I had heard

I had heard that Argentinos, especially porteños (the citizens of Buenos Aires) were snobs. That they all considered themselves European and therefore better than the rest of South America. I had heard that 97% of Argentina is considered "white" or of European descent, making it the least diverse city in the Americas.

I had heard that they didn`t even make women`s clothing sizes above a two and that women in Buenos Aires were insanely small due to a large occurrence of eating disorders and super model syndrome.

I had heard that there were more psychoanalysts per person in Argentina than in any other city in the world (outside of New York). I had heard that apart from NYC, Buenos Aires has the largest Jewish population living outside of Israel.

I had heard that even the Spanish in Argentina was different, that the people used vos instead of tú and that any y or ll was pronounced as a soft j sound, making the Spanish sound like a cross between Italian, Portuguese and the Castellano it actually is.

I had heard that Porteños cued for everything and that a trip to the bank, post office or phone company could be an all day affair.

I had heard that Buenos Aires wanted to be Paris or NY or both. That it felt it didn´t belong in South America. Frankly, before arriving to the capital of Argentina, I wasn`t sure I was going to fit in, let alone want to fit in to this snobby, neurotic city of people.

But like all information received second hand, it is meant to be investigated and examined first hand, and when I did finally arrive to the hot city of Buenos Aires on the first day of summer, I realized that what I had heard was going to be challenged by what I would see, taste and hear once I was there.

That is not to say that I can challenge the statistics that Buenos Aires has a large Jewish or psychoanalyst population. I cannot speak to either of those statistics. (Incidentally, I wonder if those two stats are related, given our propensity toward guilt, self-deprecation and martyrdom.)

And certainly the statistic that you must stand in long lines for any type of bureaucratic business I found to be true with my new cell phone, that unfortunately can make but not receive phone calls. After three phone calls and four visits to the telefonica/movistar office in both Buenos Aires and Mendoza, I realize that it is true that standing in lines is a way of life in Argentina and despite the heat and the seeming ludicrous nature of all the standing around to be told where to stand next, for the most part, it is an accepted part of life, and most people accept this colossal time suck as an inconvenience one must endure. (While standing in one of the three lines that day, images of angry New Yorkers kept popping into my head. There they would be, standing in lines for hours on end just to be told to stand in a subsequent lines, and the riots that would logically ensue from such bureaucracy. I was also reminded of the social security office I recently visited with my grandfather when I was in Brooklyn last, where clearly you expect to wait, be mistreated and subsequently misinformed about what to do, where to go and who to contact. This has been my experience with the cell phone. And don`t bother calling yet, it still is not accepting incoming calls!)

But line standing aside, walking down the busy main streets in the center among outdoor cafes, clothing shops and a plethora of outdoor restaurants and bars, I was struck by its uniqueness. Buenos Aires has nothing to do with Lima or Quito or any other Latin American city. Indeed there are moments where you really could be in Manhattan or Madrid or Paris. And other moments where you know the only place you could be is exactly where you are, Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina.

The restaurants fill at 3 in the afternoon for lunch and again at 10 at night for dinner. The bars, open all night long, serve liters of Quilmes, the national beer, wine by the gallon and petite cups of espresso to the throngs of local and international patrons. The shops offer all the latest fashion in sizes that range from 0 to 20, so yes, while they do have sizes for people that are for all intents and purposes starving themselves to death, they are not the only, nor the most prominent sizes around. And while there does seem to be a preponderance of beauty salons and hair removal facilities for women, the women for the most part, seem to come in all shapes and sizes.

Riding the metro from one end of the city to the other, I was struck by the extreme whiteness that surrounded me. Unlike while traveling in Ecuador, Bolivia, Peru or even the Dominican Republic, I do not stick out like a sore thumb in Buenos Aires. I am just one more young, fair skinned citizen with blonde hair. Sure my eyes and my extremely large backpack give me away, but not quite as quickly or as easily as my skin anywhere else in Latin America.

In Caminto, a neighborhood at the south end of the city, you can dine while watching the tango, and expression of Argentinean art and suffering. Formerly a dance done principally by sailors and prostitutes, the tango has become an icon of the Argentinean soul. And as the fancily dressed couples engage in the vertical version of a horizontal expression, they wear pained expressions; heads held high, the music filled with the suffering of the Argentinean history.

In el jardìn botànico and the jardìn japonès, you can wander for hours lost in green space, oblivious the city of 13 million inhabitants around you.

And as you make your way down any street, prepare to be accosted for money or food from the less fortunate children of the city. Juggling barefoot between the cars, dirty hands outstretched, your heart will break as you do or do not hand over the spare peso or medialuna from your breakfast plate. Like all major cities in the world, Buenos Aires has a homeless population . . . with a very young face.

Of course if you are a woman, you will have the unfortunate experience of hearing at least one whistle, smooching sound or piropo, a comment made by a man of any age supposedly designed to "honor the beauty of women" but actually just an expression of extreme machismo or sexism. Yes, surprise surprise, machismo is alive and well in Argentina and depending on how much you feel like arguing with strangers, you could spend quite a bit of time retorting to these sounds and comments as you make your way around town.

Buenos Aires and as I continue to travel, Argentina, like all places has a reputation. Just like all Californian women have blonde hair and everyone in the Bay area grows marijuana. Just like the Irish like to drink and the English all drink tea. Just like New Yorkers are rude and southerners slow, the reputation is what you hear before you visit an area in the world. Reality is what you discover once you go for yourself.

I wish you enough in 2007

I wish you enough

I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish enough 'Hellos' to get you through the final'Good-bye'.

I found this poem today when I was looking through some old emails and I thought it appropriate for the bringing in the new year. To help us to better appreciate what we have in our lives: the friends and family that we love and that love us, our health (for those of us healthy enough to say that), a roof over our head, food on our plates.

I am especially appreciative these days to be in a place without mosquitos. I arrived to Buenos Aires about a week ago and have spent the last week in a state of enough. Enough sun to not need a jacket and to make me smile from head to toe. Enough new friends on Christmas Eve to make a big festive dinner with drinks and dancing. Enough drinks to make the next day a little bit sluggish. Enough cafes to have a nice strong double espresso. Enough strength in my hip to be able to run through the park and along the river without pain. Enough time on my own during the secular holiday season to really make me miss John, my friends and my family.

Enough time with my loved ones via email, skype and phone to know that I am really not alone, no matter where I am.

May the new year bring you and all of your loved ones enough. . .

Quitter

I stood outside of OB´s cage, fumbling with the keys, "Which one is it?" I hissed as the mosquitos descended upon me in a dark, black cloud of venom. I waved my hand in vain around my face and ears.

"Fucking bugspray is absolutely useless." I didn´t want to have to take out the mosquito net, but at this rate, I was never getting into this cage to clean and feed my unfriendly ocelot.

The mosquito net was damp and smelled of a mixture of citronella and sweat from having been in my back packet and as I tied it around my hat, sweat immediately begin to run down my forehead down my cheeks onto my neck. My personal sauna was complete: black rubber boots to my knees, two pairs of cotton pants, three shirts, a safari hat, the smelly, wet net and bright orange rubber gloves, the kind you use when you clean the bathroom or the dishes and don´t want to wrinkle your hands.

In reality, the work probably wouldn´t have been so bad if the mosquitos weren`t so ridiculous. Or if it wasn`t so incredibly hot, but of course part of the reason it was so incredibly hot, was the quantity of clothing to prevent the mosquitos from eating you alive. So far, from what I could tell, it was NOT working. My feet were so badly bitten, they were a red, swollen version of their former selves. Would they ever go back to being normal? I could not at that moment be sure. I wondered briefly as I finally got the cage to open if you could die from too many mosquito bites. I hoped not.

"OB. . ." I called softly searching the cage for her leopard like print. She was nowhere to be found. I sighed heavily as I saw that she had left all her dinner untouched again for the second day in a row. I took a deep breath, held it in and approached the festering, maggot covered raw slabs of meat that I had placed the night before on the banana leaf. I grabbed it quickly and pitched into the deep brush of the jungle outside of her cage. "I wouldn`t eat it either," I remarked to OB whereever she was, "I don`t blame you." But she should want it, what was going on with this strangely shy animal. Why wasn´t she eating? And why was I, without any relevant experience with any animals, let alone wild animals, the sole responsible party to take care of her in this state. Yeah, that made a lot of sense. I was beginning to wonder about this organization.

I splashed the iodine water on my gloves and the wood where the rotting meat had been and began to scrub. The buzzing in my ears got louder and I flicked my iodine soaked hand in the air to chase the mosquitos waiting just outside my net to eat me alive. The sweat poured down my face, my chest, my legs. I was covered in sweat in this smelly cage in the middle of nowhere, with a cat that could care less that I existed. I didn´t even really like to play with house cats, what had I been thinking? Had I completely forgotten who I was when I signed up for this adventure. I had to get out of here. No way I was lasting two whole weeks in my own personal hell. I mean, yeah, it´s good to challenge yourself, but this was ridiculous!

After feeding OB her newest meal she wouldn`t eat, I wandered around the cage to try to locate her. The cage was not that big, she had to be here somewhere. "OB, " I called softly, "¿dónde estás gatito? come out and say hello. . "

I looked into the wooden shelter where I had placed the meat, but no OB. I searched on the wooden plank laid out for her to sun herself, no OB. Finally, I found her curled in a little ball in the hay in the second wooden shelter. The hay smelled damp and moldy and I wondered if that was why she was so lethargic. Tomorrow I would change the hay and clean the cage properly. That is if I didn´t run away screaming later that night. "Come here OB. Come say hello."

