there is electricity) and then, most importantly, going to each individual site to help plan and layout the greenhouse. As opposed to the old way, where someone came into the office, signed a slip of paper, and left with a piece of plastic. Give me a few weeks to see how we do.

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.

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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.

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 . . .

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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.

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.

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.

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

Arequipa, Peru

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!”

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.

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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.

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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 . . .

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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.)

After two travel entries, it might be time for a rest stop. It`s been challenging to reconstruct our trip thus far, because my note-taking was so abysmal. Normally when traveling I try to make a few notes, but I made almost none on this trip. I don`t know why. Anyway, although I have had to tax my memory to the fullest extent, I feel confident that I`m pretty close to 100% accuracy in the telling.

I do intend to keep writing about our travels in Peru and elsewhere, and soon. As always, I hope anyone who ventures here and stays a moment to read will leave comments, it is always great to get feedback. In the meantime, here`s a little of what`s happening in the here and now.

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The title of this entry means “do me a really special favor, if you can”, and as soon as someone utters these words you just know they are going to ask for “a loan” – in any language. The asking this time came from my friend and landlord here in Ambuqui, Geraldo. We had been chatting for a while earlier today, and I actually knew the request was coming, because Geraldo is normally very taciturn, and the only time he ever gets all chatty is when he`s going to ask me for “a favor”. I had stayed at home, still in Ambuqui, most of the day today – to take a break from apartment hunting in Ibarra and to straighten up the place a bit in anticipation of the pending move. Geraldo had been around most of the day too, banging out a piece of sheet metal or something for his tractor. (If Geraldo had a nickel for every time he took a hammer to his old tractor, disc or plow, he would certainly be a wealthy man.)

I have been searching for a new place in Ibarra for a few weeks now, and I am pretty tired of it. I had a fistful of leads, and for various reasons, none have panned out. Problems ranged from ceilings that were only just tall enough to accommodate my height; asking prices nearly doubled because I am a gringo; or pleasant enough places, but completely furnished with some of the gaudiest furniture ever built, stuff like Granma used to keep covered with plastic, to only be subjected to use for special occasions, like funerals. “Ah, OK, gracias, señora, muy amable. Vamos a ver, voy avisar, OK? Ciao ciao!” In other words, thanks, but no thanks, and now I am leaving. So, the house hunting was not going too well, and on top of that I have really been happy to be back here in Ambuqui . I have spent a few wonderful evenings with the Gutierrez folks up the road (if you read the cow story some time ago, that`s them); have finally begun to understand the thick Spanish of my local tienda owner who always has a joke to tell; and despite the barking dogs and occasional blaring of radios, it is generally muy tranquilo aqui, and I like that.

Geraldo needed a loan of 150 dollars. I was surprised by the amount being so high. Normally he or his wife Marianita will ask only if I can pay my rent of 40 dollars a month a week or two in advance, and maybe two or three times in the past 18 months have they asked for small loans of 20 or 40 dollars, which they have quickly paid back. Now, Marianita and Geraldo are hard workers, but they are dirt farmers and when that is your lot in life you are just about always behind. To be a dirt farmer here in Ambuqui is especially treacherous work, because of the long dry season which can, (as it is now) last weeks or months longer than it is “supposed” to. In addition to being unable to plant their own crops of beans, peppers, or tomatoes, due to a lack of rain and therefore a lack of soil moisture – Geraldo es jodido because he is not getting any contract work for plowing or disking with his tractor. It`s too dry – no one is ready to plant. So now, sadly, they are asking me for 150 dollars, simply to pay a bank loan that has come due.

On the front gate of our dusty little compound here Geraldo had recently posted a sad looking cardboard sign written with a ball point pen, “Arriendo Departamento” - apartment for rent. This was in anticipation of my moving off to Ibarra, of course. To go for a month or two without the rental income would be disastrous for them. We sat on the stairs, Geraldo staring down at his shoes and me staring at the sign. I said, “Geraldo, go ahead and take that sign down from there. I like it here, and I`d like to stay a while longer, if that`s OK with you. I`ll pay you what I still owe for September, and as well for 3 months rent in advance. That should put us right at 150 dollars. Esta bien?” He smiled and said, “we know you, and we`re glad you will stay. Esta bien.” We shook hands, both getting what we needed, for the time being. Now, if it would only start to rain a little . . .

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It has been horribly dry here in the Valle de Chota. In the afternoons the sun is blistering and hot winds roar down the canyon, blowing trash all over, carrying laundry off the line, and pushing dirt through open windows and the half inch gap at the bottom of a doorway. To scratch the neck of a dog creates an explosion of dust which rises in the air, sparkling in the sunshine. The nights, however, bring cool air and clear skies filled with stars. From my roof top tonight I stare out to the town of Mira far off in the distance, and closer, due north, the village of Tambo. Up in the mountains, 3 or 4 large fires rage, burning what little scrub clings to the steep and dry hillsides. Some of the fires are set by bored kids, or someone angry at a neighbor or former friend. Others are set by farmers and landowners in an attempt to clear out a few more hectares of pasture to replace that which they have already farmed out.

I was listening to Radio Mira (90.5 FM), the only station I get, a little earlier today, and the DJ was interviewing someone about the fires. The guest may have been from the government, or perhaps some foundation or another, I wasn`t sure. He was quite emotional and chastised those who were burning “la natureleza” --- “my question is why? Why do you do this? Why do you burn our trees and our mountains?” He went on in this manner for a few moments until the DJ stopped him and said “this is too depressing, let`s listen to some music”, and that was that.

Ah, Ecuador.

We climbed out of the sacred valley and into the altiplano, a cold and blustery region ringed by snowcapped peaks. Here and there were fields of wheat and barley, and occasionally a lone shepherdess tending to her sheep. Huts of grass and mud dotted the landscape, and settlements of more than a few houses were few and far between. It seemed as though, except for the train, that we had backed three or four hundred years into the past. We tracked along the beautiful Rio Urubamba for some distance, and the amount and variety of birdlife was truly amazing – egrets, coasting above the river; hawks, sitting on fence posts or high up on the single strand utility poles; and standing in what looked to be a flooded field was a spectacular grouping of flamingos, pink flamingos; just to mention the few I am able to identify.

In the waning moments of daylight we made a lengthy stop in Juliaca, which put everyone in a foul mood as we waited, and waited, for the trip to continue. An unfortunate aspect of bus travel in South America is that the drivers never (or only very rarely) inform the passengers of anything. So when the bus makes a stop, and the driver and his helper jump off and disappear, you have no idea whether they will be gone for 30 seconds to take a leak or 30 minutes to eat lunch and perhaps enjoy a quick conjugal visit with the wife. You dare not leave the bus yourself, in fear that it will take off without you; so if you are hungry you depend on the stream of vendors who offer everything from soup to nuts; and if you have to hit the head you either take your chances or ask another passenger to please, please, make them wait until you get back.

After what seemed like hours but really wasn`t we got out of Juliaca and continued on our way to Puno. Night had fallen, and I was sorry that I could not see the landscape as we approached Lago Titicaca. We had met a young couple from Ireland on the bus, they were on their way to Bolivia. We also met a man who had boarded at Juliaca, and as soon as he saw us he handed us business cards pertaining to lodging in Puno. Our Irish friends, having been to Puno once before earlier in their trip, mentioned that they had other lodging in mind, and had suggested that it would be a good choice for Tia and I as well. Nevertheless, our would-be benefactor was quite pushy, and at the bus station in Puno the four of us dutifully followed him to the “luxury hotel, but very inexpensive” that he so highly recommended. The moment we walked in the door our minds were made up that we would not be sleeping here tonight, but once again, wanting to avoid any unpleasantries, we climbed the three or four flights of stairs “to have a look at the room”. We looked, and we left, and went on with our friends to their hostal of choice, which turned out to be just fine.

After settling in, we two went out to continue our never ending search for good stuff to eat. Alas, it was late, and on this particular night we did not have much luck, so we settled for some rather pedestrian fare at a local dive, where the waiter tried to interest us in a boat tour the following day of the floating islands on the lake. As a matter of fact, it seemed that almost everyone in Puno was trying to interest someone in a boat tour of “las islas en el lago”.

Tia and I, when traveling, seem to share a common fear, or dread, or dislike of doing what everyone else is doing. Therefore we had mixed feelings about going out to see the famous manmade islands of Los Uros – islands built of tortora reeds, which are constantly replenished as the bottom layers of reed rot away into the lake. On top of these islands are houses, also built of tortora, and in these houses live the remnants of the Uros, who once subsisted mainly on fishing but who now depend on tourism for their daily bread. Many boats do go out to the islands every morning; we had heard that once on the islands there was tremendous pressure to buy souvenirs or to pose for photos with the locals which of course had a charge attached as well. We did go down to the docks early our first morning to see about a trip out on the lake; but the longer we stood there and watched the groups of people boarding boats, not to mention listening to the musicians playing Beatles and Abba covers on their guitars and flutes, the less interested we became, and ultimately we chickened out. Meanwhile, I had hatched an alternative plan, and off we went in search of a collectivo to take us to Chucuito.

••••••

Lago Titicaca sits at right about 12,500 feet in altitude and many sources refer to it as the world`s highest navigable lake. It straddles the frontier between Peru and Bolivia, and far off in the distance across the lake are monstrous snowcapped mountains, which I assumed were part of the Cordillera Real in Bolivia. At 3,500 sq. miles the lake is quite large by South American standards, yet it is only a fraction of the size of Lakes Superior or Michigan, in North America. Legend has it that in or near the year 1200 the founders of the Incan Empire, Manco Capac and his sister/wife Mama Occlo emerged one morning from Lago Titicaca, made their way to what is now Cusco, and began creating what was, at the time, one of the largest and most well developed civilizations in the world. At its height, around 1500, the Incan Empire ruled over more than 14 million people, most subjugated by the awesome size and might of the Incan armies. However, what comes around sometimes goes around, and by the late 1500`s the Spanish conquistadores had laid waste to much of the continent and brought an end to the Incan civilization.

I heard someone say once that you could put a shovel in the ground in just about any spot you chose in Peru and you would dig up some history – a bone, a piece of an artifact, maybe even evidence of an entire civilization. There was, indeed, a patina of antiquity nearly everywhere we went, and Chucuito was no exception. Although modernity was all around us - cars and busses whizzing by on the two-lane blacktop, the occasional aircraft high above us in the sky, an internet café here and there, or a boombox blaring from a windowsill - it took only a moment in Chucuito to block such things from view. With little effort except to walk 10 paces around a corner, or to cross the road onto a path winding through smallholdings of corn or potatoes; one can enter another world. A slower world, where time means little, and a friendlier world, where to not greet and then chat with any stranger you come upon would be thought an insult.

