Barracoa, Cuba
All right, so they looked like potatoes. I ate the bananas. I ate the yuca. I didn't eat what was obviously meaty and I ate the potatoes. It was only after I had passed off the rest to one of my new friends that I realized that I had watched them make the stew and the stew didn't contain any potatoes. I walked up to another one of my friends who was still greedily consuming the stew, pointed to what I thought were potatoes and asked "What's that?". He smiled with pigs head stew dripping down his chin, "Brain. Es good, no?" I nodded gingerly, "Uh, si. Pass me the rum."
We were in Barracoa on the far East coast of Cuba, a couple of hours northeast of Guantanomo. I had met a bunch of kids, when I was out walking, who were celebrating one of their 21st birthdays. I was took a picture of them and they invited me up to their apartment to hang out with them. They were a boisterous group, saturated in their home made rum, but really cool kids, who weren't trying to hustle me for anything. They invited me to a party the next day that they were having for the birthday boy. They were having it at a place out by the river outside of town. They promised mucho rum and comida creole. Hmmm. Creole food, I thought. To me creole food is jambalaya, crayfish pie and gumbo. So I thought sure, this will be a cultural experience. Sometimes experiences can almost too cultural.
I, along with an American and a Swiss guy that my brother met along the way, met the kids at their apartment. Before we left, they told me to look into a pot. It contained onions, bananas, yuca and other assorted vegetables all sorted neatly around a fresh pig's head. They, of course, laughed at our naive shock and we laughed with them, mainly because I don't think that it really sunk in that at some point we were going to be expected to eat this.
So off we went. We caught a horse-drawn cart. One of the kids drove, while we passed around the rum and the driver sang and played guitar. When we finally got to the river we crossed the most rickety-assed, Indiana Jones bridge that I've ever seen (and I've seen a few) and came to a clearing that had a make-shift firepit. An older couple (friends or family of the birthday kid, I guess. I never really found out who they were) showed up and started to prepare the stew. The woman washed and peeled the vegetables, while the man chopped the pigs head to bits with a machete (seriously, I have pictures). He offered me the machete, but I passed. Anyway, we were having a good time, drinking more rum, dancing with a couple of the girls that had showed up and trying to sing along to Cuban songs that we didn't know the words to. Eventually, however, the stew was finished and the woman started passing out bowls. Of course, as guests, we were the first to be served. Suddenly, though I didn't eat breakfast, I wasn't very hungry, but really we didn't have much choice. It would have been rude to decline. It really wasn't that bad. As long as I ate around the meat, and just ate the bananas, the yuca and the potatoes.
I'll be home tomorrow night. If you haven't received a personal email from me since I've been here, don't worry, the emails been expensive and slow, so I've been neglecting you all equally. Oh yeah, I lost my cell phone, so if you would like to talk to me please call or email me your number. Ciao, Moe
Monday, December 20, 2004
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Fren, you wan buy a seegar?
Trinidad, Cuba
What's up, kids? So, yes, I have been totally slacking, once again, on my group emails. However, to my defense, email isn't quite as readily available here in Cuba, as it was in Ecuador. Also all the email places are state run and 6 dollars an hour. Luckily, though it's expensive, at least it's excrutiatingly slow. Oh, how wistful I am for the days of gringolandia in Quito with it's pleathera of internet opportunities. Still, the blissful ignorance of the outside world has been nice, these past couple of weeks.
So let's see, last I left you, I was still in Havana waiting for my brother, Wil to arrive. He did, and after a day of misadventures, we found each other. We spent a few more days in Havana, walking the streets, taking day trips out to the beach (my skin finally looks almost healthy again), and listening to music. Our stay was highlighted by going to the Hotel Nacional and watching the Buena Vista Social Club. We had seen numerous bands trying to replicate their music, but nothing was like seeing the real thing. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was pretty sick of old Havana. Yes it's beautiful, but it chaulk full of hustlers, prostitutes, and German sex tourists, and that can get pretty old after awhile.
Also, one other thing about Cuba. Everyone who lives here, either works for, has a family member working for, or is somehow affiliated with the cigar industry. As a result, everyone has the exclusive hook-up with a cigar factory. During the hundred yards from the place I'm staying to the internet place, I was asked six hundred times if I wanted to buy a cigar. Eventually you hardly even notice it.
So finally we headed Cienfuegos, a nice little town, a bit more relaxed, with easy access to the beach. Here, we pretty much just lolled around the plazas, sipping rum and talking drunken European sailers and pretty cuban girls. From Cienfuegos, we headed east to Trinidad. Trinidad is a beautiful historical town, with old buildings with colonial architecture and red tiled roofs, and absolutely treacherous cobble stone streets.
We spent a few days taking hot bike rides to the beach, wandering around through market-places and sipping rum, while talking to pretty Cuban girls (this seems to be a national pastime). I would have to say, though, the highlight was a nightclub we went to one night called La Cueva. The club was in the countryside above the town and when you go in you descend about fifty feet or so, walk through a tunnel, and then come out into this huge cavern that they have converted into a discotech. It had to be the most ascthetically interesting nightclub I have ever been to. The thing is though, they charge ten dollars and then it's all you can drink. This keeps all of the cuban people out, which makes it a functionally boring club. Oh well.