OB pulled herself up and sauntered across the cage to rub her head against my legs. For a moment, I forgot the mosquitos and the heat and the raw meat and stared in wonder at this wild ocelot with her soft, spotted fur as she rubbed against my legs just like every sad little kitty that just wants love and affection. I pulled off one of the orange rubber gloves and wiped my sweaty hands on my dirty pants. I reached down slowly to offer her my hand, "Hola amor, hola gatito." She looked curiously at my hand, licked it once with her sandpapery tongue and then promptly bit me. That was the end of my friendliness. I jumped back, surprised and shouted, "NO! OB! NO!" Yeah, I am sure that helped. She just stared at me as if to say, "Duh, chiquita, what did you expect? After all I am a wild ocelot." Right.

I locked up the cage, walked down the jungle path to Engine´s cage, my stomach cramping as I walked. All day long my stomach had been hurting. I wondered what it was. I heard Engine before I reached his cage, his trademark growling having given him his name. I locked him in the small cage so I could enter and clean his cage, there was no cuddling with Engine. But at least he ate his food. The smell of something rotting was overwhelming as I approached his sleeping shelter. What was that smell? Then I saw it, a dead, rotting rat. "Great, just great." I wiped my eyes against the mosquito net with the back of my glove and sighed heavily. This was a test I was bound to fail. The rat, about the length of a football lay crookedly in Engine´s sleeping hay. "That´ll teach you to try and eat his food ratty," I said as I brushed the rat from the wooden plank onto the dirt floor with a rake. "Come on little ratty, let´s go," I murmered the stench of rotting rodent making my stomach lurch as I dragged him across the cage, accompanied by Engine´s pacing and growling in his little holding cell.

"Yeah, Yeah, coming I am coming." I called to him. This was so not my ideal job. What had I been thinking. My stomach could hold on no longer. I no sooner got the rat out of the cage, then that day´s lunch came back up to haunt me. "Yum, french fries and eggs a second time. Mmm, mmm, mmm." I slipped the mosquito net back in my pocket. That would need to be washed and finished cleaning and feeding Engine, my body a quivering mass.

As I walked back along the path, I swatted aimlessly at the air, my stomach alternately cramping up with waves of naseau. I had to get out of hear. A job worth doing is a job worth doing well, my father has always said. For me, this job was just not worth doing.

Then it hit me, still over a kilometer from home, my stomach had a violent cramp. I was not going to make it. I looked around to see if anyone was coming. Left, right, left. Not a sole in sight. This was not going to be pretty, but there was no way I was making it all the way back to the bathrooms. I stepped off the path, prayed for solitude and slowly lowered my sweat covered pants. Instantly the mosquitos swarmed my butt and thighs. I knew this was not going to be pleasant, especially not later when I reviewed the damage the mosquitos had done.

Back on the trail, I spoke softly to myself. "Just explain to Noemi that you have to go. It´s ok if you leave early. You tried it. It´s just not for you." I had all but convinced myself when I got to the crossroads to head back to the camp or head left to where Natalia and Magnus worked with a Puma named Wayra. I vaguely remembered Natalia telling me she was on her own today and instinctively I turned down the path.

Really, in retrospect, Natalia was the reason I didn´t leave that very night. Natalia, a tall thin blonde girl from Sweden who had been at the park for 5 weeks along with her classmate, Magnus. Natalia, who had called me America that night when everyone else went to Guarayos and I couldn´t, because I was on a night watch that never happened. Natalia was the reason I stayed three additional days, making it exactly a week when I finally jumped ship.

Not to say that Natalia didn´t support my decision. She was immediately sympathetic as she twirled the humedor, trying to drum up smoke to keep the mosquitos at bay. She understood my predicament exactly. It was miserable there and the animals were never going to be released, a fact that disappointed both of us, even if we technically understood the reasons behind that decision. This was not the place either of us had imagined and now that the mosquitos had descended upon us like a bible plague, there was very little anyone could do, besides get bitten and scratch.

After Natalia´s prodding, I decided I could stay on till Friday, the day that she and Magnus would also head to Santa Cruz. I could spend the weekend with them and then head to Argentina to meet back up with John. It sounded like a good plan. Especially the part where I got a new friend to hang out with, confide in, bitch to and in general have fun. I realized that is what I had been missing for a long time. Funny how sometimes you don´t even realize what you are missing until it reappears in your life.

I have to say that the rest of the week was a bit of a blur. My jaguar, Sama, was destined never to get used to me in only three days and spent more time ignoring me or charging the bars than actually coming over to the edge of the cage to be put on a leash and attached to his runner. Engine continued to growl and OB, unfortunately for her, continued to ignore me and not eat. I did manage to clean her cage and get the vet to give her an anti-parasite shot. I do hope that helps.

The Americans from Arizona arrived Tuesday or Wednesday night, and after an initial snap judgement based on their state of origen and twangy drawl, I got to know that Matt and Mike were liberal Bush haters too. Fantastic.

We did manage to escape the park two nights to head into the "town" of Santa Maria, a small community 8 kilometers down the road, easily reached by any passing bus, called a micro, or truck heading that way. The canned beer wasn´t exactly cold, but the mosquitos were laughable and it was good to be able to sit in short sleeves without fear of attack.

Looking back on the experience a week later in an internet cafe in the hot, busy city of Buenos Aires, I feel happy I stuck it out. No, I didn´t make it the whole two weeks and so I guess, yeah, that makes me a quitter. But I did make it longer than I ever imagined I would. I learned something about myself, made some friends and hopefully, helped some animals a bit.

Back so soon?

I sat in the top bunk in the cabin last night listening to the rain fall steadily on the tin roof. I had not been in a bunk bed since my days as a kid at Camp Tockwogh. Somehow the top bunk was more fun then. And it didn´t even have a mosquito net.

I know you weren´t expecting me to write for two weeks until I was back in "town" again where there is internet and phone and other signs of civilization, but I was forced back to town after less than 24 hours at the reserve.

Mosquitos or rain. That´s the choice here. And not much of a choice I might add as the mosquitos still swarm you when it´s raining.

The rain began last night in earnest for the first time this season I was told (Go figure.) and today as I stepped into my borrowed knee high rubber boots, I realized this volunteer stint was not for the squeemish or light hearted.

So I donned my waterproof pants, wished once again, my rain jacket was still waterproof, doused myself in natural mosquito repellent and wandered outside in the pissing rain and swarms of mosquitos. I was eaten alive through my clothes instantly. Quite fun.

I met Lisa, another volunteer from England, who put me to work immediately cleaning and feeding the parrot cages. I could handle that. I was asked at least a dozen times before breakfast how long I would stay since at least 5 of the 10 volunteers are leaving this week. I was as non-commital as possible. I am not sure I am cut out for this type of work.

After 20 minutes of following Chris and Jonathan on a brisk walk through the jungle, wading through muddy water up to my knees, we arrived at my cats´cages, OB and Engine, two spotted ocelots. Engine, an apparently misunderstood cat, cannot be handled, walked and must be locked up in a small cage to be fed. I don´t know how much I will get to know him. OB, though I did not see her today as she is very shy, apparently warms up to you and once she trusts you can even be walked. Of course, both are wild and while, they are nowhere near as big as the Jaguars, they are not to be taken lightly. I reassured Chris I would never take a wild animal lightly.

Yaguaru, the Jaguar we fed today was an entirely different story. I don´t know if I have ever been that close to a Jaguar before, an impressively large cat with tan spots. He licked Chris and Jonathan´s hands hello before devoring a raw egg they gave thim to destract him while they locked him to one side of the cage to clean up and feed him. Apparently he can be walked with two men (or very tall women), but has a tendancy to pounce. Hmm, not sure that I will want to do that even if given the opportunity.

Surely, this park that rehabilitates sick wild animals to health and reintroduces them to the wild, that is all volunteer run is an amazing organization. But this morning as my feet pruned and I resisted the urge to scratch the mounting number of mosquito bites I was incurring, I was not so sure, that the amazing place was for me.

Now equipped with brand used second hand pants and a long sleeved shirt, mosquito netting to make a personal hat, plastic gloves and more repellant, I will return to give it the old college try. I owe it that.

Mosquitos or rain? How´s that for a choice?

Felices Fiestas y Ciao

Just a quick note to let you all know that today I head to an Animal Reserve in the northern tropical forest of Bolivia to volunteer for two weeks. The organization helps sick animals recover and get back into the wild. You can check out the organization if you like at

http://www.intiwarayassi.org/preguntas_esp.shtml

There is no electricity, and therefore no phone nor internet.

So I wish everyone a happy holiday season and I expect to be in communication around the 25th.

In the meantime, feel free to write and I will write back when I can.

Felices fiestas. . . and happy solstice. . .

Misguided

It might very well be a pre-requisite of the job. It might be that when one goes to get a job as a local guide, the job description reads, "Must be able to torture foreign travelers by being moody, defensive, surly and generally uncomunicative. Must be able to lie and then blame traveler if caught in that lie." Call me crazy, but it seems to me that with every male guide in South America we have, I am more and more convinced that that is the job description they have read and the job for which they felt most suited.

Or perhaps, it is me. That is always an option when you have the same experience multiple times. That no, it is not that, they are all jerks. It is actually me that is the jerk. And believe me I have spent some time thinking about how defensive these guides get when I ask them simple questions such as, "Do you know where we are going?" Admitedly, that could make anyone defensive, especially if you are Latino man being asked by some blonde, blue eyed gringa who doesn´t "know her place." (nor does she want to know).

But that being said, whether it´s me or them or a combination of both, I have got to say that I believe that I may be done with guided tours. A statement that in the coming months I will have to figure out if is even possible to manage. Afterall, every hiking trail, natural wonder and national park is controlled by the toursit industry and therefore requires the services of a "knowelgeable local guide" to complete one´s experience.