In Chucuito we did nothing but wander around aimlessly, and it was wonderful. Adjacent to the lake, it is situated beautifully and the air is crisp and clean. We did turn a corner or two, and as well we crossed the road to the lakeside and made small talk with those whom we came across. One farmer took us down to where he was harvesting tortora reeds along the edge of the lake, the ground was spongy and wet, so we took our shoes off which pleased our friend who was barefoot himself. Of course his feet appeared to be built of leather, whereas ours were white and doughy-soft. Later, as we returned to town, he showed us a bubbling, carbonated stream, which sprung from a little rise along the path just a few yards away.

Back in “downtown” Chucuito we walked by the very old Catholic Church, the graveyard, and the long ago closed down nunnery. The place was huge, and I was hard pressed to tell what keeps it standing. Once again, off in the distance, we could clearly see the absolutely astonishing snow capped range across the lake in Bolivia. We found a great spot to have lunch, and a few pisco sours, and I was amused by some paintings hung on the wall which seemed to be landscapes done in a kind of “folk-art” style. The paintings were charming on their own, if not a little hum-drum, so someone had carefully cut out photos of pretty young girls, scantily clad, of course, and pasted them into the scene in an apparent attempt to liven things up. I thought they had made a pretty good job of it.

We enjoyed Chucuitos for several more hours, and the more we wandered around doing nothing the more we liked it, and it was added to the list of places where we would like to spend a lot more time, along with Pisac and Ollantaytambo. Back out on the highway, we piled into a crowded collectivo headed to Puno, where we arrived with enough daylight left to enjoy some of its lively streets and tranquil parks.

(2 brief notes) 1. Collectivos are very small buses, better to call them vans, with little headroom and nominal seating for 12 or so – although at times we counted as many as 22, including ourselves, as passengers huddled together or contorted themselves in the most unlikely ways. It`s a great way to make new friends. 2. Peru is not too far south of the Equator, therefore the days, all 365 of them, are more or less comprised of 12 hours light and 12 hours dark. This varies given the North/South length of the country, but works as an average.

I had warnings from others that Puno tended toward grey and cold, but we were quite lucky during our 3 day stay – sunny days, not too warm; and pleasantly chilly nights, just about perfect from my point of view. We had enjoyed our day in Chucuito so much that we stopped there again the next day for a mid afternoon lunch, following a morning trip further up the road towards Bolivia to the highland town of Juli, which was rumored to have a small port. We had hoped to get out on the lake from here, to avoid the crowds back in Puno. Our collectivo dropped us on the edge of town, and we trudged up the long cobbled street towards the town center. It was market day, but not for tourists. To list all the goods available at this outdoor market, which spilled out over several streets is beyond my ability – suffice it to say, if anyone ever needed ANYTHING, it was most likely here. And in quantities sufficient for a large army. A sampler – muy corta, y en español – zapatos, herramientas, focos, muebles, crema dental, cepillos (para el pelo, y de dientes), gallinas, ropa, mas zapatos, pañales, quintales de arroz, quintales de frejoles, radios, antenas de los televisors, papel higienico, ollas, platos, y todos las cosas para la cocina, y mas, mas, mucho mas. (A sampler, very short, and in Spanish – shoes, tools, lightbulbs, furniture, toothpaste, hairbrushes and toothbrushes, chickens, clothing, more shoes, diapers, 100lb bags of rice, and beans, radios, television antennas, toilet paper, pots, plates, and everything for the kitchen, and more, more, so much more. We didn`t even bother taking any photos, there was just no way to capture the sheer volume of goods – once again, a common theme in Latin America. The marketplace here is alive and well.

We made our way through the market and walked quite a distance through town before stumbling upon “the port”, which consisted of a concrete pier, recently constructed, with attractive fixtures, nice wrought iron railings, and a completely empty building which looked to be intended for a restaurant and ticket sales, ostensibly for boat rides on Lago Titicaca. One problem – not only were there no employees anywhere to be found, neither were there any boats, save 2 small wooden rowboats anchored in the shallows. A few people were milling about, and we tried to get the story . . . but either we were misunderstood or no one knew. We could only guess that once upon a time, not so long ago, the municipality had had a great idea to develop some tourist activities to boost the local economy, and had committed funds to the new “port”. It was probably opened with great fanfare, a big parade, lots of music, dancing and drunkenness; but likely without promotion or publicity of any kind. So, after a few weeks or months passed with few (if any) visitors, the whole scheme was probably deemed a stupid idea and abandoned. Just a theory, but I`d bet at least parts of it are accurate. So, no boat rides for us out on the big lake, but we hung around the pier a short while and soon trudged back up the hill to town, where we bought a couple of slices of a delicious orange cake from a street vendor and sat and watched the world go by for a while. We got a lot of long looks, and gathered that these folks don`t have too many gringos coming to town and eating orange cake out on the main square.

Later in the day, back in Chucuito, we reprised our earlier visit and had an incredible lunch of lake trout with all the trimmings. Unfortunately, Tia was not feeling well, so she did not enjoy her lunch quite as much as I did. Our host at the restaurant prepared a little concoction for her, based on a liquer made from anis, and shortly thereafter she began to feel better. Nevertheless, we decided to call it a day and went back to Puno.

Tia was fully recovered the following morning, so we set out to see some sights in Puno. As usual we did a lot of aimless wandering, but we also made a point of visiting the very small Dreyer Museum just off the main square, which houses quite a nice collection of pre Incan (Aymara, Uros, Tiahuanaca) relics as well as several mummies. I am not a huge fan of museums myself probably due to a short attention span, but this one was quite compact, well laid out, and informative. Not to mention the friendly staff, of course. Soon enough we were back out on the street, where we belonged, and began our wandering anew. After a while we came across a large building where there was an awful lot of activity – lots of food being sold, people coming and going, and lots of noise and cheers coming from inside. We took an immediate interest and asked what was going on, and were told that there was a competition being held. We bought a couple of tickets, and indeed it was a competition, a cheerleading competition! The stands were packed, the teams of girls were in a frenzy, and groups of boys huddled together, assessing the attributes of the competitors. It was mayhem, or at least bedlam, in the coliseum. As in so many aspects of South America, there was a sense of anarchy – not political anarchy, and certainly not violent – but rather what appears to be a complete and utter disorder, to the point that one (the “one” being me, along with my controlled and orderly western point of view) wonders what is holding this all together and at what moment will it spin totally out of control. Yet, it almost always holds together, and if you can let yourself, it is a wonderful feeling to let yourself go and get caught up in the exuberance of it all.

We watched several groups of competitors come out to the floor and do their thing, which sometimes appeared to be nothing more than running in place, while other teams were finely tuned and performed relatively tight routines. I guessed that the competition included both private and public schools, and it was likely that the wealthier private school teams were the more disciplined. We did not stick around long enough to see the winners determined ( it could have gone on another 5 or 6 hours) – but instead we left el coliseo and enjoyed Puno for a few more hours, before waving goodbye later that afternoon as we boarded another bus, bound this time for Peru`s “intellectual capital”, the city of Arequipa.

I have uploaded some photos at www.picasaweb.google.com/rdlurie26

This entry heading is borrowed from the title of one of Moritz Thomsen`s books, he in turn had borrowed it from Paul Theroux, the famous travel writer and novelist who, in the novel “Picture Palace” has one of his protagonists state “travel is the saddest of the pleasures”. Naturalist Peter Matthiessen, in the introduction to his book “The Cloud Forest” captures the sentiment to a degree when he writes “. . . I traveled through South America alone, but the solitude was broken . . . by the kindness and hospitality of many people” And of course there lies one of the major pleasures of traveling alone – the opportunity to meet and talk with a stranger, for 5 minutes while waiting for a bus, for an hour sharing a table at dinner, or for a night or even longer if fate should so determine. The sadness comes in the leaving; and travelers are forever leaving, always with a giddness and a foreboding that makes the day of departure one of extreme emotions, emotions that usually even out in favor of the road after the first few hours back on it.

I traveled quite a bit after my Peace Corps service ended in April 2009, much of that time I was not alone but rather lucky enough to be alongside my middle child, my daughter Tatiana. Tia, who was 23 at the time, has a bit of the wanderlust in her own soul, and she had recently been traveling alone for several months in Brazil and Chile. In Brazil she parked for a month in Rio de Janeiro and worked with children in the favelas, and as well began her learning of Portuguese. Even at her tender age, Tia is a veteran of South and Central America, having lived one year in Costa Rica and another in Chile. Her Spanish is excellent, much better than mine, in fact, and she is a great traveling companion. We were to meet April 21 in Cuzco, Peru. I would be coming south from Ecuador, she in turn would be traveling north from Santiago de Chile. For me, or for any father, I should think, it was a wonderful opportunity.

I wrapped up my Peace Corps paperwork in Quito on Monday morning, the 20th of April, and by noon I was a free agent. At 2PM I was on a LanEcuador jet for the short flight to Guayaquil, and later that same evening I flew into Lima, Peru. I had a 05:30 flight the next morning to Cusco, so it seemed to make sense to simply stay overnight in the Lima airport. Some 30-40 people had the same idea, and many were slumped over chairs or tables, others snug in sleeping bags in busy hallways or tucked away in corners. Couples traded shifts, one sleeping while the other kept an eye on the luggage. I spent several hours wandering around the airport, which was very active, and greatly enjoyed one of my favorite activities, people watching. Later I dozed off for a short time while sitting in a chair and later still I found a cozy spot to stretch out in and caught a few good hours of sleep. I was surprised to see that the airport was a beehive all through the night. Flights arriving and departing in the wee hours, restaurants (among them - Starbucks , Papa John`s and Dunkin Donuts) and internet cafes open all through the night, people strolling, talking, eating and drinking , creating an effect that was very much one of a small town with a very transient population.

++++

Lima, the capital of Peru, is a huge city of 14 or 15 million people (more than the total population of Ecuador) located very near the Pacific Coast. Nearly 300 miles southeast as the crow flies Cusco lies nestled in the Andes at about 11,000 feet. Traveling from sea level to the high Andes by bus is a torturous affair of steep switchbacks and deep valleys, and the trip from Lima to Cusco can take anywhere between 22 to 30 hours. Meanwhile, flights are of a very short duration, usually just over an hour. Hence I arrived in Cusco very early, following a lovely hour of flying over snowcapped mountains, cobalt blue lakes and hidden villages. It was a beautiful morning and I had nothing in particular to do, so I decided to walk the several miles from the airport into the center city. The outskirts of Cusco are much like any South American city – bustling, litter filled streets; air grimy with diesel fumes, foul odors of rotting garbage and animal waste, intermingled with the savory smells of roasting meat and baking bread. The air is filled with sound, children singing on their way to school, the insistent honking of traffic, the barking of dogs, and of course the omnipresent blaring of radios and loudspeakers. It is all at once crazy, ridiculous, and wonderful.

I walked for about an hour before realizing that I really had no idea where I was going, so I flagged down a “taxi” which seemed to be operating on only one or two of its 4 cylinders, which was probably a good thing, for by the grating sound of metal on metal each time the driver applied the brakes I don`t think we could have stopped if operating at full power. 20 minutes later we limped into the center of Cusco, and I paid the fare of 3 soles, slightly less than one dollar.

Somehow, that broken down taxi had taken me out of one world, and into another.