I almost got y'all caught up. It'll have to wait for another time. Be good. Moe
What's up, kids? So, yes, I have been totally slacking, once again, on my group emails. However, to my defense, email isn't quite as readily available here in Cuba, as it was in Ecuador. Also all the email places are state run and 6 dollars an hour. Luckily, though it's expensive, at least it's excrutiatingly slow. Oh, how wistful I am for the days of gringolandia in Quito with it's pleathera of internet opportunities. Still, the blissful ignorance of the outside world has been nice, these past couple of weeks.
So let's see, last I left you, I was still in Havana waiting for my brother, Wil to arrive. He did, and after a day of misadventures, we found each other. We spent a few more days in Havana, walking the streets, taking day trips out to the beach (my skin finally looks almost healthy again), and listening to music. Our stay was highlighted by going to the Hotel Nacional and watching the Buena Vista Social Club. We had seen numerous bands trying to replicate their music, but nothing was like seeing the real thing. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was pretty sick of old Havana. Yes it's beautiful, but it chaulk full of hustlers, prostitutes, and German sex tourists, and that can get pretty old after awhile.
Also, one other thing about Cuba. Everyone who lives here, either works for, has a family member working for, or is somehow affiliated with the cigar industry. As a result, everyone has the exclusive hook-up with a cigar factory. During the hundred yards from the place I'm staying to the internet place, I was asked six hundred times if I wanted to buy a cigar. Eventually you hardly even notice it.
So finally we headed Cienfuegos, a nice little town, a bit more relaxed, with easy access to the beach. Here, we pretty much just lolled around the plazas, sipping rum and talking drunken European sailers and pretty cuban girls. From Cienfuegos, we headed east to Trinidad. Trinidad is a beautiful historical town, with old buildings with colonial architecture and red tiled roofs, and absolutely treacherous cobble stone streets.
We spent a few days taking hot bike rides to the beach, wandering around through market-places and sipping rum, while talking to pretty Cuban girls (this seems to be a national pastime). I would have to say, though, the highlight was a nightclub we went to one night called La Cueva. The club was in the countryside above the town and when you go in you descend about fifty feet or so, walk through a tunnel, and then come out into this huge cavern that they have converted into a discotech. It had to be the most ascthetically interesting nightclub I have ever been to. The thing is though, they charge ten dollars and then it's all you can drink. This keeps all of the cuban people out, which makes it a functionally boring club. Oh well.
I almost got y'all caught up. It'll have to wait for another time. Be good. Moe
Thursday, December 2, 2004
Cuba Libre
Havana, Cuba
What's up everybody? So, it's been about five months since I've
written you all last. During that time I've mostly been working on the boat,
the details of which I'll not bore you with, since you all either are working on
the boat, have worked on the boat at some point, or have heard me talk about it
so much that it feels like you've worked on the boat. Anyway, I finished with
that for now, having earned enough money (I hope) to make it through the last
two quarters of my schooling. I have now a free three weeks before I need to be
home for Christmas (My mother's made it very clear that since I'll be in the
hemisphere this year, that I should at least be home for that) and three weeks,
I decided, is plenty of time for an ill advised adventure to Cuba. So without
any real preparation or thought about my trip, besides buying plane tickets, a
real pain in the ass since you I had to fly through the Bahamas, I find myself
in the middle of Havana writing you all this email.
As hostels don't really seem to be an option in Cuba, at least not so far, and
since the Cuba book that I bought is probably languishing amongst Bob Marley
cd's and Doritos bags in the dregs of my friend's car in Olympia, I guess I
really wouldn't know. So, I'm staying with a family. It's difficult to move
50ft in Havana viejo, the old touristy part of Havana, without some guy asking
you if you need any number of the plethora of services he can provide, ie. rooms,
drugs, women, tours, etc. After finding that all the hotels were at least 50
bucks a night, I let one of the hustlers take me to a family who rents a room
for 25 bucks a night. I'm sure that I can find one for less, but I like the old
lady who runs it, it feels fairly secure, and it's only a couple of blocks off
the main drag of old Havana. The guy, in return for finding me this place,
asked only that I buy him a thing of powdered milk for his son. Sure, why not,
I thought. At least it's for a good cause, and it can't be that expensive, so
when his Uncle, who had been tagging along asked for one as well, I said no
problem. I strode up to the counter in the store and confidently asked for two cans of their finest powdered milk. The cashier said, that'll be $11.50. Uh, make that
one.
Old Havana is beautiful. Narrow streets run between buildings with old colonial
arches, tall dark wood store fronts, and second floor balconies with iron work
reminiscent of the French quarter in New Orleans. Since this part of town is
UNESCO protected, they've done an admirable job restoring the buildings here,
but as soon as you leave this part of town, they fade quickly into crumbled
glory, and the wide streets become a playground of cars from my father's
childhood. How the people here have managed to keep these cars running for all
these years is beyond me, but the streets of Havana look like an old gangster
movie, with a few nondescript eastern European cars thrown in for good measure.
Night in Old Havana is exactly how I pictured it. Cuban salsa, flamenco, and
meringue wafts through the wooden lattice work out of every restaurant and bar.
Mojitos and Cuba Libres flowing, while people enjoy the food and atmosphere (all
right, I'm starting to sound like a restaurant guide). Anyway, last night
happened upon a flamenco show. A five piece band played and sang while a man
and a women first alternately danced and then together to the rythems of the
music. They flung their heels about with reckless abandon while their hands delicately floated through the air, smiling all the while. I've never been so impressed with a man in heels.