We had arrived to Sorata, Boliva toward the end of November after a stint in Copacabana, the local sites, the surroundings villages and a full day´s walk across La Isla del Sol. We had had music and passion, you know, it´s always the fashion at the Copa. No really, Copacabana had been an experience in and of itself and even though it had none of the spice inherent in good ole Barry Manilow´s song, we had enjoyed ourselves. The highlight of course for me had not been the "ruins" atop the local peak or on the island of the sun, but rather the fact that I could hike to these supposed ruins with relatively no pain in my leg. It was highly possible that I was going to be able to do some more serious hiking and running in the near future. So it was with high hopes and thoughts of birthday celebrations that we arrived to the temprate, sleepy town of Sorata. Tourist season long since a memory, we had the town essentially to ourselves and decided we might as well trek on up to see these glacial lagunas people raved about as long as we were there. We figured John could carry the bulk of our gear and I could carry myself for the 4 day trek and if that worked out for my leg, I would be as good as new.

So it was with excitment and anticipation that we set off early on Thanksgiving morning up into the hills of Sorata toward the snowcapped peaks of Illampu and Ancohuma (also called Janq'uma) under the careful supervision of our small Bolivian guide, Eduardo. Of course we couldn´t actually see any snowcapped peaks, due to the thick cloud cover hovering overhead, but we knew they were there and that made us happy. There were four whole days ahead of us to see lakes, glaciars and snowcapped peaks and other local delights.

I guess we should have known that Eduardo´s true guide personality would come out eventually but on the first day, apart from the fact that he insisted a tired horse carry our backpack instead of John, we pretty much got along. The sun was shining, the sky was a deep blue and as we ascended up past the mud bricked houses of the local communities and indigenous woman with babies tied to their backs as they herded sheep and llamas, we were oblivious to what lay just ahead of us.

And I am not just talking about the weather. Though in retropspect, if it hadn´t been pouring rain and freezing cold, I am not sure we would have doubted Eduardo as much as we did. Of course, it was raining though. When do I go on any sort of multi-day backpacking trip or summit any sort of mountain when the weather is good. (Remember Cerro Chirripo, Baxter peak, Cadillac mountain, the Great Smokey Mountains, Pico Duarte . . . yep, all rainy with no vistas).

On the morning of day two of our four day trek to las tres lagunas (three lakes), we awoke ready to see the first set of lakes. It was going to be an easy hike and my leg was ready for a break after five hours of uphill we had done the day before. It wasn´t actually raining anymore and even though the clouds were so thick and low that I could actually reach out and touch them, I wasn´t letting that ruin my high spirits. I drank my nescafe crouched on the damp field, mountains all around, a multi-pronged stream meandered through the impossibly green pastures, llamas of every color, shape and size grazing as I ate my oatmeal. Life was good.

As I think about it now, I should have known that Eduardo didn´t know where Laguna Illampu was from where we were. It should have occured to me when he mentioned for the second time that the weather was ominous and that we could skip the first lake and just head for Chillata, where we were supposed to camp later that night. It should have occured to me, but it didn´t. We were too excited to get up into the glaciars. To see the cristal clear waters of glaciar lakes surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the world outside of the Himalayas. This was adventure and we wanted to be part of it. So when Eduardo told us it would be an hour´s walk to the first lake, we packed up and headed out and up.

I think we had been walking up for about two hours when I finally questioned Eduardo on the accuracy of his time estimate. "One hour to Laguna Illampu?" I asked sweetly, making my voice as innocuous as it possibly could be.

"It´s because you are walking so slowly that we are not there yet." he retorted, a comment I am sure they taught him in that "how to be a big jerk to your clients guide school" that they all attend. I laughed in response. I was out of shape, but there were no lakes in sight and the horse was barely keeping up with John and me.

At three hours, when I asked again, a hint of edge creeping into my question, Eduardo suggested leaving the horse behind and hiking the rest of the way without the added burden of the horse on slippery rocks and loose gravel. I zipped my rain jacket up and pulled the hat further down over my ears, it had begun to rain.

"You know we´re over 15,000 feet." John told me as we waited for Eduardo to accomodate the horse and our belongings. "I thought the lake was only at 14,500?" I looked up toward the thick clouds and wondered if the lake was on the other side of the summit. This was not an easy day.

We climbed up through mud filled paths, our feet slipping as we tried to go higher. I could see Eduardo and John up ahead, rocks slipping down toward me asj their feet loosened them from their precarious position on the mountain.

"CABOOM!" I jumped as I heard the explosion, looking around for what had caused it as the bang echoed in the valley around us.

"What the fuck was that?" I thought and called up to Eduardo in Spanish to find out. (No I didn´t quite ask like that).

"They´re mining." he called back down as I reached where they waited on the side of the mountain.

"Mining? Mining? They are exploding part of the mountain? Do you really think it´s safe to be hiking up here while they are exploding dynamite?"

Eduardo shrugged. The tactic of the defensive. He was admitting to nothing. He had also learned this method at his "how to put your clients in danger guide school." It was working beautifully.

After the next explosion and harder rain, John suggested we skip the first lake and head to Chillata. We had already been walking for over three hours, it was pouring, they were exploding the mountain and honestly between you and me, there was no lake in the hills. So frustrated, cold and wet, we headed down, down, down to where the horse was and then further still, almost back to where we had spent the night, before heading back up the other side of the moutain.

It was about 3:00 when we declared mutiny on Eduardo. We had been walking for five hours in the freezing cold rain, we were in the middle of seemingly no where and Eduardo had spent the last fifteen minutes with a local woman gesturing down toward a deep valley filled with rocky passes, rapidly flowing rivers and no sign of a second lake. It was then that we asked him if he really knew where he was going, and admitedly the way we asked would have made the Dali Lama defensive, but in our defense, we had been lost all day long and had seen NOTHING we were supposed to see on the trek. The hillsides were beautiful, but we had paid a guide to show us glacial lakes. A guide who had no map, no compass and no waterproof clothing in the rainy season. It did not leave us feeling all that confident in his abilities to "guide" us.

Unfortunately, we were really too far to turn back to Sorata the way we had come, so with little other options, we followed the guide and our tired horse slipping and sliding down the shale into the valley. We never did make it to Lake Chillata that day. At around 6:00 that evening, in the fading light of dusk, the rain and the thick clouds, I declared that we had arrived at our campsite, at the laguna or not. We could barely see our hands in front of our face, let alone the slippery trail that the next day would lead us up out of the valley to the lake. It just wasn´t safe.

So two against one, John and I took control of our trip and spent the night alongside the river. We did finally make it the following day to both Laguna Chillata, and then after another four hours up into the snow across slippery shale rocks, river crossing and loose rocky trails to Laguna Glacial. And as our luck would have it, the weather even broke for a few minutes to reveal the magic of that Glacial lake with it´s surrounding 20,000 foot peaks, before we headed back down to Laguna Chillata in what would quickly become hail.

Ok you say, so you had one bad guide. It happens to everyone sometimes. But it doesn´t stop there. From Sorata, we headed to La Paz and then onto Southern Bolivia to the town of Uyuni, famous for the largest salt flat in the world. It is the reason that toursists flock to Uyuni and John and I were no exceptions. We wanted to drive across the pristine white salt flats of Salar de Uyuni, take silly pictures playing with perspective, stay in a salt hotel and visit the colorful lagunas of the southern lowlands.

We booked our tour taking the advice of the guidebook for a change, not willing to chance another bad experience. Tunapa tours was recommended in both Footprint and Lonely planet, how could we (and the other five people that booked along with us) go wrong?

We should have known right from the start that we were in trouble. In theory, the tour left in our 4WD jeep at 10:30 in the morning. And so at 11:00, when Erim, Kay, Justin, John and I sat outside the tour guide´s office as a French couple berated the booking agent, I went into inquire when we would leave. She assured me in just a few minutes and I chalked up the French couple´s anger to the stereotype of their nationality, rather than to something the tour office had done.

From there it was just one thing after another, from Cristobal falling asleep as we drove across the pristine white salt flats, the jeep slowly veering right and then back to center as he realized he had fallen asleep, to lunch at 4:00 that afternoon. When I asked Cristobal why lunch was taking so long, he told me it had been my fault. That if I had shown up at the lunch spot early, it would have been ready earlier. This too I realize is one of those "blame your client" tactics that they teach at the "how to really make your client angry guide school." I know because he did it again later when we got the second of three flat tires, telling Frenchie (our nickname for the French man in our group) that the flat was his fault. (At least I didn´t get blamed for everything.)

Now, don´t get me wrong, I don´t mean to imply that just because our guide made us sleep in the hotel employee section of the hotel and didn´t carry a jack to change the flats we kept getting and thought that a vegetarian meal was just the part of the meal that didn´t include meat, that our trip was not breath taking, jaw dropping and interesting. Our group, a couple from South Africa, a couple from the middle of France, Erim, a web consultant from Emeryville, CA and John and me, we banded together in the face of this adversity in the only way we knew how. We laughed. And when the Moby song came on the radio, "Ain´t nobody knows my troubles but god," we cracked up changing it to, "Ain´t nobody knows my trouble with guides." Frenchie absolutely loved that one. Though I don´t think our guide thought it was quite as funny.

