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
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, October 09, 2006
City Girl
I have always thought of myself as a city girl. Not that I have always lived in a city. As a matter of fact, I didn’t live in a big city for the first time until I was 20 years old and moved to Seville, Spain during my last year of college. But being there that year confirmed for me what I always knew. I was a city girl. I loved the fast pace, the accessibility, the anonymity of it, the diversity of people, smells, sights and foods . . . I would live in a city. And pretty much since then (with a small digression back to Delaware in my early 20´s), I have lived in cities. No they weren’t New York City, but the populations were large and the conveniences of being in a city were all there. From our door to the nearest coffee shop is 200 steps, the nearest bar 150, the nearest place to purchase a bite to eat 100, a bagel is maybe 110 steps away. You get the point.
And yet, despite the ease of being in a city, I do love to visit small towns or even communities that can’t even call themselves villages due to their small size and relative lack of every convenience imaginable. Especially when travelling abroad. I love the hillside village in the middle of nowhere where everyone knows everyone else’s name and "Good morning" is a matter of course rather than a cause for alarm.
John and I, after 10 days in the capital city of Quito, had had enough of the city life. Perhaps it was the bird spewing mustard incident, or perhaps we were just tired of having our choice of 15 internet cafes, of breathing in the intense smell of the diesel fuel, of knowing that at any moment we could be approached by someone wanting to take advantage of us. So after a little under two weeks time, we packed up our backpacks and trekked up to the Pan-American highway to catch one of the buses headed to Cayembe, a smaller town of only 20-30,000 people settled in the shadow of snow-capped Vulcán Cayembe.
While Cayembe was no Quito, 30,000 people is nothing to sneeze about and we quickly dismissed our guidebook’s summary that there was only one internet cafe and two restaurants of note. What we did notice was that we were the only non-Ecuadorians in town. It is possible, though not likely, that we might not have so quickly made that observation, were it not for the fact that every passer-by literally did a double take upon seeing us and alternately snickered or stared as if we were from outer space rather than the United States.
Cayembe, famous for its bizchochos (small, crunchy breadsticks served warm) and queso de hoja (freshly made string cheese) is not a major tourist destination for "gringos," however it is a fantastic place from which to explore the larger region, also called Cayembe. After securing a map from the very helpful tourist information center and filling up on sautéed potatoes, French fried potatoes and a version of potato pancakes, John and I were ready to embark on our adventures for the weekend.
We first set out in the town of Cayembe to find the Temples of the Sun and the Moon, ruins left over in the green space at the far end of town. Remembering my experience in Peru, I began to imagine the types of ruins we would find there, but after searching through the local cemetery for the better part of half an hour and finding only homage to people that had passed on, I began to wonder. Finally, we decided to ask for help and located what appeared to be a grounds keeper putting his tools back into the tool shed.
"Ven acá," he motioned to us as he shuffled off, over toward one of the cemetery walls. We followed closely, exchanging curious looks over top of his head. He brought us to a section of the wall that had been knocked down and indicated a small pathway between a set of run down shacks and the outside of the cemetery wall, indicating that we should follow the path up.
"What about the barbed wire fence?" I asked. But he just shook his head, smiled and assured us that the news people had brought back confirmed what he already knew, the ruins were at the top of the hill. So, we went. Climbed through the wall, under the fence, greeted the man cutting his toenails in the shack and walked up the grassy dirt path to an open field. And there is where we found, absolutely nothing.
We stood in the field, bewildered looking at each other under the threatening sky and shrugged. "Do you think this is it?"
John laughed, "I guess this is why no one in town knew where the ruins were?"
I guessed so too. Later, back in the tourist office, she told us that the pre-Incan ruins were in the process of being restored (to what I am not sure) and that we were better off going to explore some of the local communities and "touristic sites."
Determined to prove our guide book wrong, we set out the next morning on a bus bound for Paquistancia, a community about 30 minutes up the dirt road leading out of Cayembe. As usual, I attracted the one drunk old man on the bus and despite my insistence that he stay on the bus, he got off when we did, the bus kicking up dust into the sunny morning air. We stood in the middle of the dirt road, old, drunken man, John and I weighing our options. We knew that there was an old growth forest on the map near here . . . only if we knew where.