Anyway, I think that this is enough for now. My brother, Wil, will be joining
me later today, assuming everything goes as planned, and we will be wandering about
Cuba for three weeks. So, you will, as usual, be able to look forward to a few
more of my emails. I hope that this message finds everyone well. Ciao, Moe.
What's up everybody? So, it's been about five months since I've
written you all last. During that time I've mostly been working on the boat,
the details of which I'll not bore you with, since you all either are working on
the boat, have worked on the boat at some point, or have heard me talk about it
so much that it feels like you've worked on the boat. Anyway, I finished with
that for now, having earned enough money (I hope) to make it through the last
two quarters of my schooling. I have now a free three weeks before I need to be
home for Christmas (My mother's made it very clear that since I'll be in the
hemisphere this year, that I should at least be home for that) and three weeks,
I decided, is plenty of time for an ill advised adventure to Cuba. So without
any real preparation or thought about my trip, besides buying plane tickets, a
real pain in the ass since you I had to fly through the Bahamas, I find myself
in the middle of Havana writing you all this email.
As hostels don't really seem to be an option in Cuba, at least not so far, and
since the Cuba book that I bought is probably languishing amongst Bob Marley
cd's and Doritos bags in the dregs of my friend's car in Olympia, I guess I
really wouldn't know. So, I'm staying with a family. It's difficult to move
50ft in Havana viejo, the old touristy part of Havana, without some guy asking
you if you need any number of the plethora of services he can provide, ie. rooms,
drugs, women, tours, etc. After finding that all the hotels were at least 50
bucks a night, I let one of the hustlers take me to a family who rents a room
for 25 bucks a night. I'm sure that I can find one for less, but I like the old
lady who runs it, it feels fairly secure, and it's only a couple of blocks off
the main drag of old Havana. The guy, in return for finding me this place,
asked only that I buy him a thing of powdered milk for his son. Sure, why not,
I thought. At least it's for a good cause, and it can't be that expensive, so
when his Uncle, who had been tagging along asked for one as well, I said no
problem. I strode up to the counter in the store and confidently asked for two cans of their finest powdered milk. The cashier said, that'll be $11.50. Uh, make that
one.
Old Havana is beautiful. Narrow streets run between buildings with old colonial
arches, tall dark wood store fronts, and second floor balconies with iron work
reminiscent of the French quarter in New Orleans. Since this part of town is
UNESCO protected, they've done an admirable job restoring the buildings here,
but as soon as you leave this part of town, they fade quickly into crumbled
glory, and the wide streets become a playground of cars from my father's
childhood. How the people here have managed to keep these cars running for all
these years is beyond me, but the streets of Havana look like an old gangster
movie, with a few nondescript eastern European cars thrown in for good measure.
Night in Old Havana is exactly how I pictured it. Cuban salsa, flamenco, and
meringue wafts through the wooden lattice work out of every restaurant and bar.
Mojitos and Cuba Libres flowing, while people enjoy the food and atmosphere (all
right, I'm starting to sound like a restaurant guide). Anyway, last night
happened upon a flamenco show. A five piece band played and sang while a man
and a women first alternately danced and then together to the rythems of the
music. They flung their heels about with reckless abandon while their hands delicately floated through the air, smiling all the while. I've never been so impressed with a man in heels.
Anyway, I think that this is enough for now. My brother, Wil, will be joining
me later today, assuming everything goes as planned, and we will be wandering about
Cuba for three weeks. So, you will, as usual, be able to look forward to a few
more of my emails. I hope that this message finds everyone well. Ciao, Moe.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Buhbuhdabahdada
Quito, Ecuador
So the title of my email is supposed to sound like a trumpet, or a loud brass instrument of your choice in your head.
Well kids, this is it. I'm sitting in an internet place for the last time in Quito, writing my last group email, drinking my last pilsener beer (well, there might be one or two of more in my future) and tomorrow, early, I board the airplane to come home.
So, what have I learned in ten months? Well, let me tell ya'.
I learned -
About beer - That pouring a beer at altitude takes more skill and patience than I have.
That when you have a serious cough, like I do know, beer relaxes the diaphragm and lets you breath easier (This is more of a working theory).
That it was possible for me to enjoy good beer even more than I did (If your wondering how, just drink shitty beer for ten months. When my mom visited in March she brought me down a six pack of pale ale. One beer broke and soaked all of the other stuff that she brought me in strong beer and it was totally worth it).
About shopping - I still hate it.
Bargaining is possible for everything. I'm going to buy some toothpaste in the states and say $2.50? Is there a discount?
Bargaining is not always worth it. You find yourself walking away for a piece of art that you really like because your not willing to pay the extra 25 cents the vender wants.
Shopping with a bunch of classmates is infinitely worse when their female (actually I already knew that) especially if one of them's named Sunshine.
About Ecuador - A lot of stuff that I'll never use, ie. the history.
Altitude does make a difference.
That when I play basketball here, I feel like a superstar.
If you go out with a girl here, your are expected to pay everything. I know now why they call it going dutch, rather going Ecuadorian.
About language – The best way to learn language is to get a girlfriend who doesn’t speak your language (and prefribly can fluently speak the language that you’re trying to learn).
I don’t think I know how to spell the word prefribly.
It’s possible to live in a country for ten months and not become completely fluent in the native language.
Alrighty, that’s enough. I know that I’ll go to bed tonight and think of nine million more, probably much funnier. But I’m tired now and I got some things to do.