And really, even though I personally don´t know if I would spend another three days in a bumpy jeep with six other people for over twelve hours a day, the scenery was absolutely amazing. From the thousands of square miles of absolute blinding white as we drove through the salt flats, to the former islands dotting the salar, it´s natural occuring rocks coral from when it had been the sea, to the twelve meter tall cacti that grew all over the islands surface, making Saguaro State Park in Arizona look like child´s play. To the hundreds of pink flamingos that balanced gracefully on one leg as they fed on their breakfast, lunch and dinner of salty brine in la laguna colorado, the red waters stretching out on all sides of them, a biting wind forcing us back into the safety of the jeep. To the strange rock formations that seemed to sprout out of nowhere in the baren landscape of the desert, to the bigonias that pranced through the sand, seeming to have nowhere in particular to go. To the naturally occuring hot springs where we warmed our frozen feet, mountains rising up in the distance framing the border with Chile. To the geysers shooting up out of the ground, not a guard rail in sight to protect the visitor. Thermal smoke rising up out of deep holes of boiling mud, our surly guide leaning against the jeep, blowing the horn to signal that our fifteen minutes had passed.

Yeah, the guide had been surly. Ok, so he had said little more than, "Bueno amigos, amigas, ya estamos llegando a _______. Pueden sacar fotos si gusten. Tienen 15 minutos (Ok, friends, we´re arriving at ____________. You can take photos if you like. You have 15 minutes.) And he had blamed me for having no lunch, all of us for the hotel being booked and Frenchie for the flat. Sure, I felt misguided. We all did. But without Eduardo and Cristobal (affectionately, Colombo), would there really be a story to tell at all?

Maybe I will write a letter to that guide school. You know the one that trains their guides to mistreat their clients. Maybe, if I can find where they are located, I will write them a letter thanking them for yet another unforgettable experience.

Fotos de Ecuador

I know these are a bit overdue but I had planned to edit, rotate, caption etc all the photos before dumping them all on you.

As it turns out, the internet connections are just too darn slow. So I figured that I would send out the link to the Ecuador photos and you all can look or not . . .totally up to you.

Just so you know, they are John´s and my photos, which is why there are so many of some of them. And because they are two sets, they are not in chronological order. Sorry.

Remember that you need a snapfish account to view them. Just sign up, sign on and browse away.

Peru and Bolivia pix to follow in the next month or so, as well as all the November Bolivia stories I have neglected to post.

Happy picture viewing. . .

http://www1.snapfish.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=53705077/a=5671161_5671161/t_=5671161

Let me know if the link doesn´t work.

Cumpleaños feliz

"Feliz Cumpleaños a tí. Feliz Cumpleaños a tí. Sorry I don´t know the rest of the song." John sang softly, as the waiter lit the long white candle in a small bolivian pottery vase.

I clapped my hands, "That´s fun and unexpected!"

"They didn´t have any cake, so I had to get you a banana split for your birthday dessert."

That was just fine by me. In fact the whole day had been a nice, calm celebration of the day of my birth.

True, there had been no tin foil crown, toilet paper streamers and gold cuttlery at the breakfast table, my mom´s off key voice, singing the special birthday song to wake me up, "It´s your birthday. It´s Jenny´s birthday. It´s your birthday. Birthday, today. Oh yeah!"

But, John had remembered the song and told me that I got to pick any breakfast I wanted. After all, that was the Steiner tradition. And even though I couldn´t pick my dad´s chocolate chip pancakes or bulls eye eggs with a slice of cheese for a smile, the Bolivian style breakfast with fried plantains and eggs were quite tasty and set us up for the long walk through the Bolivian countryside to La Gruta del San Pedro.

There had not been twizzlers, peanut m&ms and silly decorations or gag gifts from Ross at Zeitgeist, but nevertheless, John and I made due celebrating on our own in Sorata, Bolivia with a visit to a local cave, complete with its own laguna and a celebratory bottle of Chilean wine for five whole American dollars! That´s right, we broke the bank for my birthday.

We even met a friend, a man from Galicia, Spain now living in this sleepy town at the base of la cordillera real. He joined us at the end of our birthday salad and pizza, chain smoking, sipping a beer and regaling us with strange stories of his torid youth. When he jumped up suddenly, claiming to need to get money to pay his bill, we thought nothing of it. But upon his return, he slipped me a birthday gift under the table in a small plastic bag. . . possiby something that might have been better suited for my brother. But as they say, it´s the thought that counts.

And the day had indeed been full of happy, fun, birthday thoughts.

Rides with strangers

Yesterday, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

I am not totally sure what exactly was going on, but everything just felt completely wrong. Physically, I was exhausted. It felt as if there was a large anvil resting on my chest, making normal breathing a virtual impossiblity. My head pounded, my glands hurt, my throat ached.

I chalked it up to all the traveling I had been doing. After all, I had just traveled from Copacabana, Bolivia 23 hours by bus to arrive in Lima and take an overnight flight to Miami, followed by a shorter flight to Philly to surprise my dad for his 60th surprise party. In the end, I just couldn´t miss it. Then after the party, I had rented a car, driven the three hours to Brooklyn to surprise my grandparents. I figured I might as well, seeing as how close I was. So after the three hour drive back, followed by the inquisition of American airport security and two flights to arrive back in Lima, I just couldn´t face another 23 hour bus ride back to Bolivia. Plus, John wouldn´t be back to Cuzco, Peru from his Machu Pichu treking till Friday night, which meant that we wouldn´t be seeing each other in Bolivia till at least Saturday night or Sunday morning at best. So I chose, (wisely, though not all that economically) to fly to Cusco, at least putting me closer to seeing John and saving myself 14 hours on a bus. After all time is money.

So the physical exhaustion I sort of understood. I was back at altitude. I had been living in the same clothes for over a week. I had taken buses, trains, planes, cars and foot all over the northern and southern hemisphere. I was beat. But that didn´t explain my emotional state. I sat there on the edge of the dorm room bed, looking around the room biting back my tears. I wasn´t alone and crying definitely would have attracted looks if not questions. And that I just couldn´t handle at 6:50 in the morning. The bed across from me was unmade and I wondered how early its occupant had risen to depart for his or her next destination. The bed next to it was also vacant, but a sleeping bag and small backpack told that he would be back later in the day. A girl with dark curly hair looked frantically through her bag as if she had misplaced something of extreme importance and in the other two beds, I could make out the tops of two sleeping head, a young man I had met the day before and a crop of white blonde hair that could have belonged to either a boy or a girl. They were all traveling alone, just like me. Only unlike me, they probably weren´t waiting to meet back up with their travel partner. I wasn´t really traveling alone. Not this time. And anyway, being alone could not be the reason I felt this sad. I just didn´t get lonely like that. It wasn´t in my "fiercely independent" nature. It had taken years to even consider myself part of a we.

So what was it? Was it the quick trip home, the disruption to this time abroad, far from credit cards and convenience stores and traffic lights? Was it the look on my father´s face when he saw my brother and I standing in the restaurant as we yelled, "Surprise!" His eyes filled up and he just stood there, dumbfounded, shaking his head. Or maybe it was having seen my grandparents in their varying states of fragility, overwhelmed with joy that I was there and immediately equally saddened that I wouldn´t be staying more than one night before heading back to places they were sure were more dangerous than their apartment in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. I even speculated that it could have been this feeling that I have been having these last few weeks as I talk to my friends living and working or volunteering in communities around the world. This feeling that somehow this travel is self indulgent and egotisitical and that I would have been better off setting up camp in an underserved community, volunteering for the year rather than galavanting off to broaden my own horizons.

But none of it specifically felt like what was wrong and I wasn´t about to spend another day wallowing in my exhaustion and self pity, while John was off having the adventure of a lifetime. I was way too competitive for that. So I picked myself up, showered in the luke warm, electrically heated shower and wished for the third time that I hadn´t given all our soap to John. I donned my uniform for the week and headed out to see some of the ruins I hadn´t had time to see on my first visit to Cuzco three years earlier.

I had been told the day before that there were ruins to the south that were less touristy than the ones heading northeast to Machu Pichu, and since I had seen many of the must see attractions previously, that sounded just fine to me. So after a leisurely breakfast, a second coffee at an outdoor cafe, some internet time and reading half of my new novel set out to find the bus heading to los Urcos. In theory, that would allow me to head to the town of Tipon, famous for its cuy al horno (baked guinea pig), from where I would take a combi (Peru´s version of a guagua) and arrive at the archeological site of Tipón.

After walking for well over an hour and getting at least six sets of directions that got me no closer to the bus terminal for los Urcos, I finally arrived at a dusty parking lot with three small buses. They were obviously local buses as packages, lugage and large plastic and cloth wrapped sacks were being tied to the roof and about 40 Peruvians sat waiting patiently aboard the bus for the last remaining seats to be sold before departing. I boarded the bus and sat down next a man in his late forties. A baseball hat covered wavey hair and as I sat down next to him, he smiled a wide toothed smile that showed off the gold encircling many of his front teeth and deepened the smile lines around his eyes.

I sat on the bus, overheating in my tank top, wondering how so many people could be dressed in long pants or skirts and long sleeved wool sweaters, babies tied to young mothers´backs in brightly colored blankets. "How much does it cost to ride the bus?" I asked the man next to me, figuring it was better to have the price before the money collector attempted to collect from me the fare plus the local gringa tax.

"Where are you going?" he asked fiddling with two gold sol coins in his lap.

"To Tipón."

"I think it´s either 1.50 or 2 soles to Tipón. It´s 2 all the way to los Urcos, but I can´t be sure when the price goes down. You going to Pikillacta too? What about Andahuaylillas? Lots of nice birds there."

"Well, right now I had planned to go to Tipón. Do you think there´s time to go to all three?"

He shrugged and I nodded as the bus roared to life and we pulled out of the dusty parking lot onto la avenida de las culturas.