To our right, a family congregated around an outdoor sink, chopping cilantro and washing a bowl of already chopped potatoes. "I guess we can go ask them," I whispered to John, giving the swaying man a sideways glance. "I hope he doesn’t think he is coming with us."
As it turns out the family was preparing for a local girl’s quinceañera, but the eldest also served as local guide and after a few negotiations, John, Maira and I set out, just the three of us, for El Bosque Primario de Pumamaqui (The Old Growth Forest of the Puma’s Hand. We walked along dusty road, an outcropping of houses dotting the sides of the small road, cows, sheep, goats, bulls and horses grazing the pastures. Through the local church’s "parking lot" and up into the hills for the next 4 hours. As we walked, me huffing and puffing along side of John and Maira, Maira regaled us with her knowledge of local culture, fauna and lore. We learned that one of the volcanoes without snow that could be seen in the distance had become snow less, when her "husband" volcano cheated on her and she cried so much that she was left without water. We learned that the Pumamaqui tree, old growth trees that were near extinction before the forest became protected, got its name in Quechwa because the puma used to hide in its branches and because the leaves of the trees looked like a puma’s paw. We ate local taxo fruit from the trees and learned about the many uses of the plants that grew on either side of the path, with sweeping views of the valley below us, green pastures, volcanoes and small communities growing their own existence, far from the lights, sounds and smells of the city.
Unlike Paquistancia, Oyachachi was not an easy 30 minute jaunt from the town of Cayembe and as we climbed higher and higher up into the clouds of the mountains, I gripped the side of the bus seat that I leaned on, feeling the effects of the altitude with every pitch of the bus. After a while, I gave up and John was gracious enough to let me use his lap as a seat for the remainder of the nauseating ride up over the pass and then back down into the valley on the other side, into the community of Oyachachi. Like Paquistancia, and even the town of Cayembe, John and I were the only non-Ecuadorians in sight as we made our way past the soccer field and the ten houses that consisted of the town toward what the sign indicated were local ruins. We were not jaded by our experience two days earlier, we would see some ruins if there were some. We bundled up against the cold drizzle returning the greetings of the indigenous women sitting in their doorways, brightly colored shawls draped over the shoulders, a lone feather sticking out of their round hat.
Two miles down the road, we discovered the community that had been moved into modern day Oyachachi only 40 years early. A sign invited us to imagine children running in their streets, learning in their schools, families eating in their houses and mourning the loss of loved ones in the remains of the church that still stood in the pasture. Standing there in the field, a soft mist falling from the sky, the river rushing further down the hill, we stood in the remains of what had been a family’s house and I closed my eyes. Could I feel their presence here? Why had they moved their community futher up the hill? What had made them change from these cute little round houses with thatched roofs to the squat, rectangular structures we had seen in town? With no phone service and few possessions, their lives remained simple in the new version of Oyachaci . . .had the move been merely to be closer to the natural hotsprings inside the town, popular with many daytrippers? Or had their been a different reason altogether. Heading back to the new town, we fell silent, the sound of our footfalls absorbed by the dirt of the street, mountains rising up to our right, the river flowing on the far side of the pastures to our left.
Once inside the hotsprings, we were quickly the object of many a curious stares as we lowered ourselves into the volcano fed pools overlooking the town and valley beyond. The water warmed our bones, cold from the walk down to the ruins and before long, we were engaged in a rousing game of tag with a group of young teenagers from a town not too far from Oyachachi. Laughing and playing with the kids, John and I noticed that despite the odd looks we received from the general population, no one felt threatened by our engagment with the children and we tried to imagine how two adults playing tag with unknown children would go over in the States. There was inherent trust from the kids, from the people that sat and swam bathing around us.
After a lunch of beans, toasted corn kernals and fresh salsa in a bag and some fresh watermellon and pineapple from the back of pick up truck, we headed back to Cayembe, once again entertaining the locals´curiuosity about where we were from, what we were doing in Ecuador, how long we would stay and if we liked their country, their food, their customs, their people. The answer . . .of course.