Old town Cusco, with its vernacular Spanish architecture built atop Incan ruins, was crisp and clean. There were more Europeans and Americans in the Plaza de Armas and on the streets than Peruvians. There was no blaring music, only a few honking horns, and most of the hustle and bustle focused on the tour busses taking on passengers. I bought a cup of very strong and very sweet coffee along with an empanada from a street vendor and sat on the stairs of the Cathedral to watch. As the minutes passed I noticed more and more the locals moving in and out of the shadows and among the throngs of gringos. Offering tours, jewelry, watches, women and drugs, (you want a pretty girl, meester?; hey jefe, smoke reefer?) they moved quickly and avoided the groups of police chatting here and there amongst themselves. As the morning wore on, there were less gringos, most having departed with their tour groups or else on their way to Macchu Picchu. By mid-morning the majority of people in the square were locals; smartly dressed businessmen or government officials on their way from one office to another, groups of mothers breastfeeding their children, the occasional beggar, and colorfully dressed Indians walking purposefully to who knows where. Besides myself, there were only a handful of extranjeros left on the square and it was almost impossible to believe that just a bit earlier there had been so many. I reluctantly got up and began looking for the nearby Hostal Suecia, where I was to meet Tia in a few hours.

The hostal was easy to find; finding Tia, however, was somewhat more difficult. She was traveling by bus, a horrible 30 hour trip through the desert of North Chile and then the grueling mountains of Peru. She had reckoned her bus would be in Cusco by noon or 1PM. We had no means of contact, so I spent the afternoon wandering around town, and I made sure to pass by the Hostal Suecia II, to ask them if my daughter was there. She was not, of course, and they said that they would point her in the right direction if she happened to show up. Around 6 that evening I still had no word, so I called my ex-wife in the states to see if she had heard from Tia - they were normally in fairly regular contact with one another. She had not heard anything, so I decided just to be patient and head back to the hostal to read a little and wait for her. As I walked in the door of the hostal the elderly dueña greeted me with a big smile and said “señor! Su hija – ella esta aqui!” She had made it – and I found her in our room, sleeping soundly. A little later we went for a long walk through town, it was a beautiful night, chilly and clear, and we found many back alleys and quiet streets to explore while looking for just the right place to have a reunion dinner.

Since we were leaving for Ollantaytambo later the next day, we spent just the one night in Cusco, and took in very few of the customary sights. We did wander through some of the barrios just outside the city center, and there we had our first encounters with the incredible and delicious array of street foods to be found in Peru. Especially good were the rocoto rellenos and the papa rellenos (stuffed peppers, stuffed potatoes). I was surprised to find that the cost of eating in Peru was even cheaper than in Ecuador, and we frequently found lunch or dinner for under one dollar during our 3 week stay. For countries that are thought to be agriculturally backward both Peru and Ecuador have astonishing amounts of food, raw or ready to eat, available almost 24 hours a day, every day. It is usually cheap to very cheap, and it is astonishing to me that there may be a segment of these populations that is going hungry. During my 2 years in Ecuador I did see bad nutrition, and a lot of it, but I never saw anyone who looked to be starving. Likewise for the short 3 weeks we were in Peru. In both countries, however, the soda and candy consumption is truly appalling.

We found the provincial bus terminal and later that afternoon were on our way to Ollantaytambo. There is a large well preserved Incan fortress here, one of the few places where Pizarro and his conquistadores were forced to retreat (but not for long) during the dismantling of the Incan Empire. The town is located in a beautiful valley formed by the Rio Patacancha, and high in the surrounding mountains are the remnants of Incan granaries, lookouts, and storehouses. The town itself is laid out in a very orderly grid pattern, said to be almost identical to the original Incan design. It`s a charming little town, and since we were only staying one night before catching the train to Aguas Calientes we looked forward to our return several days later. That night we wandered off onto some side streets and found a little hole in the wall restaurant where we had a decent meal and a couple of beers, but mostly were entertained by the small monkey and furry little dog who seemed to rule the premises. We hung around the small village square for a little while, then returned to our hostal. The next day we had a train to catch.

There are several ways for travelers to get to Macchu Picchu. Tia and I had considered our options via frequent e-mails and occasional phone calls and ultimately we decided on the train from Ollantaytambo. Neither one of us wanted to expend the time (4 days) nor the effort (30 miles, gaining over one mile in altitude during the first two days) to hike the Inca Trail, although of course it is known to be one of the premier hiking experiences in the world. It was not so many years ago that the trail could be hiked catch as catch can, but due to the incredible numbers of users, in 2001 the Peruvian authorities enacted new policies which restrict the daily number of hikers and require the use of certified guides, which has in turn skyrocketed the price of hiking the trail. Nonetheless, many friends from Peace Corps made the hike, and there was no end to the praise they bestowed upon the experience. I have heard of other trails that will reach Macchu Pichhu, free from fees and regulations, and surely they exist among the myriad footpaths of the region, but these made no difference to us. We knew we would get in plenty of hiking elsewhere during our trip and besides we wanted to ride on the train.

Many who choose to go to Macchu Picchu by train leave from Cusco, and often return the same day. Somewhat fewer visitors will do as we did and leave from Ollantaytambo. We had decided to spend 2 nights in Aguas Calientes, also known as Macchu Picchu Village. The advantage with this plan was clear – we would be able to get to the ruins very early on the day of our visit, and stay very late, way beyond the time most others have left to catch the train back to Cusco. The disadvantage of this plan became clear soon enough – we had to spend two nights in Aguas Calientes.

If you are hiking the Inca Trail, you enter Macchu Picchu through Intipunku, the Sun Gate, a just reward for 4 days of arduous hiking. If you come in by train, you enter through Aguas Calientes, a true nightmare if you happen to be a city planner or are otherwise concerned about safety in the form of fire codes or natural disaster planning. From one end to the other this conglomeration was filled with hastily built hotels, restaurants and gift shops to accommodate the crush of tourists coming to Macchu Picchu. Even though it appeared that every square inch of the place had been occupied, the construction continued unabated, upward. Older buildings that surely once upon a time had spectacular views of the surrounding mountains now sat in the shadows of new construction. Hawkers hounded us (and all the rest of the tourists) every step we took – “pizza meester!! 22 pesos!!”; “pizza meester, y dos pisco sours, 20 pesos!!” If you were to hang around long enough, these guys would offer the sun the moon and the stars just to get you inside their particular establishment.

Nevertheless . . . the trip up from Ollanta had been lovely; we hugged the banks of the Rio Urubamba and passed through small villages, ancient agricultural terraces and the occasional ruin before pulling into Aguas Calientes. The train was almost entirely comprised of gringos, and as they all disembarked and streamed off in one direction Tia and I looked at each other and immediately set off in the opposite direction. We followed some arrows painted on sides of buildings that pointed uphill and said “emergencia” and we happened upon a small hostal that had beds available and looked perfectly acceptable. Thinking that the arrows indicated escape routes in case of fire burning the entire town to the ground I asked the proprietor of the hostal to explain. It turns out that frequently enough there are flash floods on the Rio Urubamba, and the arrows indicate the way to safety. We found them all over town as we later wandered around. We ate an early dinner (pizza, and 4 pisco sours, 20 pesos) and we turned in early as well. In the morning we would take the first bus at 05:30 to Macchu Picchu and we planned to spend all day there.

Now, I must admit that I was fully prepared to be totally underwhelmed by the ruins at Macchu Picchu, having seen hundreds of photos and having read various accounts by other visitors. I was treating this journey as one of those obligatory things that “one must do” while in South America. So, imagine my surprise, as we climbed past the entry gates and entered the ruins through the agricultural sector, when my breath was taken away –immediately- by what lay before us. The effect was heightened by the early morning fog and mist, which lifted from time to time to reveal both the stunning 360 degree landscape as well as the ruins themselves. I could try here to describe it, but I would rather turn again to Peter Matthiessen, again from “The Cloud Forest”.

----- “The ruins at Macchu Picchu have been described in detail, ineffectually, by any number of writers, including myself . . . one must see the place to comprehend it, and that is that. Like all the rest, I find it a formidable spectacle, unforgettable . . .” ----

We did spend all day there, and we must have walked at least 25 kilometers as we climbed up and down paths and wandered to the Sun Gate, the Incan Bridge and anywhere else we chose to go. It was wonderful to have such easy and free access to any nook and cranny we thought looked interesting. In the morning there were tourists everywhere, yet the place is large enough to accommodate them all, and it was easy enough to stay away from the large groups and their guides. By 2PM the ruins were all but empty, and the few of us who lingered enjoyed several hours of peace and solitude until well into late afternoon when the closing signals sounded. It is interesting to me that no none truly knows the story of Macchu Picchu – why was it built, who lived there and when, and for how long, and why was it abandoned? There are many theories, of course, but it`s great to know there are still mysteries in this world.

As we headed down the hill in the fading light to the last bus of the day we wished we had our sleeping bags so we could stay overnight (prohibited of course) and do it all over again tomorrow. But maybe that would have been gilding the lily, too much of a good thing. We agreed that it had been a wonderful, and likely once in a lifetime, experience, and left it at that.

There was one other mystery, very minor, at Macchu Picchu that we will never know the true answer to. Around mid-morning, while we were alone up in the ruins, a small dog had wandered up to us, literally coming out of nowhere. Someone (?) had painted his face, circles around the eyes, etc. He was quite unlike other South American dogs I have met, in that he was neither bravo nor timid – just a nice little dog with a normal amount of curiosity and friendliness. We gushed over him, played a little, and tried to figure out where he had come from or if he belonged to someone. No luck, there was no one else around. We eventually left him, perched on a rock high above the Rio Urubamba. Later that same night, miles and miles away back in Aguas Calientes, there he was again, on the square, and without a care in the world. It would be appropriate to the place to believe that he was an ancient spirit, wandering through his territory; and I suppose, just this once, that I can go with that.

We returned by train the next morning to Ollantaytambo. We stayed for a few hours and once again we were charmed, but we wanted to see more of the sacred valley and decided to move on. We jumped on a bus bound to the town of Urubamba, and then had a moto-taxi take us from the bus station into town. Neither one of us was particularly smitten with Urubamba, not to mention that every hostal we looked into was giving us the “full gringo” which was our term for ridiculously inflated prices. We meandered through town for an hour or two, and on our way back to the bus station we came across a remarkable market – mounds and mounds of all kinds of fruits and vegetables, dozens of vendors, and several food stalls with some pretty great looking chow – the only thing missing were clients. There was almost no one shopping here, despite the activity out on the streets. Most markets I have seen are packed, jam packed, all day long. I do not have any idea why this one was so empty. I thought to ask, but the vendors appeared to be so bored and forlorn that I did not want to say anything that would cause them to think even more about their mala suerte. We bought a few snacks to take on the bus with us, including some very delicious pastries, and we headed off to Pisac.