As it turned out, Sebastian was a wealth of knowledge and by the time we reached Tipón, I had learned a ton about the local region, the archeology, the Incan history and why I was better of getting off in Andahuaylillas with him and then working my way back to Pikillacta and Tipón. He seemed nice enough and when he told me that he collected kids for a living, that sealed the pact. He either collected them as prisoners in his basement for child slave labor, or the guy was ok. I decided to take the risk and as we got off the bus in the small cobblestone town of Andahuaylillas, I sent up a prayer to universe to protect me.

Of course, before getting these so called children, we had a must visit to the local catholic church, for which they are quite famous with the tourists. There we met two tour guides in training, who were only two happy to offer up a bit too much information on many of the patron saints, Mary and of course, the saint of tremors, who protects societies from earthquakes. (Too bad that saint doesn´t live in San Francisco. I would feel a whole lot safer then.)

Luckily for me, Sebastian really did have a job escorting children from school to their homes for 2 soles a day per child (not a bad job considering how hard it is to make a sol around here). As we approached a long white van, not unsimilar to the guaguas of Nicaragua, the colectivos of Bolivia and of course, the combis of Peru, I could see the kids already waiting around the van. They ranged in age from five to sixteen and all of them immediately decided I was their "profe" (teacher) and that on the ride down to Pikillacta, I could teach them something about the states, my life, my hair and of course American dollars.

We were old friends by the time we reached the ruins, children grabbing me by the hand to pull me this way and that, to show me the left over Incan houses, churches and schools. They had all been to the site a million times before, but never with a celebrity with hair like Shakira, a shiny nose ring and a digital camera. I was a hit, which of course, was just fine by me. Spending a few hours with eager children is right up my alley.

My sour mood long since forgotten, we took turns taking pictures among the ruins, first Sebastian with the kids, then me with the kids, then all of us with one of the kid snapping the picture. They found me yellow grasshoppers and small, black, slimy snails that I begged them not to smash on the rocks for fun. I was having such a good time that I completely forgot that they would have to go home to their houses. This was an unauthorized field trip by Sebastian, and there was no way he wanted to lose this job. So with exaggerated kisses, hugs and teary good-byes, they left me standing among the Incan ruins, blue skies spotted with billowy white clouds and long, thin cacti curling up toward the sky.

I smiled and sat down on a set of steps to eat a luna bar, thinking how fortunate I was and then realizing that it was after three, thought I should start my trip back to Cuzco. So much for Tipón and the laguna. Oh well, there was always next time and you never knew when that might be.

I reached the street and stood between the white line and a drainage ditch, poised to flag down the buses as they headed from Urcos back to Cuzco. I knew how to flag a bus, a wave with one finger and I was ready. When the first bus passed me by, full and waving back, I didn´t give it much thought. It was early and surely the next bus would stop to pick me up.

I think it was probably the fourth bus that passed me, all smiles and waves, when I finally decided to begin walking toward Cuzco. Moving in the direction of my final destination couldn´t hurt. As the fifth bus passed, my dark mood slowly returning, I realized I would have no choice but to hitchhike. So offering up yet another prayer to the universe, I began holding out my hand to buses, cars and trucks alike. Someone had to be heading to Cuzco and have room for little ole me. After all, people rode on the tops of trucks here and the sides of buses. Surely someone would push over to let me in their van.

Finally after 15 minutes and measured breathing, a truck with a tarp covering it´s cargo pulled over to the side. I ran to catch up with it as a young boy about 20 opened the door, "Where you headed?"

"Cuzco?" I pleaded as I began to climb the steps to the truck.

"Well, we´re headed to Manu," the driver said, "but we can drop you at the crossroads."

As the expression goes, beggars can´t be chooser, so I settled for the 5 kilometer ride to the intersection and hoped that someone else would be as nice on the next road. The two men, carrying thousands of kilos of coca leaves were headed to Manu to drop their shipment and offered to take me, that is if I was interested in changing my plans and spending a few days in the Jungle. They assured me they´d be back by Sunday, but didn´t seem to mind much when I politely declined.

At the intersection, a group of men standing by the side of the road, urged me not to wait with them as it made their chances of a bus stopping even slimmer and I was sure to get a ride from a truck or car passing by. "Everyone´s real nice round here," they said in a local accent eating the ends of their words. "You can go with jus bout anyone." They nodded and laughed and I continued on my way, wondering if they were laughing at me or with me, knowing full well what my father would say if he saw me here.

I walked slowly in the afternoon light, Tipón´s ruins on the far side of the corn fields, a weeping willow completing the scene. For some reason as I came across a field of wild purple flowers along side of the river, I felt a pressure in my chest I can only describe as sadness or melancholy. But not the bad kind, the kind that makes you feel that much more alive and I breathed the air in deeply as more cars and trucks passed me, with no intention of slowing, let alone stopping.

A bus passed me then, full and waving and as they went by, I thought for sure I saw the men who had urged me on. They were on their way home. But I guess they had worked all day and were tired, really what had I done that I couldn´t walk a little longer.

Finally, just as I was starting to wonder if it really was a four hour walk to Cuzco, a large blue truck pulled over into the shoulder, the passenger door swung open and I ran toward my ride. I would not arrive in Cuzco in the middle of the night, freezing, starving or possibly abducted.

The driver was one of those non descript ages. He could have been 30 or he could have been 60, with deep creases next to eyes and a big puffy winter jacket. The cab of the truck was decorated with hanging amulets, a Jesus, a Mary, maybe Saint Christopher, the protector of travelers. As I sat on the far side of the truck, backpack on my lap, hand on the doorhandle, Wilbur began to tell me his life story. A truck driver for more years than he cared to remember (that did nothing for my age calculation), he had done the trip from Arequipa to Cuzco, carrying water for the Coca Cola company so many times he could do it with his eyes closed (I hoped he wouldn´t).

We had the same conversations I always have with locals. What was I doing here? Where was I from? Why did I speak Spanish so well if I was from the U.S.? And of course, where was my husband. That question, one that normally offends me, as if a woman could never be traveling alone without someone there to protect her, for some reason in that moment, I answered, "Oh he´s back in Cuzco. Didn´t feel that well today after his trek to Machu Pichu." Strange as the guy had done nothing out of the ordinary but make small talk, and yet I knew for some reason, it was important for him to think I had a husband. Someone waiting on my safe return.

We drove in silence then, as we passed the signs for the famous guinea pigs baked to perfection, piles of batteries being sold roadside and stray dogs, sheep and cows that wandered out into the street at will.

After the better part of an hour, Wilbur remarked about his insatiable thirst and, we pulled onto a side street before I could think of a good reason why I could not stop for a chicha. I had had chicha before, a sweet corn and fruit drink that sometimes came with our menus of the day and so was at least relieved he hadn´t ordered a beer or pisco sour before continuing to drive me the rest of the way to Cuzco.

So you can imagine my surprise when an elderly, bent backed man set a glass of foamy yellow liquid before me, easily the size of two pints of beer. I pushed the glass to the middle of the table, waiting for our smaller glasses to come. Wilbur laughed, pushed it back toward me and told me he would have his own.

I sipped slowly, watching the women sipping the same foamy, yellow liquid, as they sat on the dirt ground by the fire. By now, Wilbur had had his shoes shined, finished half his chicha, ordered a second and was talking about a trip we could take before he had to head back to Arequipa with his empty truck. He suggested that we meet the next day at two at a plaza on the far side of town and I mentioned John again, swirled my 3/4 full drink and pretened to not understand when Wilbur encouraged me to drink up. With a luna bar for lunch, and breakfast a distant memory, I was in not hurry to drink this alcoholic version of chicha.

Finally, Wilbur stood up and motioned for me to follow. I suggested he go on with out me, but Wilbur, Peruvian "gentleman" that he was, would hear nothing of it, opened my door and as I climbed up, disappeared around the back of the truck. I sat in the cab, wondering what he could possibly doing for so long and fiddled with the seatbelt. I wouldn´t put it on this time, just in case I needed to make a quick escape.

We drove up the bumpy road, rounded a corner past a local market and avoided a bicycle cab, two fighting dogs and a truck full of orangeds as we headed back to the main road. It was mintues before I realized I was holding my breath, and as I let it out slowly, I realized that Wilbur was no longer talking.

Abruptly he pulled over to the side of the road, indicating a blue sign, "The bus will stop here and take you right to Cuzco center." I nodded and pushed the door open quickly before he could change his mind.

"Thanks! See you!" I cried the door already closing as I hit the pavement. He pulled away as a Combi pulled up yelling destinations I did not know. I smiled and squeezed myself into the van, my knees touching the woman facing me. I didn´t care where we were headed as I looked out onto the crowded street. I was safe, my dark mood a distant memory.

Get involved

I know I haven´t posted an entry in a few weeks and I have a few in the works that should be up in a few days, but before I tell you any more about my self-indulgant travel, I need to plug some amazing people and the work they are doing.

Check out the following websites and see for yourself:

http://runforafrica.org/index.html

• this organization, set up by my good friends BJ and Emily outside of Asheville, NC is a running team who raises money to sustain life saving water programs in villages in Africa.
• if you are a runner or interested in becoming one, here is a training program that can help you while you help others.
  

http://www.copacabana-bolivia.com/copacabana/content/blogsection/7/48/lang,es/

• this organization, literally translated is let´s live better and is set up by a local bolivian woman and her columbian husband who live on the shores of Lake Titicaca in Bolivia
• their idea is to create recycling programs, sewage and drainage programs to stop the pollution of the lake, a national treasure and to create educational programs so that the next generation knows how to take care of the environment.
  
• they need donations of money, materials and volunteers to help in the schools and with the recycling.

http://babycatching.blogspot.com/

• this is my friend Joanne´s website who has been living in Malawi, Africa for the last two years, where she volunteers as a midwife at a local hospital
• they always need donations, medical supplies etc.
  