All right everyone. Thank you very much for your attention over the past ten months. I appreciate all the comments and the fact that some of you actually bother to read what I write. To answer a question that some of you have asked, I am working on a book, but not about travelling. It’s sort of a science fiction, spiritual thing. Ok. Happy adventures. Moe
So the title of my email is supposed to sound like a trumpet, or a loud brass instrument of your choice in your head.
Well kids, this is it. I'm sitting in an internet place for the last time in Quito, writing my last group email, drinking my last pilsener beer (well, there might be one or two of more in my future) and tomorrow, early, I board the airplane to come home.
So, what have I learned in ten months? Well, let me tell ya'.
I learned -
About beer - That pouring a beer at altitude takes more skill and patience than I have.
That when you have a serious cough, like I do know, beer relaxes the diaphragm and lets you breath easier (This is more of a working theory).
That it was possible for me to enjoy good beer even more than I did (If your wondering how, just drink shitty beer for ten months. When my mom visited in March she brought me down a six pack of pale ale. One beer broke and soaked all of the other stuff that she brought me in strong beer and it was totally worth it).
About shopping - I still hate it.
Bargaining is possible for everything. I'm going to buy some toothpaste in the states and say $2.50? Is there a discount?
Bargaining is not always worth it. You find yourself walking away for a piece of art that you really like because your not willing to pay the extra 25 cents the vender wants.
Shopping with a bunch of classmates is infinitely worse when their female (actually I already knew that) especially if one of them's named Sunshine.
About Ecuador - A lot of stuff that I'll never use, ie. the history.
Altitude does make a difference.
That when I play basketball here, I feel like a superstar.
If you go out with a girl here, your are expected to pay everything. I know now why they call it going dutch, rather going Ecuadorian.
About language – The best way to learn language is to get a girlfriend who doesn’t speak your language (and prefribly can fluently speak the language that you’re trying to learn).
I don’t think I know how to spell the word prefribly.
It’s possible to live in a country for ten months and not become completely fluent in the native language.
Alrighty, that’s enough. I know that I’ll go to bed tonight and think of nine million more, probably much funnier. But I’m tired now and I got some things to do.
All right everyone. Thank you very much for your attention over the past ten months. I appreciate all the comments and the fact that some of you actually bother to read what I write. To answer a question that some of you have asked, I am working on a book, but not about travelling. It’s sort of a science fiction, spiritual thing. Ok. Happy adventures. Moe
Monday, June 28, 2004
Full Leather RIot Gear
Cuzco, Peru
I don't know why I picked it up. I thought that perhaps a wandering security guard dropped it. Or maybe police were coming through checking Id's. Anyway, when my eyes rested on his clear spiked higheels, I knew that this wasn't your normal security guard. And my eyes went up further to his tight leather ass-shorts, black suspenders, riot helmet and nothing else but an expectant look, I realized further that the 12 inch black police baton was his and not used for normal police work. That's when I said to myself - Oh...It's that kind of party.
Inti-Raymi is the sun festival in Cuzco, Peru. We spent six days and more importantly six nights in Cuzco, and for the first time ever, when I found that my flight out on Sunday was canceled, my body actually shuddered at the thought of another night out on the town. There were cultural events as well, we, well ok one cultural event. We saw the indigenous ceremony at the Incan ruins over looking the town, Sachasayhuaman (pronounced sexy woman), which was very interesting. Although a drizzle throughout most of the afternoon put a damper on the sun ceremony, towards the end of some particularly enlightened chanting, in Quecha, a magnificent rainbow marticulated over the proceedings and made believers of even the most skeptical viewers.
We had come to Cuzco from Bolivia (I seem to be doing this backwards), where I met my friend from school in Ecuador, Caitlin and her brother, Toby. We first took a four day tour through the salt flats of Bolivia. We saw green and red lakes with pink flamencos, precarious rock formations, and the salt flats themselves, which seemed to be about 12,000 square kilometers of nothing. The prime attraction being that you can take cool pictures with people standing far away and mess with proportions. For example, I took a picture with me holding a beer with a bewildered look on my face and Caitlin and her brother standing far enough away that they looked like small people (one devil and one angel) whispering in each ear. You get the idea. After the salt flats we went to Lake Titicaca, though I was had picked up a cold from a particularly nasty bus ride and didn't feel up to doing much of anything. And from Lake Titicaca we arrived in Cuzco.
Alrighty. That about catches y'all up. I come home on Thursday, so you can expect a wrap up email and that's about it. Ok, I hope this email finds everyone well. See some of you soon. Moe
I don't know why I picked it up. I thought that perhaps a wandering security guard dropped it. Or maybe police were coming through checking Id's. Anyway, when my eyes rested on his clear spiked higheels, I knew that this wasn't your normal security guard. And my eyes went up further to his tight leather ass-shorts, black suspenders, riot helmet and nothing else but an expectant look, I realized further that the 12 inch black police baton was his and not used for normal police work. That's when I said to myself - Oh...It's that kind of party.
Inti-Raymi is the sun festival in Cuzco, Peru. We spent six days and more importantly six nights in Cuzco, and for the first time ever, when I found that my flight out on Sunday was canceled, my body actually shuddered at the thought of another night out on the town. There were cultural events as well, we, well ok one cultural event. We saw the indigenous ceremony at the Incan ruins over looking the town, Sachasayhuaman (pronounced sexy woman), which was very interesting. Although a drizzle throughout most of the afternoon put a damper on the sun ceremony, towards the end of some particularly enlightened chanting, in Quecha, a magnificent rainbow marticulated over the proceedings and made believers of even the most skeptical viewers.