As I said before I am a city girl. I love being able to get what I want, when I want it. So you may find it interesting that John and I today signed on to volunteer in the community of La Chimba, an hour bus ride up the dirt road from Cayembe. For the next two weeks or so, John and I will be giving English, computer and teacher training courses there in exchange for room, hopefully meals and an hour a day of Spanish for John. It may be difficult to reach us as there is no internet and no cell service. No restaurants, no cafes, no bars, no bookstores. In La Chimba, there are houses, school, church, a river and an ex-hacienda (slave owners´house) being converted into a future hostel for people like us, who pass through to help.
I have always thought of myself as a city girl, but for the next few weeks, country girl I will be.
And yet, despite the ease of being in a city, I do love to visit small towns or even communities that can’t even call themselves villages due to their small size and relative lack of every convenience imaginable. Especially when travelling abroad. I love the hillside village in the middle of nowhere where everyone knows everyone else’s name and "Good morning" is a matter of course rather than a cause for alarm.
John and I, after 10 days in the capital city of Quito, had had enough of the city life. Perhaps it was the bird spewing mustard incident, or perhaps we were just tired of having our choice of 15 internet cafes, of breathing in the intense smell of the diesel fuel, of knowing that at any moment we could be approached by someone wanting to take advantage of us. So after a little under two weeks time, we packed up our backpacks and trekked up to the Pan-American highway to catch one of the buses headed to Cayembe, a smaller town of only 20-30,000 people settled in the shadow of snow-capped Vulcán Cayembe.
While Cayembe was no Quito, 30,000 people is nothing to sneeze about and we quickly dismissed our guidebook’s summary that there was only one internet cafe and two restaurants of note. What we did notice was that we were the only non-Ecuadorians in town. It is possible, though not likely, that we might not have so quickly made that observation, were it not for the fact that every passer-by literally did a double take upon seeing us and alternately snickered or stared as if we were from outer space rather than the United States.
Cayembe, famous for its bizchochos (small, crunchy breadsticks served warm) and queso de hoja (freshly made string cheese) is not a major tourist destination for "gringos," however it is a fantastic place from which to explore the larger region, also called Cayembe. After securing a map from the very helpful tourist information center and filling up on sautéed potatoes, French fried potatoes and a version of potato pancakes, John and I were ready to embark on our adventures for the weekend.
We first set out in the town of Cayembe to find the Temples of the Sun and the Moon, ruins left over in the green space at the far end of town. Remembering my experience in Peru, I began to imagine the types of ruins we would find there, but after searching through the local cemetery for the better part of half an hour and finding only homage to people that had passed on, I began to wonder. Finally, we decided to ask for help and located what appeared to be a grounds keeper putting his tools back into the tool shed.
"Ven acá," he motioned to us as he shuffled off, over toward one of the cemetery walls. We followed closely, exchanging curious looks over top of his head. He brought us to a section of the wall that had been knocked down and indicated a small pathway between a set of run down shacks and the outside of the cemetery wall, indicating that we should follow the path up.
"What about the barbed wire fence?" I asked. But he just shook his head, smiled and assured us that the news people had brought back confirmed what he already knew, the ruins were at the top of the hill. So, we went. Climbed through the wall, under the fence, greeted the man cutting his toenails in the shack and walked up the grassy dirt path to an open field. And there is where we found, absolutely nothing.
We stood in the field, bewildered looking at each other under the threatening sky and shrugged. "Do you think this is it?"
John laughed, "I guess this is why no one in town knew where the ruins were?"
I guessed so too. Later, back in the tourist office, she told us that the pre-Incan ruins were in the process of being restored (to what I am not sure) and that we were better off going to explore some of the local communities and "touristic sites."
Determined to prove our guide book wrong, we set out the next morning on a bus bound for Paquistancia, a community about 30 minutes up the dirt road leading out of Cayembe. As usual, I attracted the one drunk old man on the bus and despite my insistence that he stay on the bus, he got off when we did, the bus kicking up dust into the sunny morning air. We stood in the middle of the dirt road, old, drunken man, John and I weighing our options. We knew that there was an old growth forest on the map near here . . . only if we knew where.
To our right, a family congregated around an outdoor sink, chopping cilantro and washing a bowl of already chopped potatoes. "I guess we can go ask them," I whispered to John, giving the swaying man a sideways glance. "I hope he doesn’t think he is coming with us."