• you can contact her through her blog or just read her amazing story

http://www.dominicandream.org/

• this organization is the one that mentors Domincan schools and teachers to create sustainable educational programs for Domincan children
• my friend, Jen has been volunteering there this year (this is also where John and I helped out in September)
• they also always need donations, materials or volunteers

So yeah, as you can see, there are lots of amazing people doing amazing things to make the world a better place. Check the sites out and see if one appeals to you. . .

Peace,
Jen

Moving on

There are moments in life when you just know that it is time to move on. It´s as if, things are moving along they way they should and then, "wham!" the realization hits you, you need to go. I think that´s what happened to John and I last week.

It was Friday, when we piled into Edwin´s blue Mazda pick-up, two mountain bikes and four 100 pound bags of compost and headed out of Ibarra. There were only two bikes and three of us, because apparently I would not need a bike, though the exact reason why eluded me. I speculated then that it might have been what was lacking between my legs in Edwin´s opinion, but that had yet to be confirmed. I mentioned, as we squeezed into the front of the cab, that I too would like to ride a bike, but Edwin just laughed and replied, "Let´s go," in an accented English, one of his fou English phrases (along with Please, Come on, I´m sorry and Thank you).

We were back in Ibarra somewhat anticlimactically as our volunteer job in La Chimba had been unexpectedly cancelled or postponed (which we weren´t sure), due to an impromptu training by the department of education. I couldn´t quite figure out why the training hadn´t come up as a problem before, but I imagine that part of the lack of success in the educational system in Ecuador might have something to do with this type of lack of communication. Call me crazy - it´s just a theory. Then again, I could have been just really disappointed about the possible cancellation of our volunteerism. . .

We had a few days free and Edwin, our bakery friend, insisted we stay with him and pay for our meals, which seemed just fine to us. Thursday, he had suggested that we head up to a small mountain village where he had grown up until age 13, when he had finshed school and had left home on a horse with, no money, no plan and nowhere to stay in Ibarra. Apparently his family lived on a tomato tree farm and that piqued our interest and we had the time, so we thought why not?

It was somewhere on that journey heading north out of Ibarra, as the asphalt turned first to a smooth octagonal type of cobblestone, then to a bumpier version of the same, the road seeming to be paved with any old rock or stone that had been found in the surrounding fields to finally dirt, the road strewn with rocks and debris, that I understood that it was essentially impossible to have anything but a 4 wheel drive vehicle. Of course, in the spirit of proving me wrong, not long after I had come to that conclusion, I saw the first of many buses winding their way deep into the valley on a road barely wide enough for it to pass. I wondered briefly how oncoming traffic fared in these situations, and then hoped I would never have to find that out.

The 46 kilometer ride from Ibarra, to where vehicles could no longer pass, due to a landslide that had obscured the road making it impossible to continue the last three kilometers up to the village, took us well over three hours, crossing bridges that had no business calling itself a bridge, and winding up and down mountain passes that made me glad I couldn´t see over the no-guard rail drop off from my seat in the middle of the cab.

After about two and a half hours, Edwin pulled the truck over, hopped out of the car, looked at me and asked, ¨You know how to drive?" I nodded not completely understanding why he needed to know. "Come on, John. Jenny can drive and we can bike." This was just too much. Not only was I not going to get to bike, but in addition, I had to drive these insane roads? I tried to protest, but Edwin pretended he hadn´t heard me and was already on the bike heading downhill, "Keep it in second," he shouted back at me, "otherwise you might careen off the side."

"Great, just fantastic." I mumbled, my heart beating in my throat. I definitely had to figure out a way to get out of driving tomorrow. Now I understood that this was just practice for the bike trip he had planned with John and two of his friends for Saturaday. No way in hell that I was going to spend the whole day in the car, while Edwin, John and his friends biked the whole way from Ibarra back up to this mountain village. Machismo or no, he was out of his mind. He didn´t know who he was messing with.

For the moment though, I drove. Slowly, much slower than John and Edwin, careening down the dirt roads, miles from medical services, helmets a precaution apparently not needed in this part of the country.

Somehow though, we made it intact, to where the road began to climb back up the hill and since Edwin was definitely not a biker, he called their trip quits before John could embarass him and threw his bike in the back of the truck, following it up there and sitting on the side of the bed. He motioned to John to follow and said something John clearly could not understand, ¨You keep driving Jenny, you´re not half bad.¨John, not totally understanding that I had just been insulted, shrugged and jumped in the back after Edwin. I put the car in first, put the idea out of my head to throw Edwin from the truck bed with a short stop, and continued driving, up the pass, back down the other side, over a few more ragged bridges, around tight corners, through a river and up the valley till we reached the slide.

"A truck will come down and meet us in a while. They know we´re coming." Edwin explained as we surveyed our surroundings. Mountains reached up on every side of us into a deep blue sky, dotted with white puffy clouds. Down below, the river raged over rocks in deep in a lush green valley. Flowers seemed to bloom in the most unlikely of places, yellow, purple and orange popping up out of rocks, dirt and trees alike.

"How long has the road been like this"? I wondered, thinking of how difficult the community´s life must be without any access to a town of any size.

"Maybe three months or so." Edwin shrugged, "Hope they get it fixed by the new year. Otherwise I´ll be stuck meeting my brother up here and loading up the truck with thousands and thousands of tomatoes to sell in town. I stared at the unmoving yellow crane on the far side of the slide, no one was working on the road. It looked like no one had worked on it in months. It was little more than a large pile of dirt obscuring one side from the other.

By then, Edwin´s half-brother, Julio had arrived in another pick up, dressed in knee high, black rubber boots, dirty jeans and a black t-shirt. We dragged the bikes and the four 100 pound bags of compost over the fallen road, past the motionless tractor to Julio´s red pick up (And by we, I mean John, Julio and Edwin, apparently that too was no job for a female).

At Edwin´s mother´s house, we ducked to enter the kitchen and sat on low, wooden stools at a small wooden table, pushed up against the far wall. The wall was barren with the exception of a calendar, the picture on this month´s page, a toddler in a raccoon suit. I surveyed my surroundings. Julio sat on a milk crate against the far wall, close to a door that led out to a small store. Edwin´s mother began serving us fresh tomato juice, fresh from their tomato trees, laden with tons of sugar and local water, followed by a quinoa and potato soup. We were assured that no hens had been sacrificed for our visit, but I felt uneasy, as I sipped the familiar broth. Edwin´s mother looked on as I searched my bowl, laughing as she sat on a bag of potatoes beside the oven, "Eat! It´s good for you." When I inquired if she would join us in eating, she laughed again, "Later I eat. After you young people."

Immediately following our meal of the psuedo chicken soup, rice, potatoes and salad fresh from their fields, we bid good bye to his mother, who immediately began, no not to eat, but to clean the dishes. I offered to clean the dishes myself, as a thank you for having fed us, but was laughed right out of the small concrete house, back out onto the dirt road and the hot, afternoon sun.

Edwin indicated to John that he follow on the bike and so John followed, apologizing to me with his eyes as he left me to walk down the steep side of the pasture to visit the tomato trees with Julio. I still didn´t get how a tomato could grow on a tree, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.

We climbed down the grassy hill to a grove of trees with large, floppy dark green leaves and a skinny trunk, similar to bamboo and there they were, hundreds of thousands of tomato trees.

We wandered through rows and rows of the lush trees, heavy with the unripe fruit. Edwin found two almost red ones, plucked them from the tree and handed them to John and me, "Tomatoes, fresh from the tree." On the far side of the field, where the trees were little more than two feet tall, a young man with a whip made of some sort of vine, followed a white horse in the rows between the baby plants. The horse, harnished with a makeshift plow, a curved wooden tree trunk with a carved wooden wedge, tilled the soil as they walked by us. This indeed was a different life. We stood there observing the fields for a few minutes and waved at the man working the field as he came by us on his way back down the row.

From tomato trees, to bean plants to fields of asparagus, each one worked by only one or two men, dressed alike in their knee high rubber boots, worn jeans and t-shirts, wide brim hats atop their dark hair to ward off the strong sun. "How long does it take to plow a field like this?" I inquired in Spanish after John asked me the same question in English.

"About four days to plow the two acres, harvest is a whole other story. Maybe two or three weeks if we´re fast and lucky."

"Problem is, there aren´t too many young people left here," explained Julio as we walked together, John and Edwin, mere specs of color on their bicycles. "We only have about 50 families to begin with and lots of times, once the kids finish school, at 12 or 13, they head to the city. See if they can´t find work, make money. You know?"

"Is there a school here in town?" I wondered aloud.

"Sure," he nodded, " Passed up by the house. ´Bout 30 kids go there from grades one through six, two teachers. One for kinder and one for the rest."

We walked in silence then. So much and yet nothing else to say. I had a million questions for Julio, but didn´t want to offend with my naive curiousity. Perhaps he has a million for me as well, but the same reasons stopped him.

We reached the makeshift fence at the far end of the field and I climbed between the top and bottom rung after Julio, then waited while he replaced the missing middle one. "It´s not a fancy gate, but it works." He said gesturing behind him at the gate we had just come through. I smiled and nodded, it sure did.

Luckily for Edwin, though not so much for John, John had a relapse of the stomach virus that had plagued him the week before in Bahía de Caraquez, and so Edwin was spared my "Don´t be a sexist asshole rant!" when I was sure to be refused a bicycle for the following day´s adventure.

As John lay suffering in bed, the La Chimba job now definitely cancelled, the Galapagos job postponed till January, the jungle job now the first week in February, we thought about what to do. Edwin was a stellar guy. He had given us his house, fed us, guided us all over the area, but he had a serious, machista blind spot. One that was making me, (and despite his illness, John) extremely uncomfortable.