Pisac turned out to be just what we were looking for, and we stayed 2 nights there. A small town, not quite “quaint”, but real close. The road in from Urubamba had provided spectacular scenery, lush agriculture, and for Tia a great opportunity to nap. As she slept I remembered to years back when my kids were younger and how, when we would travel, I would always nag them to “look!! Look out the window!! Look at that field of (corn; melons; cows; sheep; etc.)!! Look at the (moon; setting sun; stone house; lake; etc.), isn`t it pretty?” and on and on and on. This time I resisted the overwhelming temptation to wake her – it was not the first spectacular scenery we had seen in Peru and it would not be the last.

In Pisac we did almost nothing for 2 days, and it was great. We had found a great little hostal up the hill from the town plaza, just enough away from the hub-bub of the market that seems to go on day after day after day. Jewelry, ceramics, clothing, shoes, more jewelry – it boggles my mind as to where all this stuff comes from. We asked some vendors about it and we were told that ALL of it is made “by hand” by “local artisans”. With a little probing we learned that what “by hand” meant was a little like opening a frozen pie crust and a couple of tins of cherry pie filling, baking it, and then saying you had made it “from scratch”. “Local artisans” seemed to include every man, woman and child who spent every spare moment working piecemeal putting together jewelry, stringing beads, spinning yarn or knitting mittens. I am still skeptical, however. The sheer volume of these goods to be found in Peru, in Ecuador, and elsewhere leads me to think that there must be factories somewhere pumping this stuff off assembly lines by the tens of thousands. I hoped I was wrong as I bought knick-knacks and jewelry to take back to friends and relations in the states.

Pisac was surrounded by colorful fields of amaranth and quinoa, small seeded grains known for their high nutritional value. I wandered through some of the fields trying to attract the attention of a farmer who might be able to tell me how it was marketed and processed, but succeeded only in gathering a string of beautiful and dirty children who wanted me to speak English – “como se dice `Klever` (a boy`s name) en ingles?” “como se dice bicicleta en ingles?” or they would shout out “whan! du! dhree! forr! – khat! dohg! hiello!” I encouraged them to keep practicing, taught them how to say “see you later” and walked back to town.

Much of Pisac was closed off to car and truck traffic, which kept the air free of diesel fumes and made walking a pleasure. Although there was no “spectacular” architecture to be found, here and there were casitas carefully built of mud and straw, embellished with embossed designs of agricultural implements, human hands or faces, and astrological symbols. The streets were mostly built of stone pavers, carefully laid out in attractive designs and many had narrow channels of stone running through the centerline which carried water in order to clean the streets. At the head of some of the channels were elaborate representations of serpents or jaguars opening their mouths to receive the water. As in Ollantaytambo, we were charmed by Pisac, and it is one of the many towns we encountered throughout Peru that we could easily imagine spending many weeks, months, or years in.

Alas, this time around we had only a few days, and all too soon we were on our way back to Cusco, or more specifically the main bus terminal, where we were hoping to catch a bus to Puno, 7 hours away on the edge of Lago Titicaca. Normally, it can be somewhat overwhelming to enter an unknown bus station in any country, especially if the moment you enter you are surrounded by dozens of aggressive men shouting out possible destinations – “Lima, Lima, Lima, venga señor!” or, Arequipa!! Venga, mi reina (addressed to Tia), venga, amor!” On this particular day, though, we could not have been luckier, for as we were walking through the gates from the street, a big beautiful bus was just leaving, and we got a shout of “Puno!! Puno!!” We quickly negotiated a price and hopped on. After more than two years of overcrowded and uncomfortable busses in Ecuador I thought I had died and gone to heaven; we were in one of Peru`s famous “bus camas”, a mammoth double decker with normal bus seating upstairs and spacious “VIP” type reclining seats in the lower section, and two of those beauties were ours. We got comfortable and settled in for the relatively short trip to Puno, reluctantly leaving the sacred valley of the Incans and headed for the altiplano.

I have posted a very disorganized bunch of photos of this part of our trip at this site:

http://picasaweb.google.com/rdlurie26/Peru1?feat=directlink

(Next entry – more of Peru)

Well it is great to be back in Ecuador, despite the fact that every minute or so I am asking myself “what in the hell are you doing here?” . I don’t pay much attention though, because I have asked myself that very same question at least 10 thousand times in my life. For some reason I kind of like finding myself in places and situations that are a little out of my comfort zone . . . it keeps me on my toes.

Not that I don`t like the comfort zone – I do. Usually wherever I happen to be living at any given time constitutes my comfort zone – a place where I can be alone, a place where I can cook some good food, and a place where I can read a good book, listen to some music, take a nap or get a good night of sleep. What else is there, really?

So, no matter how overwhelming it may be “outside” all I have to do is make it back to the cave –and then it`s all good. My cave at the moment is still here in Ambuqui, but I am busy looking for a new place in Ibarra. When I leave here, I will miss it, maybe as much as any home I have ever had. But my future in Ecuador, if I have one, is not here.

I am kind of dismayed at how tethered to technology, specifically my laptop, I have become. I find I can no longer write with pen in hand – my script is virtually illegible, and if I try to edit on the fly, which is so easy on a computer, my large notebook resembles an ink blot. I do try to keep a tiny little notebook with me, only in case any “great ideas” pop into my head (almost never) and anyway the few times it may have happened I always forget about the genius entry until well after the fact.

I mention this because, after hemming and hawing over buying a cheap new laptop in the US to bring back with me I decided against it – I really like(d) my used Dell Latitude – it did everything I needed and more, seemed rugged, and it was a nice size, not too big, not too small. Just right. Plus I had put some pretty cool stickers on it, ones I was unlikely to find again. “EL AGUA NO ES YAPA! CUIDALA!” and “AMERICA LATINA Y CARIBE SIN HAMBRE”, not to mention the coveted “PEACE CORPS SINCE 1961”. Oh well, asi es la vida, no?

So, the last night I am in the US, the backlight bulb for the screen on my laptop burns out. The screen is totally black. It had been blinking for several days, but I just figured it was the ghost in the machine acting up as it does once in a while, so I did not worry about it. My good ol Dell was indestructible, I thought, but not above throwing a scare into me from time to time. Normally, after toying with me for a few days she (of course she’s a she!) got back to normal. I rushed off to Best Buy 5 minutes before they closed and the Geek Squad said forget it – 3 to 4 hundred dollar repair, and of course it didn`t matter because I was leaving the next day. “May as well buy a new one” - hmm, never heard THAT before, right? Nor did I have time to carouse various computer repair shops to see if I could find a working screen (because I was leaving the next day).

The next day arrives and my brother and nephew cart me off to the airport. I imagine they were glad to see me go because I had been sleeping on the couch and otherwise disrupting their lives for several weeks. But I did almost complete the bathroom remodel I had promised my brother in exchange for the couch and the use of his truck. They drop me off at the curb and I am left alone with too much luggage and three hours to wait until my flight. Once inside I decide to do some repacking, and stupidly take my laptop (which I am hoping my trusty tecnico Carlos in Ibarra can repair) out of my carry on pack and place into an already bursting at the seams suitcase. You already know (probably) that by the time I got off 3 airplanes, one airport shuttle, a train, a taxi, and 4 busses, my screen was shattered. My problem had grown exponentially, as they say.

Now for the good news - the brainy part of the machine is still functioning, and my tecnico Carlos in Ibarra says that once I quit being a skinflint and buy a new laptop he will be able to transfer everything from the Dell to whatever else I end up with; and my friend Miguel hooked me up with an old Samsung “SyncMaster 450b” monitor which enables me for now to use what`s left of the computer and to put out drivel like this. Of course the SyncMaster 450b is monstrous and takes up my entire desk , but hey, I`m not complaining. It keeps me indoors for awhile and out of trouble – and well within my comfort zone.

I returned to Ecuador on a 6 month visa, which I had to buy at the consulate in Washington D.C. I had hoped to avoid spending the 230 bucks, but at the eleventh hour learned that the free 3 month tourist visa was totally non-extendable. In other words, if I hope to stay and apply for residency then I had to have the 6 month 12-IX visa. There are several ways to gain residency, or at least a long term visa, once one has the 12-IX. Through work, volunteer positions, marriage(!) or investment, just to mention a few. For retirees with a demonstrable pension it is relatively straightforward to gain a residency visa – unfortunately, much as I`d like to be, I am neither retired nor can I demonstrate a sufficient pension.

So my task for the next few months is to figure out how to earn a living here, to improve my Spanish, and to decide if I am indeed ready to become an expat. I sure hope I am.

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Tia and I had a great journey earlier this summer through Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia. Next visit here I will try to recount some of that as well as a little bit about my 2 months in the US. Thanks for reading.

. . . since my last post? I hope to remedy that by posting frequently in the next days and weeks. I went to the consulate in Washington to pick up my visa today and am flying back to Ecuador this coming Saturday, August 15. In the months since finishing my Peace Corps service and leaving Ecuador I have traveled way too much, spent way too much money, gained way too much weight, and had an awful lot of fun catching up with old and new friends and spending some time with my kids.

If any of my handful of readers are still out there, I hope all is well with you. This post will be sort of a re-introduction, I promise more will be coming. I miss writing here, and I especially miss having the TIME to write. One thing, though - for those of you who occasionally comment, if you would like me to comment back to you please leave an email address . . . I don`t think I can do this through the blog. Thanks . . .

Miercoles 15 abril

Wouldn`t you know it. A beautiful day, blue skies, a slight breeze and temps in the mid 70`s. A full day of work planned, my last as a Peace Corps Volunteer, in both Piqiuicho and Caldera. And here I am, en mi casita, sick as a dog. Between the fever, the chills, and the all too frequent trips to the bathroom, sleep was hard to come by last night. I did drift off for an hour or so this morning, and now I am eating a little something . . . but I don`t think I will get out of the house for several more hours, if at all. As a matter of fact I will probably crawl back into bed directly – ya mismo. Funny how just sitting in a chair can sometimes wear you out. Que pena!

It`s election time (again) here in Ecuador - all kinds of local and regional offices are up for grabs as well as the presidency. Current prez Rafael Correa is expected to cruise to an easy victory, but his support is not quite as strong as it was during the last election, 2 years ago. Oil revenues are way down, and his promises of social change and infrastructure improvements have been slowed to a crawl by a lack of funds. The electorate here epitomizes the phrase “what have you done for me lately?”, and are quick to toss the bums out – only to replace them with other bums. Which might explain why Ecuador has had 10 presidents since 1997.

For many it is a great time to be in the graphics or advertising business – there are so many candidates and it seems they all have dozens of giant posters hanging all over every region. Correa`s image appears every time you turn around, his handsome face smiling and his fist pumping in a kind of “power to the people” salute. Hundreds of candidates are riding his coat tails, and there are enough political parties to make it nearly impossible to keep track of them all. I think it`s kind of funny when people tell me how they envy our system in the US – “you guys know how to do it – solo dos partidos, los democraticos y los republicanos”. I try to explain how many of us in the US would like to see stronger and more numerous “third parties”, but my friends here are convinced that the 2 party system is the only sensible way to go. I have to agree that in Ecuador the system could use some streamlining.