As it turns out the family was preparing for a local girl’s quinceañera, but the eldest also served as local guide and after a few negotiations, John, Maira and I set out, just the three of us, for El Bosque Primario de Pumamaqui (The Old Growth Forest of the Puma’s Hand. We walked along dusty road, an outcropping of houses dotting the sides of the small road, cows, sheep, goats, bulls and horses grazing the pastures. Through the local church’s "parking lot" and up into the hills for the next 4 hours. As we walked, me huffing and puffing along side of John and Maira, Maira regaled us with her knowledge of local culture, fauna and lore. We learned that one of the volcanoes without snow that could be seen in the distance had become snow less, when her "husband" volcano cheated on her and she cried so much that she was left without water. We learned that the Pumamaqui tree, old growth trees that were near extinction before the forest became protected, got its name in Quechwa because the puma used to hide in its branches and because the leaves of the trees looked like a puma’s paw. We ate local taxo fruit from the trees and learned about the many uses of the plants that grew on either side of the path, with sweeping views of the valley below us, green pastures, volcanoes and small communities growing their own existence, far from the lights, sounds and smells of the city.
Unlike Paquistancia, Oyachachi was not an easy 30 minute jaunt from the town of Cayembe and as we climbed higher and higher up into the clouds of the mountains, I gripped the side of the bus seat that I leaned on, feeling the effects of the altitude with every pitch of the bus. After a while, I gave up and John was gracious enough to let me use his lap as a seat for the remainder of the nauseating ride up over the pass and then back down into the valley on the other side, into the community of Oyachachi. Like Paquistancia, and even the town of Cayembe, John and I were the only non-Ecuadorians in sight as we made our way past the soccer field and the ten houses that consisted of the town toward what the sign indicated were local ruins. We were not jaded by our experience two days earlier, we would see some ruins if there were some. We bundled up against the cold drizzle returning the greetings of the indigenous women sitting in their doorways, brightly colored shawls draped over the shoulders, a lone feather sticking out of their round hat.
Two miles down the road, we discovered the community that had been moved into modern day Oyachachi only 40 years early. A sign invited us to imagine children running in their streets, learning in their schools, families eating in their houses and mourning the loss of loved ones in the remains of the church that still stood in the pasture. Standing there in the field, a soft mist falling from the sky, the river rushing further down the hill, we stood in the remains of what had been a family’s house and I closed my eyes. Could I feel their presence here? Why had they moved their community futher up the hill? What had made them change from these cute little round houses with thatched roofs to the squat, rectangular structures we had seen in town? With no phone service and few possessions, their lives remained simple in the new version of Oyachaci . . .had the move been merely to be closer to the natural hotsprings inside the town, popular with many daytrippers? Or had their been a different reason altogether. Heading back to the new town, we fell silent, the sound of our footfalls absorbed by the dirt of the street, mountains rising up to our right, the river flowing on the far side of the pastures to our left.
Once inside the hotsprings, we were quickly the object of many a curious stares as we lowered ourselves into the volcano fed pools overlooking the town and valley beyond. The water warmed our bones, cold from the walk down to the ruins and before long, we were engaged in a rousing game of tag with a group of young teenagers from a town not too far from Oyachachi. Laughing and playing with the kids, John and I noticed that despite the odd looks we received from the general population, no one felt threatened by our engagment with the children and we tried to imagine how two adults playing tag with unknown children would go over in the States. There was inherent trust from the kids, from the people that sat and swam bathing around us.
After a lunch of beans, toasted corn kernals and fresh salsa in a bag and some fresh watermellon and pineapple from the back of pick up truck, we headed back to Cayembe, once again entertaining the locals´curiuosity about where we were from, what we were doing in Ecuador, how long we would stay and if we liked their country, their food, their customs, their people. The answer . . .of course.
As I said before I am a city girl. I love being able to get what I want, when I want it. So you may find it interesting that John and I today signed on to volunteer in the community of La Chimba, an hour bus ride up the dirt road from Cayembe. For the next two weeks or so, John and I will be giving English, computer and teacher training courses there in exchange for room, hopefully meals and an hour a day of Spanish for John. It may be difficult to reach us as there is no internet and no cell service. No restaurants, no cafes, no bars, no bookstores. In La Chimba, there are houses, school, church, a river and an ex-hacienda (slave owners´house) being converted into a future hostel for people like us, who pass through to help.