We had come to Cuzco from Bolivia (I seem to be doing this backwards), where I met my friend from school in Ecuador, Caitlin and her brother, Toby. We first took a four day tour through the salt flats of Bolivia. We saw green and red lakes with pink flamencos, precarious rock formations, and the salt flats themselves, which seemed to be about 12,000 square kilometers of nothing. The prime attraction being that you can take cool pictures with people standing far away and mess with proportions. For example, I took a picture with me holding a beer with a bewildered look on my face and Caitlin and her brother standing far enough away that they looked like small people (one devil and one angel) whispering in each ear. You get the idea. After the salt flats we went to Lake Titicaca, though I was had picked up a cold from a particularly nasty bus ride and didn't feel up to doing much of anything. And from Lake Titicaca we arrived in Cuzco.
Alrighty. That about catches y'all up. I come home on Thursday, so you can expect a wrap up email and that's about it. Ok, I hope this email finds everyone well. See some of you soon. Moe
Friday, June 18, 2004
The World's Most Dangerous Road!
La Paz, Bolivia
What's up kids? I hope everyone is well. Ok, I've got a lot to talk about, so I guess I should get started. I arrived in the middle of the night in La Paz, Bolivia 2 weeks ago after finishing my school year in Ecuador. I was excited to be done with school and to fall into my more natural state of a traveler. When I woke up on my first day I found myself in the middle of a large festival. I seem to be getting good at blundering in to exciting fiestas, and this one didn't disappoint. A parade through the middle of the city started around 6am. I made it down there about 10am, hoping that I hadn't missed it. I needn't have worried. For three hours I watched locals dance in front of large marching bands wearing elaborate masks and costumes dripping with beads, bells and feathers, while twirling noise makers or jabbing ceramonial spears. Some of their outfits must have weighed more than 30 pounds. As it was a hot day and as La Paz is at 12,000 ft (making it the highest capital city in the world) the dancers lungs must have struggled to find air between sips of pisco and the puffs on cigarettes that were offered every few feet by the throngs of admiring onlookers. I watched the parade for a few hours, and then went off in search of a bar to view the Ecuador vs. Bolivia soccer game. I had finally viewed my first goals first hand only a few days before when Ecuador played Colombia, so I was anxious to see my adopted team play again. I found a bar, but the waitress there wanted to cut me off by halftime after only two beers. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have been chanting “¡Si se puede! and other Ecuador chants after each of their 3 first half goals. However, Bolivia scored early in the second half and I was able to resume a working relationship with the beer girl. When Ecuador finally won, 3-2, I decided to leave and find a less hostile environment.
The next day I signed up for a bike ride down the world’s most dangerous road. I had heard stories about this road, but I have been on many a dangerous road in my life and decided that I needed to find out for myself and what better way to do that but by hurling myself down it on a highly dubious mountain bike. The tourist office told me that it was entirely safe and that I shouldn’t worry, only people who didn’t know what they were doing had problems, so I left the office with a confident stride. That night I went to a bar for a couple of drinks to watch the basketball game and I ran into a couple of Americans. One had been living in La Paz for four months and his friends were just visiting. I casually mentioned my adventure for the next morning. My new friends started laughing. The one who had been living in La Paz, clapped my shoulder and said, “Good luck. Do you know how many people die on that road a year?� I shook my head. He smiled. When I left the bar (my friends advising me to visit a priest on my way to my hostal) my confident stride was replaced by a whimpering shuffle, but I was still determined to go through with it.
The next morning when I met the group my confidence was somewhat restored as there were 18 people in our group. I thought to myself, hey we’ll probably only lose a couple of us, so my chances are pretty good. The ride started at about 15,000 feet in the freezing cold mountains and descended to less than 5,000 in the sweltering jungle. As we started, the road was perfectly paved, had two nice wide lanes and even a guard rail in places. I thought, this is the most dangerous road in the world? Hah! They obviously never been to Guatamala. We made it down about a third of it, most of us riding about 45 mph or so, and it was easy. Then we stopped at a fork in the road for a break. One fork continued, not quite paved but with level gravel at a reasonable grade. The other seemed to be made with small boulders, was only one lane, had a drop off of at least 200 feet, and looked like it ran straight down. Of course this is the road that we were to take. As we started, I told myself “Easy now, let’s just stay towards the middle of the pack.” Unfortunately I’ve never been much of a middle of the pack kinda guy and was riding for the most part with the front guide. Throughout most of Bolivia drivers stay to the right (though this seems to be not much more than guideline rather than a law) for this part of the road people coming downhill had to stay to the left, the cliffside. As we whizzed down the dusty, rocky, wrist-shattering road, under waterfalls and next dizzying dropoffs, it was little disconcerting to see white crosses and memorials every 100 yards or so. When we stopped for breaks you could read the names and many of them weren’t Latino. We were about halfway down when my chain came off. I fixed it and got back going, behind the first group but in front of the second group. We were under strict orders to stay on the left-hand side of the road, but it’s a bit difficult when there’s an ever-present chance of plunging to your death on that side, but I was doing my best. However, as I rode fast to catch up to my group, I came around a corner somewhere in the middle of the road I found myself face to face with a large semi, blaring it’s horn. My first instinct was to swerve to the right, towards the cliff, but there was no room. I swerved back to the left and was able to straighten it out just in time to go over a small divit in the side of the road that some small minute landslide had made. As my tires bounced over the divet, I was actually able to look straight down a few hundred feet. It made me a tad bit shakey, but I eventually made it back with the group and to the bottom my forearms and fingers weary from applying the brake, but more or less unscathed.