As my time here winds down, I have been spending less time visiting with some of the local families. This has earned me several times the term “ingrato” – implying that I do not appreciate the friendships. (Note to Alicia – your Mom has never called me ingrato!) It is usually said in a joking manner and with a smile, but it`s a term I am not too fond of. I waste no time in pointing out that friendships are two way streets, and if my friends miss me, or want to see me, all they have to do is come by the house and knock on the door. This suggestion is usually met by blank stares – and a plethora of excuses – “well you only have 3 chairs” (true) or “you never have any food in your house” (false) or “we never know when you are going to be home” (true enough, but come by anyway!) I think the real reason most of my friends don`t drop by too frequently is a certain discomfort with the concept of an older single man living alone – and without a television!! Who`s gonna cook? What would we do if not able to sit around watching a soccer game or latin soap opera? Who`s gonna clean up? Of course it`s always assumed that those chores are left to wives, sisters, daughters, nieces or any other girl or woman who happens to be handy . . . From time to time the local kids will drop in, and we play chess or checkers or just shoot the breeze, which is great. But it is a rare day when an adult stops in, other than Marianita and Gerardo who own the house and live upstairs. We talk pretty much every day.

I will miss Ambuqui, the great climate and the friends I have made. I will not miss dogs barking all night long, I will not miss radios blaring reggaeton at 5:30 en la manaña, nor will I miss the all too frequent all night parties that occur just down the street. But I certainly will miss moments like this, (actually almost all day today), of serious quiet and tranquility. This is the first day in a long time I have had the luxury of sticking around the house all day long and I have forgotten just how peaceful it can be. I had thought I might stay in Ambuqui after my travels with Tia and my trip to the states, but I have decided instead to find a small place in Ibarra when I return to Ecuador in August. I am pretty ready to get out of the campo for awhile and to enjoy some city life, and Ibarra will be an excellent base. My rent here in Ambuqui is 40 bucks a month – the idea of having a roof over your head and running water and electricity (most of the time) for 480 dollars a year is pretty sweet - in Ibarra I will surely pay double that, if not more.

Jueves 16 abril

I made a pretty good recovery from yesterdays` illness, and today got out the door early and headed up to Piqiuicho where I had promised to help with some avocado grafting. Turns out that El Presidente himself, Rafael Correa, is going to visit Piqiuicho tomorrow (!) and my friends who I had planned to help out had become gainfully employed for the day by doing last minute cleanup and patching up around town – whatever they can do to make the pueblo look semi presentable when the president shows up. With all due respect to Piqiuicho, and to my friends who live there, the best way to make it even semi presentable would be to begin with a bulldozer. A really big one, or maybe even two. 3 men with 2 machetes and a shovel are not really going to make much of a difference. . .

My first impression of Piqiuicho (pik-yoocho) many months ago had me wondering “who bombed this town and why?” Situated alongside the PanAmerican Highway, Piqiuicho is about the size of 3 soccer fields, and the entire town is constructed of cinder block. Two or three houses have had a nice plaster like finish and a coat or two of glossy paint applied to the exterior. They even have glass in the windows. Almost every other house is raw cinder block, without glass but with rebar “security guards” set in the window openings, and most have corrugated metal roofs held in place by rocks and broken cinder blocks. Fully ¼ of the houses have been abandoned and have subsequently collapsed to one degree or another. Open irrigation canals run through town and provide a very convenient method of trash or excrement disposal – and when a small child or infant turns up missing the first place to go looking for the body is at the far end of the canal. So I have heard.

Most people I have known in my life would not want to live in Piqiuicho – I don`t think I could, not for any great length of time. Working there is pure pleasure, but I am happy to leave at the end of the day and return to my cozy house in Ambuqui with its` painted exterior, glass windows (which are always open) and tiled floor. It`s almost luxurious.

President Correa`s visit is part of a larger pre-election swing through the north of Ecuador, and it may portend the coming of more than one or two bulldozers. In an effort to improve transportation in the country the Correa administration has started an ambitious plan to widen the PanAmericana from 2 lanes to 4. Almost half of Piqiuicho lies immediately adjacent to the northbound lane of the highway – and will have to be demolished if the expansion comes to pass. For Piqiuicho, it could be either a great opportunity, or a great disaster. Vamos a ver. . .

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It is a stunning night in Ambuqui – the sky is as clear as glass and there are thousands of stars visible overhead. If I lie on my roof and look north I can see the Big Dipper, and slightly further north lies Arcturus. To the west is the Gemini constellation with Pollux and Castor shining brightly. . . If I turn and look south I find the Southern Cross, Sirius, and way off to the west, just over the horizon, Orion and Betelgeuse. I think this is the clearest night sky I have seen in many years.

This weekend, starting tonight, is Ambuquis` Fiesta de los Obos. The town is full of people, there is a fireworks castillo that will be set off when everyone is too drunk to notice the danger, and there is live music which can probably be heard for miles around. I enjoyed the party a little earlier this evening, and now am on my rooftop enjoying a cold beer, the view, and the music. It`s a good life.

Six weeks to go as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Ecuador. Was it what I expected? Absolutely not! Was it “worth it”? Indeed – every moment. I will wrap things up with a certain sense of fulfillment and completion – and as well with doubts and second guesses. I think it is safe to say that this is true for the majority of PCV`s who complete their service. How could it be otherwise?

What would I have done differently, you might ask. Everything! I would say. And then I would do it differently time and time and time again, if given the opportunity. The most important thing that I would go back and do over is to have worked harder on my Spanish skills. I speak Spanish, to be sure. Some days I even speak Spanish pretty well – but on the whole my middling level of language proficiency has diminished my overall experience, as well as my effectiveness as a volunteer. I hope with a few more years of work and practice I will become more fluent.

I am finishing up most of my work with individual farmers, and now I am concentrating on the school gardens, working with the directors to plan for their continuation after I leave. This is by far the most difficult part of Peace Corps work – leaving behind a sustainable project. The track record is pretty dismal – once a volunteer leaves his or her project the thing usually falls apart. Peace Corps, in Ecuador, at least, has not quite figured out how to guarantee sustainability, despite almost 50 years of boots on the ground. To be sure, there are successful, sustainable projects, but they are few and far between.

Of course, the offering of technical assistance is only one part of PC`s 3 goals. The other 2 stress cultural exchange and understanding, and in these I think we all succeed. Our impact on our friends and coworkers here, and likewise their impact on us is in my opinion the beauty and reason for being of Peace Corps. Without a doubt, some of my most rewarding days were those in which I did no “work” at all – but rather sat and talked with a small group of friends, old or new, learned about them and their lives, and (if asked) gladly sharing my thoughts about life in the US.

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April 20th is my last day, and I will leave Ecuador to travel with my daughter Tia in Peru. We will swing back into Ecuador, then go to Colombia. I will return to the States in late May or early June – to visit friends and family, maybe pick up a little work here or there, and to think a little about the past 27 months, and as well to think a little about what lies ahead. In August or September, I will return to Ecuador. Vamos a ver.

Keeping this blog has been a good experience for me, and it`s the closest I have ever come to “journaling”. If you are reading this, then somehow you have strayed here, and I hope you have found here a bit of diversion or even something useful. If you happen to be close to or over 50 and ready for a change, you might even have been inspired to think about Peace Corps or similar organizations as a bridge into the next part of life. Hell, I did it, so can you.

I will continue to post here during the coming weeks and while Tia and I travel. After that, who knows? Thanks for reading . . .

Carnaval is over, and not a moment too soon. Four days of drinking, dancing, water balloons, buckets of water, buckets of mud, bomba, and did I mention drinking and dancing? Today almost the entire country is either in bed with a hangover or pneumonia. I have never been anywhere else where Carnaval is celebrated, so I wonder if this mode of celebration is typical – or just Ecuadorean insanity? I have been told that Colombia, just miles to the north, celebrates Carnaval, but with a little more restraint and minus the miserable soakings that are inflicted upon passers-by, whether they want it or not.

Of course I am an old fart, and actually even when I was younger this type of event would not have been my cup of tea. (Maybe I have always been an old fart.) But my younger PC friends who came up to the Valle de Chota for Carnaval all had a pretty good time, and it was a pleasure to host them in my little casita here in Ambuqui. They all crowded into my few square feet of floor space on a couple of extra mattresses, we made some great meals together, and enjoyed a hike up into the hills. I skipped most of the Carnaval partying, but the kids made the most of it. For most of them it was their first trip to the north of Ecuador, and they deemed it totally unlike any other part of the country – a different world. I tend to agree with them.

Every party comes to an end, and as I passed through Juncal on my way to work this morning I was saddened to see much of the trash and debris from the weekend being bulldozed into the river. I would have been shocked, but in many communities this is SOP. I sometimes have to remind myself that in the US it was not so many years ago when trash disposal meant finding the closest stream or river. Probably still happens.

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I stopped in at Piqiuicho to visit my friend Pedro Borja, who runs a little tienda. 10 years my senior, Pedro was griping today about being tied down to the tienda – he said he was bored, tired of waiting on customers (“sell me 2 cigarettes” – “gimme one platano” – “dos caramellos”, etc.) and all he wants to do is go down to work in his fields. But his wife is sick, and she has been spending most of her days in Quito, unable to help run the tienda. I suggest to Don Pedro that he hire a helper, but he says his wife forbids it. “She is afraid I will like my helper more than her, and forget about her down in Quito.” When I suggest he hire a male helper he gives me an odd look and says that he wants only a pretty young girl helper, so perhaps his wife has a point . . .

This Saturday Pedro will have a chance to get down to his farm; we are going to graft 25 of his avocado trees. We consulted the lunar calendar and Saturday looks to be a good day – and every farmer in these parts swears by the power of the moon. I have always been skeptical, but am quite willing to be shown otherwise. Don Pedro has agreed to let me graft his 25 trees on Saturday, and then I get to graft 5 others on a day that is not in accord with the moon. We will wait and see what the results are.

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I wandered over to the school garden in Piqiuicho and found a large crowd of people in front of the school gate. In the middle were 2 grown women, fighting – pummeling each other with sticks of wood. Anyone who stepped in to intervene, including children, were thrown to the ground. I shook my head in despair – the level of violence in this culture is hard to fathom. Physical, verbal, emotional, it`s all here. Shouting and hitting are a part of normal everyday life and here it was being played out in full view of every adult and every child in town, some of whom bore the brunt of the blows when crying out to stop it. I tried to find out what was happening, but I did not dare intervene – my head would have been smashed in without a second thought. Apparently both women had been drinking heavily during Carnaval, there was an episode over a man, perhaps a husband. This was a battle for honor. I could not stand to watch, or even to stay in town any longer. I left without even checking on the garden.