So, we did what we had to do. We bid out good byes and moved on. Yes, we waited for John to recover, but the minute he did, we bid Edwin and his family good bye and began the trek southward toward Boliva.

Of course, as with all of the best laid plans of mice and men, our plans changed and we got waylayed in Peru, which is where we are now. Somehow, on the three bus rides totalling more than 50 hours from Quito to the Bolivian border, we made new Limeño friends, who had other ideas for us. So after a quick stop in Lima and a snack and shower at Oscar´s house (one of our newfound friends), we headed to the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca, so that John could also partake in some of the beauty that Peru has to offer. I imagine Bolivia and Argentina are not going anywhere, even if our time is.

Domincan Republic Photos link

Here is a link to our photo album from the Dominican Republic. It is missing a few photos from the hike up Pico Duarte and they are a bit out of order, but I thought to publish it before more time passes. Especially since soon, we will leave Ecuador and I will have to send out those pictures. I am also sending the link via email, as a forward from my account.

When you click on the link or the email that says "view this album," you will have to log in. If you don´t have an account, it is free and easy to create one. If you can´t see the photos from either source, and want to view them, email me and I will invite you directly from snapfish.

Happy picture viewing.

http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=921281162055852120/l=217221443/g=5671161/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

Heart Isle

"27 dollars?" I repeated the slender woman's words incredulously, wondering how many days worth of food that would be for John and me. "That's really expensive. Isn't there a way to go and visit the island more cheaply?"

The woman looked up from the magazine she had returned to flipping through and tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder. "No." Her voice was flat and her face unsmiling. "You are sure to get lost if you are not from Bahía de Caraquez. You will need a guide."

I sighed heavily. Same old story, different place. It seemed as though that going on your own anywhere in Ecuador was impossibility. I was positive there had to be a cheaper way to see the Mangroves, the only question was how.

"Psst," I heard from behind me and turned to find a young, unshaven man sitting at the small round table on the other side of the travel agency's office. "You can go on your own," he continue whispering out of one side of his mouth, "I know how." He winked and then stood to address the woman reading the magazine about his own travel adventures.

I nodded and sat listening to the two of them discuss the dry forest that grew in the area, flipping through the binder displaying the various tours offered in English by the agency, all at prices that could feed a family of four for a month in this small coastal town. He extended his had to shake the woman's and I stood smiling my good bye, unsure if this was someone to be trusted.

Outside on the sidewalk, my new friend Javier from Alicante, Spain, explained to me that at his hostal, Coco Bongo, the owners, Suzi and Tony had given him explicit instructions on how to visit la Isla Corazon, the land of the mangroves, independently. We agreed to meet back up in two hours time and went our separate ways.

Later that morning, John was quiet as we sat on the benches at the end of the pier waiting for Javi to arrive. "Javi seemed really nice John. I am sure he'll show and we'll find the mangroves." "No, I'm fine," he assured me, "it's not Javi. It's my stomach. Something is strange in my stomach." Concerned, I began to ask him exactly what was wrong with his stomach, but before I had time to inquire further, there was Javi and we were off, donning our life jackets, paying our 30 cent fare and boarding a small motorboat/taxi bound for the other side of the bay.

Across the bay in San Vicente, nothing much had changed. Like Bahía, San Vicente's run down buildings, bicycle cabs and street vendors completed the dusty scene. We stood chatting on the side of the road, waiting for our bus, "Es que aquí, no hay paradas," Javier muttered as we watched a bus about half a mile down the road pull over three times before reaching where we stood. He was right, busses stopped wherever there were people to get on or off. Unfortunately, this one was not our bus.

After fending off a soldier, an elderly woman, two small boys and a man with one leg all in need of our money, we finally boarded an overcrowded bus bound for Chone. We squeezed ourselves into the masses of humanity, bags of potatoes and wicker baskets, wedging parts of our bodies between the people, seats and window ledges to prevent ourselves from flying forward when, inevitably, the bus stopped short.

The bus whizzed by shrimp farms, former sites of thousands of mangroves along the river Chone. The destruction of these amazing trees, designed as a natural water filter and habitat to thousands of species of local birds was incomprehensible. Like so many places, the shrimp farmers had destroyed thousands of hectares of mangroves in exchange for the profit of the shrimping industry. What remained . . . a mere fraction of the graceful mazelike trees and the black and white frigate birds that made the mangroves their homes.

The bus dropped us at the beginning of a dirt driveway leading up to two small houses, one a short squat structure next to a dock along the river bank, the other built high above us, a wooden staircase leading up to what looked like an oversized tree house. As we stood on the banks of the Chone, a green island in the shape of a heart was clearly visible, la isla corazón.

We quickly found Francisco, the recommended guide for the tour, and after some negotiations and explanation of our current financial situation due to the recent pick pocketing events, we were able to settle with the town's president what we felt was a reasonable price: $20 for the three of us.

"Hurry up," Francisco yelled down to the three mostly naked boys that had stopped splashing around in the water and were now bailing out what I could only assume to be our mode of transport to the island. One, around ten years of age, disappeared inside the house, came out in a t-shirt and shorts and placed small wooden chairs with seat cushions inside the rickety canoe. He motioned for us to come closer and one by one, we hiked up our pant legs and sat ourselves in the inch of water still on the boat's floor. The now dressed boy positioned himself at the bow of the canoe, thick paddle in hand and Francisco pushed us off into the murky waters of the Chone, toward the island. "Too bad you didn't come an hour ago,” he mused, "tide would have been higher then. Easier to navigate. Don't worry. We'll manage."

We weren't worried. We were entranced. As Francisco and the young boy paddled, Javi, John and I sat in awe, snapping pictures as we listened to Francisco's descriptions of the reforestation of the island in front of us. We moved slowly toward the island watching as fish jumped around us and frigate birds, pelicans and cormorants dove for their lunch on either side of the canoe.

Javi, a marine biologist in Spain, was dumbfounded by the beauty, his incessant questions keeping Francisco on his toes. "How long had the mangroves been reforested? Who did the reforestation? Did the shrimping industry still destroy the mangroves? Did they need help to plant more?" On and on until we reached the edge of the island.

As we entered the first tunnel of mangroves, a hush fell upon the group as we looked. . .left, right and then up -- the branches, leaves and roots of the mangroves forming a roof over our heads. "Wow. . ." I heard John sigh behind me, stomach ache monetarily forgotten. "Amazing."

Francisco indicated the three types of mangroves, the white with small delicate flowers, the black with long dark leaves and the red, the most resilient of the bunch that accounted for over 90 percent of the trees on the island. He showed us how some of the trees breathe through their roots stuck up to 10 feet deep in the mud of the island, while others took in oxygen through their leaves. All around us, trees intertwined, own swirling around another until it was impossible to distinguish one from the next. Bright, red crabs scurried along the branches as floated down the canal into a section where the water very quickly became un-rowable mud.

"It's the tide," explained Francisco hopping down off the boat and indicating that the boy in front should do the same, "Would have been easier an hour ago. But don't worry, we'll make it." I had my doubts as our young friend sunk to his thighs in mud and began to push with all of his might to propel the canoe forward.

As we came around the corner, mud once again gave way to water and grabbing their paddles, Francisco and son steered us deftly out of the old growth and into the reforested section of mangroves, haven to hundreds of thousands of frigates. Long slender birds with curved feet swarmed the trees overhead, the air lit up with their mating songs.

"See the male birds?" Francisco inquired indicating the scarlet, pouch protruding from some of the birds' throats. "That's how he entices his female companions. Up to four a day feed and spoil him, vying for his affection, but only one wins his courtship. The rest build their nests and protect their egg alone. How's you'd like to be a frigate Javi?" Francisco laughed from the back of the boat and I rolled my eyes at John, knowing he too would find the joke un poco machista.

We continued around the lake, mesmerized by the elegance of the pure white ibis, the skill of the pelican with his large fish trapping beak, watching as cormorants lazed on top branches sunning themselves to dry their wet feathers before taking flight once again. Fish jumped playfully around the edges of the boat as we reached a wooden dock with a small foot path that would take us deep inside the enchanted mangrove forest.

Surrounded on all sides by giant mangroves, Francisco leaned down to pick up mangrove seeds that lay strewn on our wooden footpath. "See this tip?" He scoops up the long slender branch to shop us a small brown edge in the shape of an arrow. "This tells the mangrove how far to throw its seed. It's a detector. Watch!" He walked to the railing leaned over and let the seed plummet to the ground 8 feet below us. The seed stuck upright in the mud, a young mangrove planted. Javi, John and I planted three more, watching them as they each took root in the island.

Standing among the beauty and wonder of the magnificent trees, the magnitude of this island with its natural water filtration system, thousands of species of shellfish, birds, fish, plants all around us, it is difficult to imagine wanting to destroy any of it, even for the inevitable profit the shrimping industry will bring. Francisco agrees and explains how after years and years of watching the precious mangroves disappear; he and a group of local fisherman became fed up with the destruction. Feeling the power of a group, they banded together and began to replant the trees in danger of disappearing from the River Chone completely.

He sighs deeply, content with what he sees all around him, "Six years ago, this island was but a dream in our minds. Now it is a reality."

A quiet, reflective trip back in our makeshift canoe, now filled with significantly more water than when we started four hours earlier that day, gives time for reflection on the efforts of a few determined individuals, determined to make a difference in the world. We float by two barebacked teenagers, one fishing rod made of sticks, a small handmade net tossed out into the sea, creating waves that ripple out toward our boat. They wave as we go by, a slow friendly salute.