Well, damn. This is already too long. I really intended on cactching everybody up today, but apparently that’s not going to happen. Anyway, everyone have a nice day, and I will try again in a week or so. Moe
Tuesday, June 1, 2004
Drag Queen Drag Out
Muisne, Ecuador
I took off on Wednesday morning for my whirlwind tour of Ecuador. I had a week and a half to visit four different cities scattered around the country and talk to tour agencies as a part of my internship in Muisne. Though I was incredibly lucky to get this assignment (and I was; the thought that I was getting credit for school while laying on the beach with two blonde Swedish girls or under the kneading hands of an indigenous masseuse, warmed my heart) I was able, through a series of blunders and unlikely events, able to make it much harder than it needed to be. From Muisne in the North-east corner of Ecuador I left in the morning headed south, intending to spend a night in Montañita (my favorite beach town, that I’ve described before). There are two different ways to go, I could either take a round a bout way that meant only two buses, or go down the coast, which meant a few more buses, but I figured it was the more direct route and therefore the faster route. I was wrong. After traveling all day on seven buses and a boat, I pulled into a town that the bus station proclaimed Xipixapa (pronounced Hipihapa and spelled by most people Jipijapa), two hours north of my destination and was informed that there were no more buses headed south that night. The next morning I finally reached Montañita and the conclusion that because it was Thursday already and I wouldn’t be able to make the next town on my list until Friday night, that I had better just stay where I was for the weekend. Luckily there was a local fiesta and new friends to keep me entertained. From Montañita I took a night bus to Vilcabamba which is a little town in a beautiful valley in the South, where I really had not much work to do, but I had always wanted to go. It’s famous for it’s hostals with massages, mud treatments, etc. So I hung out in Vilcabamba for a couple of days soaking up its splendors. But oops, it was now Wednesday morning, I really had done anything yet, and I only had until Sunday to be back in Muisne. So I hopped on a bus for the six hour ride north to my next city, Cuenca.
When I arrived in Cuenca, I bought a ticket for Quito for 11:30 that night and left my backpack in the bus office. I then ran around Cuenca talking to the agencies and when they closed, sat myself in a bar to watch basketball and drink some beers (it makes it easier to sleep on the bus). I came back at 11 that night and found that somehow: 1. I had lost my bus ticket 2. There was never a bus from that agency going to Quito and 3. My backpack was now safely locked in the closed office. I only spent about five minutes arguing with a very suspicious information clerk, before I realized the futility of trying to convince him to call someone in from their home to unlock the office for a highly dubious, slightly intoxicated gringo, with no ticket for a bus that didn’t exist. Oh well. I spent that night in Cuenca and the next day on the bus. I got to Quito that night at 7 o’clock just wanting a shower and to sleep in my own bed in the house of my host family. Unfortunately, my key no longer worked and nobody was home. Perfect. I found out that someone had broken in a couple of weeks before. I slept in a cheap hotel. The next day I finished my work in Quito and was even able to spend Saturday visiting friends before I took the night bus back to Muisne that night.
Which brings us to the story that inspired the title of this email. I had to transfer buses at about four o’clock in the morning, and when I got on the next bus I found that I was alone; alone that is with two drag queen brawling it out in the aisle of the bus. Press-on nails, horsehair braids, and lisped curses flying, I settled down in my seat, too exhausted to really be properly amused at the spectacle. With much pushing, shoving and pulling of fake hair, they were trying to push each other off the bus without any success on either side. Finally an indigenous man with his wife and two small children boarded and he complained to the driver, who in turn threatened to throw battling vixens off the bus. We pulled into Muisne at six in the morning as the sun broke over the water, the children nestled in the layers of their mother’s skirts, and the reconciled lovers cooed in the back of the bus.
Well kids, that’s all for now. I will be home in exactly a month on July 1st. I hope this message finds everyone well. Moe.
I took off on Wednesday morning for my whirlwind tour of Ecuador. I had a week and a half to visit four different cities scattered around the country and talk to tour agencies as a part of my internship in Muisne. Though I was incredibly lucky to get this assignment (and I was; the thought that I was getting credit for school while laying on the beach with two blonde Swedish girls or under the kneading hands of an indigenous masseuse, warmed my heart) I was able, through a series of blunders and unlikely events, able to make it much harder than it needed to be. From Muisne in the North-east corner of Ecuador I left in the morning headed south, intending to spend a night in Montañita (my favorite beach town, that I’ve described before). There are two different ways to go, I could either take a round a bout way that meant only two buses, or go down the coast, which meant a few more buses, but I figured it was the more direct route and therefore the faster route. I was wrong. After traveling all day on seven buses and a boat, I pulled into a town that the bus station proclaimed Xipixapa (pronounced Hipihapa and spelled by most people Jipijapa), two hours north of my destination and was informed that there were no more buses headed south that night. The next morning I finally reached Montañita and the conclusion that because it was Thursday already and I wouldn’t be able to make the next town on my list until Friday night, that I had better just stay where I was for the weekend. Luckily there was a local fiesta and new friends to keep me entertained. From Montañita I took a night bus to Vilcabamba which is a little town in a beautiful valley in the South, where I really had not much work to do, but I had always wanted to go. It’s famous for it’s hostals with massages, mud treatments, etc. So I hung out in Vilcabamba for a couple of days soaking up its splendors. But oops, it was now Wednesday morning, I really had done anything yet, and I only had until Sunday to be back in Muisne. So I hopped on a bus for the six hour ride north to my next city, Cuenca.