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I went on up to Caldera and thankfully there was no hand to hand combat. But an unfortunate episode occurred in the garden when several of the older boys stripped the tomato plants bare of all the still green fruits. I was livid, and entirely fed up with the culture of “dame, regalame, dame” (give me, gift me, give me). I lectured them long and hard on their selfishness and inability to work or share together. I reminded them that the produce from the garden is not for any one person, it is for the school, collectively. I called out every bad word in Spanish I could think of and by the end of my tirade 2 of the boys were crying. I was not ashamed of my outburst, not in the least. In a final dramatic flourish I took the green fruits and smashed them on the concrete, to drive home my point – if we can`t all enjoy them, then none of us will. Oh, it was quite a performance. Word quickly spread to the director that “el señor es bien enojado” (the gringo is really pissed off) and as he approached me he smiled and shook my hand, saying something along the lines of “welcome to my world”. He said a few words to the boys, I rubbed a few heads in affection, and went back to work, with helpers. The irony of my own somewhat violent outburst on the heels of the fight in Piqiuicho was not lost on me. I decided not to think about it too much.

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I ran into PC friend Chrystal Smith in Ibarra the other day, and as we were waiting for busses back to our sites we started a list of “phrases we will probably not utter in the US”. Here are a few of them, explanations follow:

1. Hey, get me the cho-cho lady!

2. Sorry, I can`t, I have to stay home and sharpen my machete today.

3. What color was your shit this week?

4. What consistency was your shit this week?

5. I spent 26 dollars this month.

6. Excuse me do you know at what time the bus drivers strike is supposed to be over?

7. It rained last night, do you think the road will be open?

8. This bus has 60 people in it, yet it is exactly the same size as the Gemini space capsule.

9. Well, it`s 60 miles away, so I should be there in about 4 hours.

10. The hell with it, I`m riding on the roof (of the bus)

11. Do you think this chi-cha has been spit in?

12. I`ll have the soup, but please leave out the feet.

13. I`ll have the soup, but please leave out the brains and also the eyes.

14. I wonder how long the newest Constitution will last?

15. 18 avocados for one dollar, not bad.

Explanations:

1. At most bus stops a parade of vendors come tromping aboard selling fritada, pollo seco, mandarinas, and the like. Cho-chos are a favorite snack of toasted corn and beans with lime and salt.

2. Many of us have purchased and learned to use machetes, and a sharp one is very useful. It is amazing what you can do with a machete.

3 & 4. 2 years ago, our first day of PC training, we were warned that our bodily functions would become a major topic of conversation. They weren`t kidding.

5. Rare, but possible.

6. Strikes, especially in the transportation sector, are not uncommon

7. Rain often triggers landslides which close roads

8. Local busses are tiny and crowded, usually SRO. Long distance busses are usually larger and semi-comfortable.

9. Not always the case, but often enough.

10. Sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

11. Chi-cha is a liquid refreshment, and in some locales the yucca or whatever else is being used to make it is chewed up and spit back into the pot, the saliva causes it to ferment and gain alcoholic content

12 &13. 2 years later and I still cannot eat soup with miscellaneous body parts floating around in it.

14. Sad, but true. Instability in government is a big reason for many of Ecuadors` ills.

15. Or 30 mandarinas for 1 dollar, or 20 mangos, or 50 bananas . . .

31 Enero - A long stretch of very good days and weeks came to an abrupt end today. I should have seen it coming; yesterday was just too good, too many things went right. Yesterday I finally found and bought a dozen mango trees for the school gardens. For a region that grows so many mangos, the trees are surprisingly hard to come by. I had heard rumors of mango trees for sale up in Pimampiro, but had struck out on all my previous visits. Yesterday I decided to try one more time, and as I wandered more or less aimlessly through town I rounded a corner and there before me, sitting on the sidewalk, were 2 boxes of beautiful mango trees – ingertos (grafted) – exactly what I was looking for. I located the owner of the trees and we walked down the street to his little vivero (nursery) tucked away in a courtyard. He had hundreds and hundreds of trees - mangos, avocados, mandarins and more. I asked the price of the grafted mangos, hoping for 3 dollars apiece, and when the owner told me the cost was 4 dollars cada uno I groaned a little but agreed to the deal. I had spent way too much time looking for these trees, quibbling over 12 dollars was not worth it. I normally don`t carry more than a few dollars with me each day, but today had 50 bucks tucked away just in case I got lucky. So I paid the man, and we went off to find someone with a pickup truck who we could hire to haul me and the trees to Piqiuicho and Caldera. The camionetta drivers in Pimampiro are a hard bunch, and the best price we found was 8 dollars, which was still highway robbery. So I hired a guy with a 2 wheeled cart attached to a bicycle and he charged me .50 centavos to carry the load to the bus stop, about 4 blocks away. A bus came in a few minutes, and I loaded the trees (each about 30 inches tall) into a compartment and we headed to Juncal, about 20 minutes down the hill. I met Alexis, one of the older kids from the Piqiuicho school, on the bus, and he agreed to help me unload the trees from our bus and onto the Caldera bus, if one came by. This was the big gamble, because I did not know when or if a bus up to Caldera would show up. A small crowd gathered as we waited in Juncal, because people here are always curious when they see a gringo carting around a load of trees or plants. As I was explaining about the school gardens, and the donations which enabled me to buy the trees, and all that, I looked up to see a Monte Olivo bus, bound for both Piqiuicho and Caldera, come to a screeching halt to discharge some passengers. I motioned to the ayudante (bus helper) that we needed to load the trees, and in the blink of an eye we were on our way. In Piqiuicho Alexis jumped off and grabbed 3 trees, which is all we have space for in the garden there. I continued up to Caldera, absolutely amazed at how well this was all working out, and congratulating myself for not throwing away 8 bucks on the camionetta. The bus fares came to a grand total of .50 centavos. In Caldera I dropped off the 9 remaining trees at the Escuela de Cuba. Seven of the tress were going to the garden, and I gave the other 2 to Don Homero, the school janitor, to plant in his huerto down the road. I felt a little guilty about the bribe, but Don Homero has been a constant source of help and advice to me, and two mango trees seemed a small price to pay for his assistance and encouragement. I stayed in Caldera long enough to water the garden, and by the time I was ready to leave the last bus back down to Juncal had already passed. I started hiking out of town, but in just a few minutes a truck loaded with peppers and onions slowed down enough for me to jump on and off we went. Once again, I could not believe my luck. That was yesterday. Today was a clusterfuck of missed busses and missed connections, a nasty encounter with an unfriendly person, and a day in which my Spanish decided to go on vacation. I will spare all the details, but by 2PM I had had enough, and headed home to take a long nap. I woke up at about 4, made some coffee and poured some honey over an arepa (kind of like corn bread). I was still peeved about the events of earlier in the day, and decided to get out for a short hike up into the mountains, literally just steps outside my door. I had about 2 hours of daylight, so took my binoculars, a book, and a bottle of water. Within 30 minutes I was high above Ambuqui, I sat on a rock for a few minutes and gazed at my little town far below. It seemed so quiet, and so tranquilo, yet all I could think about were all the dramas that were played out here every day, just as they are in small towns everywhere. I thought of other small towns I have lived in, Yellow Springs, Ohio; White Salmon, Washington; Longmont, Colorado, just to name a few, and they all blended into one. One town where people loved, where people fought, where people succeeded or failed, where people drank the day away in public, or more discreetly took a pull every now and again from the bottle hidden in the cupboard. I thought about Edgar Lee Masters` “Spoon River Anthology” and how the scandals and tragedies, the tales of lust and love and of hatred and friendship described in the headstones of the deceased residents could cross cultures and all be applicable here in Ambuqui, one hundred years later and thousands of miles away. I moved on up into the mountains, and came to a stopping point where the quebrada climbed almost a hundred feet straight up. If I were a bunch of years younger, I might have tried to make my way up, and I may yet try to do so, but not by myself. I found another rock, with another view of the now more distant Ambuqui. I was carrying my current read, “Dead Man`s Walk”, by Larry McMurtry, and ripped off a chapter as the daylight began to fade. It was easy to imagine myself in the shoes of the characters in the novel, there in the dry quebrada with the towering hills covered in cactus and sagebrush. I looked up at the fat crescent moon and though it best to head back down before the light was completely gone. I was happy with my little adventure, and had mostly forgotten about the day`s bad start. On my way down I met an indigenous woman bringing her 3 cows back into town from a day of grazing. She was surprised to see me, and asked where I had been, what had I been doing. I told her I`d just been up in the quebrada, just taking a walk for the fun of it. She shook her head and looked at me like I was crazy. I suppose she trudges up and down these goat trails nearly every day of her life and likely sees no fun in it at all. Books. “Dead Man`s Walk” will bring me up to 100 novels read during my 2 years of Peace Corps. We are lucky here to have a great network of book trading, so it is pretty easy to keep a fresh supply of books around. Most of my reading is done at night, in the few hours between sunset and bedtime, and some is done on busses, or while waiting for busses. And once in a great while, I will stay home and read the entire day, which is a luxury I think everyone should grant themselves from time to time. I have read two very good books with a “do-gooder” theme, and would recommend them to anyone who wants to believe that yes, individuals can make a difference in this world of ours. One is “City of Joy” by Dominique LaPierre, which is a story of Calcutta, India; and the other is “Three Cups of Tea” by Greg Mortensen and David Oliver Relin, a contemporary story of one guy`s mission to build schools in the far reaches of Pakistan and Afghanistan. For more Peace Corps related themes, “Living Poor” by Moritz Thomsen is a classic, and his story still rings true, 40 years later. “The Bold Experiment” by Gerard T. Rice is the story of Peace Corps` creation and first few decades, and is very well researched and written. Tomorrow is the Super Bowl, and although I normally go with the Steelers I have to go this time with Arizona as the sentimental underdog choice. And because Kurt Warner is way too old to be playing as well as he is. I will enjoy the game with some friends in Ibarra, drinking 80 cent Pilseners and eating empanadas, can`t wait. Well now it seems that today may not have been so bad after all. Just not quite so good as the days before.

January 20 - It`s a great feeling to walk out the door in the morning with 2 dollars and 90 cents in your pocket knowing that you not only have enough plata for transportation to and from your work but also enough for a great lunch at El Rincon de Sabor in Juncal. Today I got extra lucky and hitched rides both in and out of Caldera, thereby saving 50 centavos in bus fare. Lunch at the Rincon was super-rico today, a sancoche (soup with yucca, platano, and meat - delicious) and pollo en jugo (chicken stew, sort of, on a bed of rice with chopped up beets and half an avocado), for the main plate. Top it off with a glass of fresh tomate de arbol juice, and you got yourself a meal.

It felt good to get back to work today after a grueling (that`s a joke) 6 day trek to various beaches with my friends Shawn Stokes and Maria Ellis. We met in Quito last week for the Peace Corps “Close of Service” conference, a mind numbing day of preparation for entry back into life post PC. PC did treat us all to a very good meal at a fancy restaurant in Quito, and we got to meet our new Country Director, Kathleen Sifer, who seems very honest and very competent. Everyone in my group wishes she had shown up about 2 years ago. It was great to hang out with those of us who remain (we started in Feb 07 with 47 people, we leave in April 09 with 29, I think). On Sunday we hung out as a group in the Mariscal district of Quito, drinking beer, playing pool and cards and watching football playoffs, eating Indian food (at the aptly named “Great Indian Restaurant”) and carousing. On Monday night, after our fancy dinner, we simply hung out at the hotel, chatted, drank beer (the recurring theme) played cards, and generally just enjoyed what will surely be the last time many of us will see one another. I have never been inclined to join very many groups, but I will always be proud to say I was part of Omnibus 97 Peace Corps Ecuador.