I have always thought of myself as a city girl, but for the next few weeks, country girl I will be.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
It´s been too long
I hate when this happens. When it´s been too long and the thoughts about what to write just keep piling up. Every day a new story to write. It´s hard to live your life and find the time to write the parts of your life you want to share as well. But tonight seems to be the night for sharing. And then after a while, the one exciting story feels like it needs to become part of list of things that have happened during the past two weeks to catch up and move on. Also, my email inbox is simply overwhelming right now. That is not to say that I don´t love each and every one of the messages. It´s just taking me a while to get through them. Have patience my friends, I will respond.
Anyway, enough of my babbling. Let´s see if I can makes sense of what has happened since we survived our Pico Duarte adventure. . .
After our mountain experience, we headed back to Cabarete (the town where Jen C is volunteering this year) and ended up spending a little over a week there. We set up a deal with the Dream Project that in exchange for some volunteer work ourself, they would put us up at a local hotel. Turned out to be quite a hotel actually, nothing John and I would normally stay at but the air conditioning was a welcome change to what we had been experiencing with the 90 to 100 degree days, so we didn´t complain. We spent the week giving workshops to the Dream Volunteers, most of whom do not have education experience, so while they want to help in the schools, are not really sure where to start. We did a series of workshops for them on setting up the classroom, setting clear behavioral expectations and the basics of teaching reading and writing. I also had the opportunity to go to a number of the schools and do some observing, some modeling, some coaching which I always love doing so the week was work but fun work. Jen even set up a workshop with the Dominican teachers at her school, which was quite an interesting experience, to say the least.
For a little over a week now, we have been in Quito, Ecuador. Quito is an interesting place and about as different of a city than anywhere in the Dominican Republic and I have to say any of the major cities that I have been to in South and Central America. My typical M.O. in a major city when traveling, is quick and dirty. Get in and get out. While there are typically some sights to see, the cities are often crowded, polluted, dirty and somewhat dangerous. Quito, while it does have the polluted and somewhat dangerous rep, is very clean and has tons to offer.
We have been staying at Casa Paxee, a family house in the foothills of the city. Martha, the owner of the "hostal" rents out her upstairs to travellers, provides tons of travel advice and allows them use of the kitchen. So for the last week, for a mere $6 a night, John and I have been in the "penthouse" at Martha´s, a rooftop room with a private bathroom and spectacular views of Cotopaxi (a snow capped Volcano over 19,000 feet tall), the old and the new city and all the other mountains and volcanoes that the eye can see on a clear day. A funny side note is that we had chosen Casa Paxee for the fact that it was small . . .only 5 bedrooms, and as it turned out, the place got even smaller as John and I have been the only tenants all week. Talk about a bargain. $6 a night for our own house! ;)
This week has been about as full as you could imgaine. We decided to stay in Quito for the accessibility to phone and internet as we have been trying to set up a volunteer situation for the next month or so. So we alternated between our "chore days" as we called them where we mostly did internet, phone and business related things and our "fun days," where we got to see all that Quito and the area had to offer.
Since the chore days weren´t that interesting, even for John and me, I will stick to a couple of the other days instead.
The Saturday Market in Otavalo
Otavalo, a city about 2 hours by bus from Quito, should definitely not be missed if you ever come to Ecuador. It is famous for it´s Saturday marked and after visiting it last Saturday, I understand why. John and I headed up in the early morning, following Martha´s advice to walk up, up, up where the cars came down till we came to a foot bridge and then flag down one of the buses bound for Otavalo. We did just that and while we were actually let off about 2 miles past Otavalo (this seems to happen to us quite a bit), we did make it to the market by 10 and by 10:30, were amazed by the colors of the local handicrafts.
From handwoven sweaters, hats, socks and blankets, to brightly colored paintings depicting local scenes to as many types of fruits and vegetables as you could possibly imagine, this was a place to get lost in. Andean men with long braided hair invited us into to look at their shops, "Ven amiga, a tu orden amiga." Short women in brightly colored clothings, babies tied to their backs in shawls, sat weaving, nodding their heads, smiling, inviting us in to see their hardwork, thanking us whether we bought something or not. And of course, there is the bargaining. No price is ever set. For you, there is always a discount, a special price for the first sale of the day, for today only.