When I arrived in Cuenca, I bought a ticket for Quito for 11:30 that night and left my backpack in the bus office. I then ran around Cuenca talking to the agencies and when they closed, sat myself in a bar to watch basketball and drink some beers (it makes it easier to sleep on the bus). I came back at 11 that night and found that somehow: 1. I had lost my bus ticket 2. There was never a bus from that agency going to Quito and 3. My backpack was now safely locked in the closed office. I only spent about five minutes arguing with a very suspicious information clerk, before I realized the futility of trying to convince him to call someone in from their home to unlock the office for a highly dubious, slightly intoxicated gringo, with no ticket for a bus that didn’t exist. Oh well. I spent that night in Cuenca and the next day on the bus. I got to Quito that night at 7 o’clock just wanting a shower and to sleep in my own bed in the house of my host family. Unfortunately, my key no longer worked and nobody was home. Perfect. I found out that someone had broken in a couple of weeks before. I slept in a cheap hotel. The next day I finished my work in Quito and was even able to spend Saturday visiting friends before I took the night bus back to Muisne that night.
Which brings us to the story that inspired the title of this email. I had to transfer buses at about four o’clock in the morning, and when I got on the next bus I found that I was alone; alone that is with two drag queen brawling it out in the aisle of the bus. Press-on nails, horsehair braids, and lisped curses flying, I settled down in my seat, too exhausted to really be properly amused at the spectacle. With much pushing, shoving and pulling of fake hair, they were trying to push each other off the bus without any success on either side. Finally an indigenous man with his wife and two small children boarded and he complained to the driver, who in turn threatened to throw battling vixens off the bus. We pulled into Muisne at six in the morning as the sun broke over the water, the children nestled in the layers of their mother’s skirts, and the reconciled lovers cooed in the back of the bus.
Well kids, that’s all for now. I will be home in exactly a month on July 1st. I hope this message finds everyone well. Moe.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
A Day in the Life: Muisne
Muisne, Ecuador
I wake up, untangle myself from my mosquito net and take a shower, thanking the powers that be I have one. Other interns in FUNDECOL, an organization to save the mangroves along the coast of Northwestern Ecuador, don't have running water. They have to take bucket showers with dubious water. The house is nice for Muisne, the island I'm working on. My only complaint is that the ceiling doesn't reach the ceiling. This coupled with the fact that bathroom is neatly sandwiched between my host parents room and the room that my teenaged sister and brother share is disconcerting in a region where dengue fever, malaria and typhoid are only a few of the plethora of explosive diseases, parasites or amoebas that are not only possible to catch, but are probable. I slather myself in DEET, though I can't help but think that by putting poison on my skin I'm sacrificing the long term health of my skin for the short term health of my sanity. Though there are those explosive diseases to think about after all.
I walk off to FUNDECOL where I am working to develop, organize and promote there ecotourism program. By lunchtime it's sweltering. Sweating is a way of life in Muisne, so during my two and a half hour lunch break I grab a quick bite and head off to the beach five minutes away. I walk down the middle of the road without fear. There are no cars here. A garbage truck, an ambulance and the occasional banana truck are the only air polluters in Muisne. However, what they lack in air pollution, the locals enthusiastically make up for in land pollution. There is garbage everywhere. It kills me. I'm thinking about organizing some sort of contest with the high school to clean the island up, but unfortunately I doubt that I'll have the time. Organizing anything in Ecuador can be an exhausting task. The beach is clean. The few hotels on the island keep it that way, and it's beautiful. Miles of unbroken white sand slide under the cool blue rolling waves. It more than makes up for the humidity. I can stand almost any kind of heat as long as I can float in a soothing sea once in a while. I watch the little kids boogie boarding, their ridiculously good. Younger ones skim on pieces of discarded plywood on the farthest fingers of the reaching ocean. These kids don't ever seem to go to school. I try to feel sorry for them, but as I watch them catching their waves, their boards tied to their brown ankles, their faces frozen in eternal ecstasy it's kind of hard. Finally it's time to go back to work. I walk back down the road. One of the little tricycles that are kind of like rickshaws and transport people back and forth on the island for fifty cents rides by and asks me if I need a ride. For the millionth time I say no, I can walk.