Maria, Shawn, and I got out of Quito around noon Tuesday, headed north to Ibarra and Lita. We spent the night in a 3 dollar hostal in Lita, then caught busses (the two busses we took to Rio Verde were the most tranquilo I have ridden in Ecuador – half empty, music not rattling the sheetmetal, and almost all the windows open) to the coast via Calderon and Borbon, places that are way off the Gringo Trail. We arrived at Hostal Pura Vida that afternoon, just outside of Rio Verde, and immediately walked down to the big wide beach. The day was beautiful, and the good weather stayed with us as we meandered down the coast. Next day we were in Sua, with PC friends Kat and Damon, and they took us to a secluded beach that I thought surely must be the most beautiful in Ecuador. Make that one of the most beautiful, because the next day we traveled off the beaten path into Punta Galera to visit another PCV, and she took us to the beach at Tongorachi which required a sweaty and muddy hour long slog to reach but was spectacular and well worth the effort. While there we ran into a local family who had just returned from harvesting sea cucumbers. Sea cucumbers are endangered, and I believe their harvest is illegal in the Galapagos, but I am not sure about the mainland. Nevertheless, we later encountered the same family selling their catch out on the road to a middleman, who we caught a ride with. As we drove away (with a large crate full of sea cucumbers) an official looking truck with official looking people in it pulled in behind us and we started imagining the headlines – “Peace Corps Volunteers arrested, caught redhanded with illegal sea cucumbers”- but apparently there is a system at work here that we are ignorant of (nothing new there) and the official looking truck passed us by with a friendly wave from its official looking occupants.

We stayed that night back up the coast in a seedy hotel in Atacames. I loathe Atacames and hope to never see it again except in passing on my way to somewhere better, which is pretty much anywhere. I do not understand why Rough Guides and Lonely Planet and other travel guides give one drop of ink to a place like Atacames - it is a shit hole that amplifies all that is wrong with Ecuador and all that is wrong with beach towns and beach culture in general. Yuck. Feo. Enough said.

We grabbed an early bus out of purgatory and stop by excruciating stop made our way to Mompiche, the end of the line and our final destination. Mompiche is tiny, a muddy and raw collection of bamboo hostales, concrete bunker-like restaurants, a little peligroso at night, and absolutely beautiful. We had only two nights, and on our second day we walked about an hour to a black sand beach that we all agreed was the most spectacular of them all. We stayed for hours, burned ourselves in the sun, swam in the most crystal clear ocean water I have ever seen, and covered ourselves in the black sand which was cool and soothing. As we walked back to Mompiche we were all hatching ideas about how to buy a few hectares of land adjacent to this incredible beach. On the bus back to civilization the next day I met a French woman who said that 30 years ago Atacames was just like Mompiche is now. I hope as Mompiche grows, as it surely will, it can avoid a similar fate.

We left Mompiche on the early bus, all wishing we could stay a day, a month, a year longer. Shawn and Maria caught a bus for the long trip back down to Fundachamba, which will take forever – or about twenty hours that will seem like forever. I retraced our route back up through Rio Verde, Rocafuerte, Borbon and Lita, and as usual was stunned and awestruck by the diversity and beauty of this tiny little country.

-----

January 21 – I caught the early bus up to Caldera today because tomorrow is the casa abierta (open house) at the school and I wanted to have all day to work in the garden to tidy it up. I had also promised Anita, the school cook, that I would prepare an ensalada de culantro, rabano y zuqini, (cilantro, radish, and zuchinni salad)all harvested yesterday from the garden. I worked with a few student helpers from 7 `til 9, then went down to the cocina to make the salad, which took me the better part of an hour, since it had to go on 100 plates along with the delicious tuna-noodle-rice thing Anita had whipped up. It is a rare thing to see a man in the kitchen around these parts, so I had to endure some banter from some of the male staff and as well some exaggerated fawning over by several of the women – “ ¿quiere a trabajar in mi cocina, gringo?” - (“hey gringo, wanna come work in my kitchen?”). I think the salad was a hit, all the kids I asked said they liked it – “¡que rico!” – but then again that`s what they say when they smell my arms after I slather bug repellant all over them.

Yesterday the school director told me he would like me to be a calificador during todays election of the schools reinas. I did not know what a calificador was, had no idea what he was talking about, but happily agreed to do so. It turns out that a calificador is a judge, and I was to be one of three for the annual selection of la Reina de la Escuela Cuba, (Queen of the Cuba School) and a couple of less lofty positions along the lines of Miss Most Friendly, Miss Most Sincere, etc. I thought all this had been decided at a different fiesta last month, but no, that was the election for class presidents and officers. (Ecuadoreans frequently joke that the major reason for their countries` poverty and disorganization is the inordinate amount of days given over to fiestas, marches, parades and the like.)

So, I sat down at a plastic table in the middle of the concrete square with my fellow judges, in front of a full house of parents and students, accompanied by last years` school reina as well as the reina of the Canton, and some other reina I was unable to identify. (Ecuador is serious about it`s reinas). With the sun beating down and the moisture from an early drizzle steaming up from the concrete we waited in anticipation as the candidatas finished their preparations. A very large speaker directly behind us blared out a mix of technocumbia and the pop music of Aventura, a NYC based bachatta band idolized throughout Latin America. Suddenly the music switched to some lilting new age instrumental and as if on cue the crowd fell silent. As the candidatas were escorted out by boys half their size I was struck not only by their beauty and bearing, but as well by their fancy dresses. All of the 6 candidates wore exotic creations that must have cost at least a weeks` salary. All the girls did a little dance step, provided correct answers to the “interview questions” and any one of them would have been a great choice to be this years` reina. Yet we had to choose, which was difficult because we knew that 5 girls would be disappointed, and 3 of those 5 would be very disappointed, having won nothing at all. We discussed our options, made our selections, and then I was informed that I would take the microphone and announce the winners. I tried my best to squirm out of this task, to no avail. Mustering up my best Spanish and a little enthusiasm, I announced the second and third place finishers, and then Alishya, one of the other judges, (seeing that I was faltering), came to my rescue, relieving me of the duty to announce the winner. Alishya was way more enthusiastic than I was, and I think the crowd actually understood her local Spanish much better than my stammering gibberish.

After all the hoopla, I looked up at a bulletin board containing 6 student illustrations of the Escuela Cuba. Much to my surprise, and most pleasing to me, one of them contained a representation of the new school garden. That just about made my day, even more than getting to judge the beauty contest.

January 22 - The casa abierta was a success for the school, but a bit of a letdown for me. Only one parent made the short hike up the hill to visit the garden, and Fabian, the school director and all around great guy neglected to mention it during his introductory speech about the days` activities. I am certain this was simply an oversight, not at all intended, but frustrating nonetheless because I had hoped to use this day to secure some parental commitments in helping to maintain the garden, both now and in the future, after I have gone. I mentioned this later to Fabian and he was chagrined and apologetic, and promised me we could arrange another day in February to bring attention to the “huerto escolar”. I have no doubt that he will make it happen, and in the meanwhile the students and I have more time to bring it into tip top shape. Works for me.

On a brighter note, I finally contacted Viviana, a woman in Caldera who raises cuyes – cuyes are guinea pigs that are raised for meat, and are very seldom raised here in this part of the Sierras. They are usually favored by the indigenous and mestizo populations living in higher and cooler climates. Guinea pigs happen to produce some very rich poop, and since I am growing a few beds of alfalfa as a soil improver at the school, I was able to arrange a trade – cuy shit for alfalfa. Viviana is thrilled because alfalfa is great feed for cuyes, and I am happy because animal abono is almost impossible to come by in the Valle de Chota.

Waiting for a ride out of Caldera later today I joined a group of girls playing “jacks”, with 12 pebbles and an old ping pong ball. The game they were playing had some nuances of form and rule that differed from those my Mom taught me, but I asked if I could join them and pretty soon I more or less had the hang of it. We played on a rough concrete surface and there was no telling where the ball may bounce, but that was part of the challenge. We managed about a half an hour of close competition before a truck passed; and as I rode off I was full of thoughts about my late mother, Maitland, who died a few years ago at 69 years of age; and I was also filled with admiration for these kids who have almost nothing, who never complain, and who are always smiling.

January 20 - It`s a great feeling to walk out the door in the morning with 2 dollars and 90 cents in your pocket knowing that you not only have enough plata for transportation to and from your work but also enough for a great lunch at El Rincon de Sabor in Juncal. Today I got extra lucky and hitched rides both in and out of Caldera, thereby saving 50 centavos in bus fare. Lunch at the Rincon was super-rico today, a sancoche (soup with yucca, platano, and meat - delicious) and pollo en jugo (chicken stew, sort of, on a bed of rice with chopped up beets and half an avocado), for the main plate. Top it off with a glass of fresh tomate de arbol juice, and you got yourself a meal.

It felt good to get back to work today after a grueling (that`s a joke) 6 day trek to various beaches with my friends Shawn Stokes and Maria Ellis. We met in Quito last week for the Peace Corps “Close of Service” conference, a mind numbing day of preparation for entry back into life post PC. PC did treat us all to a very good meal at a fancy restaurant in Quito, and we got to meet our new Country Director, Kathleen Sifer, who seems very honest and very competent. Everyone in my group wishes she had shown up about 2 years ago. It was great to hang out with those of us who remain (we started in Feb 07 with 47 people, we leave in April 09 with 29, I think). On Sunday we hung out as a group in the Mariscal district of Quito, drinking beer, playing pool and cards and watching football playoffs, eating Indian food (at the aptly named “Great Indian Restaurant”) and carousing. On Monday night, after our fancy dinner, we simply hung out at the hotel, chatted, drank beer (the recurring theme) played cards, and generally just enjoyed what will surely be the last time many of us will see one another. I have never been inclined to join very many groups, but I will always be proud to say I was part of Omnibus 97 Peace Corps Ecuador.