Mitad del Mundo
Obviously the equator is in Ecuador. It probably wouldn´t be called Ecuador otherwise. But honestly, before visiting the "middle of the world," last Sunday, I wasn´t really that interested in actually going to see the Equatorial line. I mean what would be there - would there actually be a line? Sounded like a tourist trap to me. But after Martha told us to go and to go on Sunday, we went. You don´t really argue with Martha, she is sort of a cross between a grandmother and a Jewish mother. Honestly, I don´t know what I expected, but the scene we experienced on Sunday was definitely not it.
We got to la mitad del mundo (which is the name of the town, meaning middle of the earth) at around 1 in the afternoon, just in time to catch the Sunday show taking place in their central square. There in the middle of the square were 6 or 7 women in traditional Andean dress, two men and a little girl around 5 years old. We stood at the edge of the square with the rest of the visitors, Ecuadorians and toursits alike, spellbound as the women and men (and little girl) twirled around to the traditional sound of Ecuador, their brilliantly colored shawls, bandanas and skirts flying in the air. Song after song, dance after dance, they invited onlookers into the circle, people danced, sang, laughed all around the equitorial line under the bright sun of the afternoon. There actually was a line painted on the ground, which while cools, was kind of silly when you thought about it.
El Teleferico
Yesterday, we headed up to a Gondola (teleferico in Spanish) which took us up over Quito. Quito, already over 9,000 feet is quite a high city. So heading up another 3,000 feet in what feels like a ski lift, is no small feat. And when we disembarked at 4,100 meters (about 12,500 feet), you can imagine how cold it was. Even from the first overlook down over Quito, the view was amazing, the new city with it´s skyscrapers and busy streets, the old city with it´s colonial style Cathedrals and winding cobblestone roads and off in the distance, layers of clouds and mountains.
Of course, as is our custom, the weather left something to be desired. So while it didn´t rain (wonder of wonders), some of the bigger more impressive mountains were obscured. And clearly, our hike up to the summit ridgeline at over 15,000 feet (4,700ish meters) was done as rapidly as possible with our diminishing oxygen to avoid what looked like a repeat of Pico Duarte. Nevertheless, the days was beautiful, the storm held at bay with dark, menacing clouds as we hiked up and around the volcano, past thistle like orange, purple and yellow flowers, Quito becoming a tiny version of itself in the distance, until it was nothing more than little while dots on the horizon.
The last part of the hike was as always, a scramble, not up rocks, but up slippery volcanic ash that slid from under your feet with every step up. So it went something like, two steps up, two steps back, three steps up, one step back. You get the picture. Not a whole lot of fun in the freezing cold with the threat of rain or hail or worse. But we made it and I 4 minutes behind John, had a view of the fog that had rolled in, my favorite view from every summit. (Actually my typical view is more like it.)
Duped
One bad thing happened today during one of our chore days. . . .we were walking down calle colon so John could do his long run and i could amuse myself around town (I am not running right now for those of you that didn´t know that) John had his camelback and i had my purse and my backpack with a change of clothes for John for later. All of a sudden, I look down and there is what appears to be bird poo on my shoe.
"Ew!" I yell and John stops to get out the toilet paper stored conveniently in his camelback. It´s then that he notices that he too has some on his shirt and his backpack. He takes out the toilet paper, hands me some and begins to clean himself up.
Just then a man comes with some toilet paper and starts to indicated that the bird had been up there. "Alla, alla" he is saying and pointing as I continue to wipe off the yellow stuff off my shoe.
"Hey¨" John muses aloud, "This is mustard, not bird poop." Someone had thrown mustard at us? Hmm. .. that seems weird. And then even as it dawned on us, "Shit! Jen! Where´s my bag?"
Gone! just like that. Down on the sidewalk to wipe off the mustard off his shirt for two seconds, the man indicating where the supossed bird had gone and boom, they had us, hook line and sinker. How stupid are we? Luckily nothing except John´s compass, $3 and the bag itself was worth much. Imagine how disappointed they were when they got around the corner and realized they had just stolen 70 oz of water! he he.