The island gets smaller and smaller as we approach the shore, and I turn around to take one more look at the island, reminded of how each and every one of us can truly make a difference.

They say. . .

They say, bad things happen in threes. They say, you reap what you sow. They say, what comes around goes around. They say that for every door that closes, a window opens. They say, you have to take the good with the bad.

I have always wondered, who exactly are they? And how the heck do they know so much about life? Haven´t you?

Well for what it´s worth, in our experience during these last few weeks, we have discovered that "they" know what they are talking about.

For example, take the old addage that bad things happens in threes. Now, I am not particularly supersititious, though I do throw salt over my shoulder if I spill it and I do from time to time, knock on some wood. I mean, really, it can´t hurt right? I guess you could call me an agnostic when it comes to the oral traditions. It´s not that I am a staunch believer, yet at the same time, I am not completely willing to say ok, I don´t believe in fate or destiny or that things happen for a reason. But, I digress. I must return to things that happen in threes. I am sure you all remember the story of the mustard bird that got us on the streets of Quito? Well I guess we would have to call that number one, right?

It happened, nothing to major, upsetting but for the most part, we got off scott free. No money to speak of was stolen, no documents, we weren´t hurt physically. . .you get the picture. So you can imagine our surprise the following day when we went to pack up to leave Quito and lo and behold, there´s good ole number two. . . John´s ipod is gone. Poof. Disappeared. We searched high and low (and while I searched through my things and John pulled apart his own, I remembered him distinctly saying to me, "You know Jen, I am just not going to bring it. I don´t want to risk it getting damaged or lost or stolen." My response of course that changed his mind, "Then why do you own it if you aren´t going to bring it?" Ahh, hindsight). Anyway, back to the search. We looked and looked and looked everywhere we could think of, but for the life of us, there was no ipod to be found. Bad thing number two.

But again, really after being disturbed for the better part of half an hour, what could we do. An ipod is expensive. It´s valuable, sure. But really in the large scheme of things, not that important. So words of Buddah and the Dali Lamma in our heads, we let the ipod go, right along with John´s camelback and blissfully returned to our life on the road.

Of course, number three wasn´t far behind. That´s the way these addages and good ole Murphy´s law works. You know, when it rains it pours. The bread always fall butter side down etc. etc.

We had left La Chimba (the town that took me from city to country girl in a matter of minutes) for a few weeks after having met with the teachers and deciding that it was better for them if we started the English courses later in the month to give the municipality time to certify their time, and since we really have no binding plans, we readily obliged. So we set off for La Esperanza, another tiny village about two hours from La Chimba, thinking we would hike this great trail over a volcano to a volcanic lake back to the small market town of Otavalo. It sounded perfect. But after two days of rain and a sore throat and swolen glands on my part, we gave the idea up and decided to head down the mountain into the city of Ibarra.

Back in a relatively big city again, we headed down one of the main streets to find ourselves a hotel for the night. The sidewalks were crowded and thin and as we wove our way in and out of the throngs of hummanity, and before long five or six people separated me from John, our humongous backpacks making it impossible to walk two abreast.

That´s when I heard it,"Shit! Jen! Help me! Help me!" It had to be John. Not just because I heard my name, but really because who else would be yelling help me in English. I whirled around to see John throw his backpack on the ground and frantically begin to pat all of his pockets. "Shit. Shit. Shit. They got it. I can´t believe they got it. Shit."

"Got what? Got what? Calm down. I can´t understand you. What did they get? Who?

"Shit. My wallet. They got my wallet. There was a woman with a baby and I bumped her. Some guy bumped me and then I bumped her and now my wallet is gone. I cannot believe this shit!"

Still unsure if John had actually been pickpocketed or if he had put his wallet somewhere different, I stood there dumbly blinking, "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" he shouted already on his way back down the street to see if he could locate the guy who had stolen his wallet. (There it is, number three in the series in case you hadn´t been paying attention).

By then a small crowd had gathered and as I leaned up against a wall holding John´s bag, they began to talk all at once. "Las espitufas." "Sí claro, siempre lo hacen." Shaking their collective heads, wondering how once again this group had pulled it off.

"Subió al autobus." a young guy in a red jacket shouted, pointing to the bus pulling away from the curb.

"John," I yelled stopping him from going further down the street, "He´s on the bus. The bus. Go! Go! Go!" And just like that, John was off, like the wind chasing the bus. I wondered briefly how John would communicate with the alleged theives if they were really on the bus and if in fact, John recognized them, but dismissed it quickly since by now, the group gathered included three police officers who wanted to take a statement of what had happened.

Apparently from the comments going on behind me as I described what I knew of the events that had transpired, the event was well witnessed by every local shopowner and passerby. As it turns out, a small boy had cut John off in his path and upon stopping, a teenager had crashed into him from behind, shoving him into a woman with a baby in her arms. The woman gave John a dirty look and while John apologized and tried to explain what had happened, she lifted his wallet. Talk about irony. He apologizes to her as she steals from him. Good karma that is not. And I don´t think it is good things come to those who wait, nor what comes around goes around. But again, I digress.

John returned huffing and puffing, empty handed. They, along with his wallet, $50, a credit card, an ATM card and his driver´s liscence were gone. Poof. Like the camelback, like the ipod. Things happen in threes.

They say, bad things happen in threes. And frankly I believe them. But as I mentioned before they also say, when one door closes, a window opens and of course, you gotta take the good with the bad.

So we had taken the bad. (Three of them, to be precise, and really John had taken all three of them, though for the most part what happens to him, tends to affect me too.) And we were about ready to swear off all cities over 300 in size when our luck began to change. We were about to be offered the open window, the good that comes with the bad, the ying that goes with the yang.

That´s when our luck began to change. Initially, we didn´t get it. We didn´t realize that it was the universe´s attempt to restore our faith in humanity, or possibly in Ecuadorian city dwellers. The guy in red, who we later discovered to be called Edwin, offered to take us in his truck to look for the alleged "robbers," yet at that moment, throwing my backpack in some guy´s open pick up and having him drive us around a city we didn´t know to find a pair of thieves didn´t strike me as the most responsible thing to do in the world. The police seemed to think it would be a good idea, but even so, I resisted and defered to that small voice inside of me that said, "WHAT? Are you isane? He is probably one of them!"

So we didn´t go with Edwin. Instead, he went on his own and we proceded to get in a cab with another one of the witnesses. (We´ll call him William. We are not actually sure of his name, as he told it to us while we were still in shock, and later were too embarassed to ask again.) William took us to a local hotel where we stored our bags and then proceded to play tour guide for us the rest of the day. First, he helped us pick out fanny packs (I know, lame and too little too late, but heck if we were going to get robbed a fourth time.) Then he took us on the bus to a local laguna with a 10K path around it and some hiking trails leading up to the patron saint and guardian angel of Ibarra, Gabriel. He even paid for our taxi and bus fare. Of course, in the back of my mind, I couldn´t help but wonder, "OK, when´s the part where he takes out the knife, demands the rest of our money and kills us?"

But despite my cynical bouts of paranoia, that never materialized. What did happen instead was that he tooks later that evening over to Edwin´s bakery, where Edwin told us that he had been unable to get our cards back, despite the fact that he had spent time trying. He thought maybe they would return our cards for a reward, but the thought of paying the people who had stolen from us, to get our own things back didn´t really compute in our minds, so we just cancelled the cards and chalked it up to one of those things you just can´t control.

By then, William had left to go to work (turns out, he had forgone sleep to play tour guide for us and worked from 10 pm till 7 am that night.) We sat in Edwin´s bakery, recounting the rest of our day to Edwin and told him that in the morning we thought we would go back to the lake to go running. "I´ll take you. What time do you want to go?"

A million thoughts raced through my mind at once, "Are you kidding us with this? Were these guys for real? Were people actually this nice? Or was this still a scheme to get the gringos?" It was too hard to figure out, so we agreed to meet at 6 the following morning to go running around the lake.

So we took the good too. Why not? Sometimes, you just have to take that leap of faith and trust that the universe is taking care of things. Luckily for us, this time, it was. Edwin turned out to be one of the nicest people I have ever had the good fortune to come across. He didn´t just take us running, and then pay for our orange juice and then invite us to his bakery for free coffee and breakfast. Which would have been more than enough (Dayenu). Over and beyond what a stranger does for another stanger. (And still that nagging voice in my mind whispering, "No one is this nice. What does he want from us?")

No, the running, the juice, the coffee, the breakfast were just the beginning. Apparently, the running for me was not meant to be and after 20 minutes, I was in pain again, limping around the trail with Edwin, as John continued on. I told Edwin the on and off two month long story of my sore leg, and he insisted that after breakfast we go to get it x-rayed. He of course, accompanied us first there, then to the orthepedist,and then later, to the pharmacy to fill the large dose of anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxers and rest he had prescribed me. (Turns out, there are no fractures, but there will be no running or hiking for jenny for the next three weeks). He insisted on us staying with him and his family that night and, as if that wasn´t enough, he insisted on taking us to lunch and then to visit the crater lake in the middle of Volcano Cotacachi, Lago Cuicocha, over an hour´s drive from Ibarra. This guy was really too much.

This morning, on our way out of town, we stopped by the bakery to say good bye and he insisted on feeding us more coffee and breakfast (on him) and told us that he could give us a ride back up to La Chimba the following week when our job started. Seriously?

Just now while typing this, our cell phone rang. It was William (turns out, his name is William. Good for us for remembering correctly.), wanting to know how everything had gone yesterday and if we needed anything.

They say, what comes around goes around. They say, when one door closes, another opens. They say, you take the good with the bad.

You know what I think? I think, whoever they are, they´re right.