Maria, Shawn, and I got out of Quito around noon Tuesday, headed north to Ibarra and Lita. We spent the night in a 3 dollar hostal in Lita, then caught busses (the two busses we took to Rio Verde were the most tranquilo I have ridden in Ecuador – half empty, music not rattling the sheetmetal, and almost all the windows open) to the coast via Calderon and Borbon, places that are way off the Gringo Trail. We arrived at Hostal Pura Vida that afternoon, just outside of Rio Verde, and immediately walked down to the big wide beach. The day was beautiful, and the good weather stayed with us as we meandered down the coast. Next day we were in Sua, with PC friends Kat and Damon, and they took us to a secluded beach that I thought surely must be the most beautiful in Ecuador. Make that one of the most beautiful, because the next day we traveled off the beaten path into Punta Galera to visit another PCV, and she took us to the beach at Tongorachi which required a sweaty and muddy hour long slog to reach but was spectacular and well worth the effort. While there we ran into a local family who had just returned from harvesting sea cucumbers. Sea cucumbers are endangered, and I believe their harvest is illegal in the Galapagos, but I am not sure about the mainland. Nevertheless, we later encountered the same family selling their catch out on the road to a middleman, who we caught a ride with. As we drove away (with a large crate full of sea cucumbers) an official looking truck with official looking people in it pulled in behind us and we started imagining the headlines – “Peace Corps Volunteers arrested, caught redhanded with illegal sea cucumbers”- but apparently there is a system at work here that we are ignorant of (nothing new there) and the official looking truck passed us by with a friendly wave from its official looking occupants.

We stayed that night back up the coast in a seedy hotel in Atacames. I loathe Atacames and hope to never see it again except in passing on my way to somewhere better, which is pretty much anywhere. I do not understand why Rough Guides and Lonely Planet and other travel guides give one drop of ink to a place like Atacames - it is a shit hole that amplifies all that is wrong with Ecuador and all that is wrong with beach towns and beach culture in general. Yuck. Feo. Enough said.

We grabbed an early bus out of purgatory and stop by excruciating stop made our way to Mompiche, the end of the line and our final destination. Mompiche is tiny, a muddy and raw collection of bamboo hostales, concrete bunker-like restaurants, a little peligroso at night, and absolutely beautiful. We had only two nights, and on our second day we walked about an hour to a black sand beach that we all agreed was the most spectacular of them all. We stayed for hours, burned ourselves in the sun, swam in the most crystal clear ocean water I have ever seen, and covered ourselves in the black sand which was cool and soothing. As we walked back to Mompiche we were all hatching ideas about how to buy a few hectares of land adjacent to this incredible beach. On the bus back to civilization the next day I met a French woman who said that 30 years ago Atacames was just like Mompiche is now. I hope as Mompiche grows, as it surely will, it can avoid a similar fate.

We left Mompiche on the early bus, all wishing we could stay a day, a month, a year longer. Shawn and Maria caught a bus for the long trip back down to Fundachamba, which will take forever – or about twenty hours that will seem like forever. I retraced our route back up through Rio Verde, Rocafuerte, Borbon and Lita, and as usual was stunned and awestruck by the diversity and beauty of this tiny little country.

-----

January 21 – I caught the early bus up to Caldera today because tomorrow is the casa abierta (open house) at the school and I wanted to have all day to work in the garden to tidy it up. I had also promised Anita, the school cook, that I would prepare an ensalada de culantro, rabano y zuqini, (cilantro, radish, and zuchinni salad)all harvested yesterday from the garden. I worked with a few student helpers from 7 `til 9, then went down to the cocina to make the salad, which took me the better part of an hour, since it had to go on 100 plates along with the delicious tuna-noodle-rice thing Anita had whipped up. It is a rare thing to see a man in the kitchen around these parts, so I had to endure some banter from some of the male staff and as well some exaggerated fawning over by several of the women – “ ¿quiere a trabajar in mi cocina, gringo?” - (“hey gringo, wanna come work in my kitchen?”). I think the salad was a hit, all the kids I asked said they liked it – “¡que rico!” – but then again that`s what they say when they smell my arms after I slather bug repellant all over them.

Yesterday the school director told me he would like me to be a calificador during todays election of the schools reinas. I did not know what a calificador was, had no idea what he was talking about, but happily agreed to do so. It turns out that a calificador is a judge, and I was to be one of three for the annual selection of la Reina de la Escuela Cuba, (Queen of the Cuba School) and a couple of less lofty positions along the lines of Miss Most Friendly, Miss Most Sincere, etc. I thought all this had been decided at a different fiesta last month, but no, that was the election for class presidents and officers. (Ecuadoreans frequently joke that the major reason for their countries` poverty and disorganization is the inordinate amount of days given over to fiestas, marches, parades and the like.)

So, I sat down at a plastic table in the middle of the concrete square with my fellow judges, in front of a full house of parents and students, accompanied by last years` school reina as well as the reina of the Canton, and some other reina I was unable to identify. (Ecuador is serious about it`s reinas). With the sun beating down and the moisture from an early drizzle steaming up from the concrete we waited in anticipation as the candidatas finished their preparations. A very large speaker directly behind us blared out a mix of technocumbia and the pop music of Aventura, a NYC based bachatta band idolized throughout Latin America. Suddenly the music switched to some lilting new age instrumental and as if on cue the crowd fell silent. As the candidatas were escorted out by boys half their size I was struck not only by their beauty and bearing, but as well by their fancy dresses. All of the 6 candidates wore exotic creations that must have cost at least a weeks` salary. All the girls did a little dance step, provided correct answers to the “interview questions” and any one of them would have been a great choice to be this years` reina. Yet we had to choose, which was difficult because we knew that 5 girls would be disappointed, and 3 of those 5 would be very disappointed, having won nothing at all. We discussed our options, made our selections, and then I was informed that I would take the microphone and announce the winners. I tried my best to squirm out of this task, to no avail. Mustering up my best Spanish and a little enthusiasm, I announced the second and third place finishers, and then Alishya, one of the other judges, (seeing that I was faltering), came to my rescue, relieving me of the duty to announce the winner. Alishya was way more enthusiastic than I was, and I think the crowd actually understood her local Spanish much better than my stammering gibberish.

After all the hoopla, I looked up at a bulletin board containing 6 student illustrations of the Escuela Cuba. Much to my surprise, and most pleasing to me, one of them contained a representation of the new school garden. That just about made my day, even more than getting to judge the beauty contest.

January 22 - The casa abierta was a success for the school, but a bit of a letdown for me. Only one parent made the short hike up the hill to visit the garden, and Fabian, the school director and all around great guy neglected to mention it during his introductory speech about the days` activities. I am certain this was simply an oversight, not at all intended, but frustrating nonetheless because I had hoped to use this day to secure some parental commitments in helping to maintain the garden, both now and in the future, after I have gone. I mentioned this later to Fabian and he was chagrined and apologetic, and promised me we could arrange another day in February to bring attention to the “huerto escolar”. I have no doubt that he will make it happen, and in the meanwhile the students and I have more time to bring it into tip top shape. Works for me.

On a brighter note, I finally contacted Viviana, a woman in Caldera who raises cuyes – cuyes are guinea pigs that are raised for meat, and are very seldom raised here in this part of the Sierras. They are usually favored by the indigenous and mestizo populations living in higher and cooler climates. Guinea pigs happen to produce some very rich poop, and since I am growing a few beds of alfalfa as a soil improver at the school, I was able to arrange a trade – cuy shit for alfalfa. Viviana is thrilled because alfalfa is great feed for cuyes, and I am happy because animal abono is almost impossible to come by in the Valle de Chota.

Waiting for a ride out of Caldera later today I joined a group of girls playing “jacks”, with 12 pebbles and an old ping pong ball. The game they were playing had some nuances of form and rule that differed from those my Mom taught me, but I asked if I could join them and pretty soon I more or less had the hang of it. We played on a rough concrete surface and there was no telling where the ball may bounce, but that was part of the challenge. We managed about a half an hour of close competition before a truck passed; and as I rode off I was full of thoughts about my late mother, Maitland, who died a few years ago at 69 years of age; and I was also filled with admiration for these kids who have almost nothing, who never complain, and who are always smiling.

Well it´s been one of those days. I suppose these kind of days can happen anywhere, but perhaps the odds are just a little better here. For the past 6 weeks or so I have been coming into Ibarra most Monday mornings for a couple of hours of language exchange with my friends Wilma and Miguel. Wilma teaches English at one of the local Universities, so we usually spend one hour working on my Spanish, and another hour working on her English, which by the way, is somewhat better than my Spanish. (They own the internet cafe where I am sitting right now, and Miguels´ mom runs the hotel upstairs where I ocassionally spend a night like tonight - cable TV, warm bed, and hot water once in a while, all for 7.50 cada noche). Since I was unable to come to Ibarra yesterday, I came today, Tuesday. We had a particularly long session today, almost 4 hours, so I did not leave the house until almost 2 PM. I walked the 10 blocks back to the center of Ibarra, made a long phone call to my daughters, and then went to pick up some groceries. I loaded up my basket with the usual supply of stuff, then remembered I was falta toothpaste back at home. The "toothpaste section" was in a separate part of the store, behind a long glass counter. An attentive young woman asked how she could help me, and I said I wanted a tube of toothpaste, whatever was the cheapest brand. She grabbed a bright yellow tube of "Kolynos" (.60 centavos) from the shelf and proceeded to write a very long code on a slip of paper. I was instructed to use the slip of paper in order to pay for the tube of toothpaste, and then after paying, I could stand in another line at another window and there I would be able to pick up my 60 cent tube of toothpaste. Weird, I thought. Right next door to the "toothpaste section" is the "booze section". Realizing I was running low on this valuable commodity back at home, I decided to buy a bottle of Ron Abuelo, which IMHO is the best 6 dollar bottle of rum on the planet (trust me, I have done the research.) I made my selection, served by the same young woman, and fully expected to be handed a slip of paper, just as I had been for the toothpaste. But no, she simply handed me the rum, and said "tenga un buen dia", and that was that. Weird, I thought.

I think Ibarra is a wonderful city, it is large enough to have everything from soup to nuts, there is great food on nearly every street corner, the women are pretty and the men are handsome. There are several beautiful parks, and always something new to discover. So, seeing as it was already past 3 PM, I decided to wander the city a little bit before heading back to the bus terminal to return to Ambuqui. I eventually wandered into the terminal just past 5 PM. and was shocked to find a line of at least 150 people waiting for the busses that pass by Ambuqui. Most busses hold 38 to 40 people, and they load up every 15 -20 minutes, the last bus comes at 6:45; so as I did the math things were not looking too good. Nevertheless, I decided to stick it out, after all it would be nice to get home, and I have a full day of work tomorrow. At 6:40, the last bus came, and by this time there were another 40 people behind me. As the bus pulled into it´s slot, everyone broke rank and there was a mad rush to the door. I looked at that mob scene and thought, "someone is going to die in this mess!" I thought for one moment about joining in, and then decided against it. I considered my options, and here I am at Hotel El Ejecutivo. I willcatch a very early bus to Ambuqui in the morning, and am keeping my fingers crossed that the hot water is working here tonight. A hot shower would be a nice treat.

I asked several people in the long line about what was going on, why were there so many people?? Some said "no se" (to hear an Ecuadorean speak the words "no se" is a thing of beauty, because usually they will tell you nearly anyting just to avoid looking as if they do not know). I asked others, and they said " because it´s December 30th", and that seemed as plausible an explanation as any.

Happy New Year all. (the photo is Anita at the Escuela de Cuba in Caldera dishing out the morning snack of "colada"- a creamy oatmeal drink ¡Que rico!)