So you live and learn. . .we learned to keep walking when we get sprayed with mustard and we learned to let go of the things that really aren´t all that important. And while, very thirsty, John was still able to do his long run in el Parque Metropolitano (a park even larger than Central Park).
So sorry to have crammed all that into today´s entry. But I wanted you all to be caught up. We head out of Quito tomorrow and I believe I will be able to return to smaller, more manageable and more fun to read, entries in the future.
Anyway, enough of my babbling. Let´s see if I can makes sense of what has happened since we survived our Pico Duarte adventure. . .
After our mountain experience, we headed back to Cabarete (the town where Jen C is volunteering this year) and ended up spending a little over a week there. We set up a deal with the Dream Project that in exchange for some volunteer work ourself, they would put us up at a local hotel. Turned out to be quite a hotel actually, nothing John and I would normally stay at but the air conditioning was a welcome change to what we had been experiencing with the 90 to 100 degree days, so we didn´t complain. We spent the week giving workshops to the Dream Volunteers, most of whom do not have education experience, so while they want to help in the schools, are not really sure where to start. We did a series of workshops for them on setting up the classroom, setting clear behavioral expectations and the basics of teaching reading and writing. I also had the opportunity to go to a number of the schools and do some observing, some modeling, some coaching which I always love doing so the week was work but fun work. Jen even set up a workshop with the Dominican teachers at her school, which was quite an interesting experience, to say the least.
For a little over a week now, we have been in Quito, Ecuador. Quito is an interesting place and about as different of a city than anywhere in the Dominican Republic and I have to say any of the major cities that I have been to in South and Central America. My typical M.O. in a major city when traveling, is quick and dirty. Get in and get out. While there are typically some sights to see, the cities are often crowded, polluted, dirty and somewhat dangerous. Quito, while it does have the polluted and somewhat dangerous rep, is very clean and has tons to offer.
We have been staying at Casa Paxee, a family house in the foothills of the city. Martha, the owner of the "hostal" rents out her upstairs to travellers, provides tons of travel advice and allows them use of the kitchen. So for the last week, for a mere $6 a night, John and I have been in the "penthouse" at Martha´s, a rooftop room with a private bathroom and spectacular views of Cotopaxi (a snow capped Volcano over 19,000 feet tall), the old and the new city and all the other mountains and volcanoes that the eye can see on a clear day. A funny side note is that we had chosen Casa Paxee for the fact that it was small . . .only 5 bedrooms, and as it turned out, the place got even smaller as John and I have been the only tenants all week. Talk about a bargain. $6 a night for our own house! ;)
This week has been about as full as you could imgaine. We decided to stay in Quito for the accessibility to phone and internet as we have been trying to set up a volunteer situation for the next month or so. So we alternated between our "chore days" as we called them where we mostly did internet, phone and business related things and our "fun days," where we got to see all that Quito and the area had to offer.
Since the chore days weren´t that interesting, even for John and me, I will stick to a couple of the other days instead.
The Saturday Market in Otavalo
Otavalo, a city about 2 hours by bus from Quito, should definitely not be missed if you ever come to Ecuador. It is famous for it´s Saturday marked and after visiting it last Saturday, I understand why. John and I headed up in the early morning, following Martha´s advice to walk up, up, up where the cars came down till we came to a foot bridge and then flag down one of the buses bound for Otavalo. We did just that and while we were actually let off about 2 miles past Otavalo (this seems to happen to us quite a bit), we did make it to the market by 10 and by 10:30, were amazed by the colors of the local handicrafts.
From handwoven sweaters, hats, socks and blankets, to brightly colored paintings depicting local scenes to as many types of fruits and vegetables as you could possibly imagine, this was a place to get lost in. Andean men with long braided hair invited us into to look at their shops, "Ven amiga, a tu orden amiga." Short women in brightly colored clothings, babies tied to their backs in shawls, sat weaving, nodding their heads, smiling, inviting us in to see their hardwork, thanking us whether we bought something or not. And of course, there is the bargaining. No price is ever set. For you, there is always a discount, a special price for the first sale of the day, for today only.
Mitad del Mundo
Obviously the equator is in Ecuador. It probably wouldn´t be called Ecuador otherwise. But honestly, before visiting the "middle of the world," last Sunday, I wasn´t really that interested in actually going to see the Equatorial line. I mean what would be there - would there actually be a line? Sounded like a tourist trap to me. But after Martha told us to go and to go on Sunday, we went. You don´t really argue with Martha, she is sort of a cross between a grandmother and a Jewish mother. Honestly, I don´t know what I expected, but the scene we experienced on Sunday was definitely not it.
We got to la mitad del mundo (which is the name of the town, meaning middle of the earth) at around 1 in the afternoon, just in time to catch the Sunday show taking place in their central square. There in the middle of the square were 6 or 7 women in traditional Andean dress, two men and a little girl around 5 years old. We stood at the edge of the square with the rest of the visitors, Ecuadorians and toursits alike, spellbound as the women and men (and little girl) twirled around to the traditional sound of Ecuador, their brilliantly colored shawls, bandanas and skirts flying in the air. Song after song, dance after dance, they invited onlookers into the circle, people danced, sang, laughed all around the equitorial line under the bright sun of the afternoon. There actually was a line painted on the ground, which while cools, was kind of silly when you thought about it.
El Teleferico
Yesterday, we headed up to a Gondola (teleferico in Spanish) which took us up over Quito. Quito, already over 9,000 feet is quite a high city. So heading up another 3,000 feet in what feels like a ski lift, is no small feat. And when we disembarked at 4,100 meters (about 12,500 feet), you can imagine how cold it was. Even from the first overlook down over Quito, the view was amazing, the new city with it´s skyscrapers and busy streets, the old city with it´s colonial style Cathedrals and winding cobblestone roads and off in the distance, layers of clouds and mountains.
Of course, as is our custom, the weather left something to be desired. So while it didn´t rain (wonder of wonders), some of the bigger more impressive mountains were obscured. And clearly, our hike up to the summit ridgeline at over 15,000 feet (4,700ish meters) was done as rapidly as possible with our diminishing oxygen to avoid what looked like a repeat of Pico Duarte. Nevertheless, the days was beautiful, the storm held at bay with dark, menacing clouds as we hiked up and around the volcano, past thistle like orange, purple and yellow flowers, Quito becoming a tiny version of itself in the distance, until it was nothing more than little while dots on the horizon.
The last part of the hike was as always, a scramble, not up rocks, but up slippery volcanic ash that slid from under your feet with every step up. So it went something like, two steps up, two steps back, three steps up, one step back. You get the picture. Not a whole lot of fun in the freezing cold with the threat of rain or hail or worse. But we made it and I 4 minutes behind John, had a view of the fog that had rolled in, my favorite view from every summit. (Actually my typical view is more like it.)
Duped
One bad thing happened today during one of our chore days. . . .we were walking down calle colon so John could do his long run and i could amuse myself around town (I am not running right now for those of you that didn´t know that) John had his camelback and i had my purse and my backpack with a change of clothes for John for later. All of a sudden, I look down and there is what appears to be bird poo on my shoe.
"Ew!" I yell and John stops to get out the toilet paper stored conveniently in his camelback. It´s then that he notices that he too has some on his shirt and his backpack. He takes out the toilet paper, hands me some and begins to clean himself up.
Just then a man comes with some toilet paper and starts to indicated that the bird had been up there. "Alla, alla" he is saying and pointing as I continue to wipe off the yellow stuff off my shoe.
"Hey¨" John muses aloud, "This is mustard, not bird poop." Someone had thrown mustard at us? Hmm. .. that seems weird. And then even as it dawned on us, "Shit! Jen! Where´s my bag?"
Gone! just like that. Down on the sidewalk to wipe off the mustard off his shirt for two seconds, the man indicating where the supossed bird had gone and boom, they had us, hook line and sinker. How stupid are we? Luckily nothing except John´s compass, $3 and the bag itself was worth much. Imagine how disappointed they were when they got around the corner and realized they had just stolen 70 oz of water! he he.
So you live and learn. . .we learned to keep walking when we get sprayed with mustard and we learned to let go of the things that really aren´t all that important. And while, very thirsty, John was still able to do his long run in el Parque Metropolitano (a park even larger than Central Park).
So sorry to have crammed all that into today´s entry. But I wanted you all to be caught up. We head out of Quito tomorrow and I believe I will be able to return to smaller, more manageable and more fun to read, entries in the future.
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