After work I take a nap in my pale cocoon. I eat dinner and walk into town. Though it's a Wednesday night, there are lots of people about. As I walk everyone smiles and says hello. That is why I picked Muisne as the place where I wanted to do my internship. Everyone is really open and friendly. People are friendly all over Ecuador, but in most places they are much more reserved. I find a group of my friends in the plaza. They are hanging out and are, as always, playing a guitar, singing, and drinking a cocktail made out of sugar cane liquor and coconut juice. Since the coconut juice comes from coconuts that they cut themselves and the liquor is like a 75 cents a bottle, it's a cheap way to get drunk. As this is pretty much all they do, they are really good at it. There is one sweaty crowded disco, but it's only open on Saturday nights. After the evening of cantar, cocktails and conversation, I head on home and carefully situate my soft, suspended net of discomfort. Of course as soon as I get it situated, all tucked in with the fan on the inside, nature calls or at least the coconut juice. But I'm bound and determined to learn how to sleep in one of these things. I've got a month left to figure it out. All right kids, that about does it for now. I'll be home July 1st. Enjoy yourselves. Moe
I wake up, untangle myself from my mosquito net and take a shower, thanking the powers that be I have one. Other interns in FUNDECOL, an organization to save the mangroves along the coast of Northwestern Ecuador, don't have running water. They have to take bucket showers with dubious water. The house is nice for Muisne, the island I'm working on. My only complaint is that the ceiling doesn't reach the ceiling. This coupled with the fact that bathroom is neatly sandwiched between my host parents room and the room that my teenaged sister and brother share is disconcerting in a region where dengue fever, malaria and typhoid are only a few of the plethora of explosive diseases, parasites or amoebas that are not only possible to catch, but are probable. I slather myself in DEET, though I can't help but think that by putting poison on my skin I'm sacrificing the long term health of my skin for the short term health of my sanity. Though there are those explosive diseases to think about after all.
I walk off to FUNDECOL where I am working to develop, organize and promote there ecotourism program. By lunchtime it's sweltering. Sweating is a way of life in Muisne, so during my two and a half hour lunch break I grab a quick bite and head off to the beach five minutes away. I walk down the middle of the road without fear. There are no cars here. A garbage truck, an ambulance and the occasional banana truck are the only air polluters in Muisne. However, what they lack in air pollution, the locals enthusiastically make up for in land pollution. There is garbage everywhere. It kills me. I'm thinking about organizing some sort of contest with the high school to clean the island up, but unfortunately I doubt that I'll have the time. Organizing anything in Ecuador can be an exhausting task. The beach is clean. The few hotels on the island keep it that way, and it's beautiful. Miles of unbroken white sand slide under the cool blue rolling waves. It more than makes up for the humidity. I can stand almost any kind of heat as long as I can float in a soothing sea once in a while. I watch the little kids boogie boarding, their ridiculously good. Younger ones skim on pieces of discarded plywood on the farthest fingers of the reaching ocean. These kids don't ever seem to go to school. I try to feel sorry for them, but as I watch them catching their waves, their boards tied to their brown ankles, their faces frozen in eternal ecstasy it's kind of hard. Finally it's time to go back to work. I walk back down the road. One of the little tricycles that are kind of like rickshaws and transport people back and forth on the island for fifty cents rides by and asks me if I need a ride. For the millionth time I say no, I can walk.
After work I take a nap in my pale cocoon. I eat dinner and walk into town. Though it's a Wednesday night, there are lots of people about. As I walk everyone smiles and says hello. That is why I picked Muisne as the place where I wanted to do my internship. Everyone is really open and friendly. People are friendly all over Ecuador, but in most places they are much more reserved. I find a group of my friends in the plaza. They are hanging out and are, as always, playing a guitar, singing, and drinking a cocktail made out of sugar cane liquor and coconut juice. Since the coconut juice comes from coconuts that they cut themselves and the liquor is like a 75 cents a bottle, it's a cheap way to get drunk. As this is pretty much all they do, they are really good at it. There is one sweaty crowded disco, but it's only open on Saturday nights. After the evening of cantar, cocktails and conversation, I head on home and carefully situate my soft, suspended net of discomfort. Of course as soon as I get it situated, all tucked in with the fan on the inside, nature calls or at least the coconut juice. But I'm bound and determined to learn how to sleep in one of these things. I've got a month left to figure it out. All right kids, that about does it for now. I'll be home July 1st. Enjoy yourselves. Moe
Saturday, April 17, 2004
Maccu-Piccu and Cuzco too...
Cuzco, Peru
Hello all. Man I was doing so well, I had you all caught up and everything, but then I guess I got a little arrogant in my sucess and now I'm all behind again. We last left you in Montanita for carnaval I believe. Let's see now the next big thing to happen was Spring Break, which meant the end of my studying in Quito (I am now working in an internship on a small island, but we'll have to save that for another email), and the arrival of my mother for visit for a few weeks. This was exciting, since in all my travels and all my working in various places, this was the first time that she was able to make it down to visit me, and her first time travelling in a number of years. We spent her first few days in Quito. She got to meet my Quito parents and experience the attitude, altitude and culture of my home of the last six months. Then, since I was ready to go somewhere outside of Ecuador, we headed off to Cuzco, Peru. Cuzco is a city whose beauty almost makes up for the massive infestation of tourists and the locals who inevitably capitalize on such an infestation. It's full of beautiful churches, narrow cobblestone passageways, and cute little girls traditionally dressed holding baby goats and badger you to take their picture for 50 cents. Despite the annoyance of so many touristas (which I do realize, I am apart of) the sacred valley around Cuzco is incredible. I have never seen so much evidence of an ancient civilization infused with modern life. The first day we were there, we went to a cool little market that was run by a womens co-op, and it wasn't long before we joined the mass of sheepish gringos walking around, wondering how in the hell we're going to get that entirely unnecessary huge alpaca blanket home. The next day we headed off to Macchu Piccu, the real reason for our trip. The only way to get there is to take a train that runs between magnificent craggy peaks and churning blue rivers. We made it to the town of Aguas Calientes, spent the night and were ready to go up to Macchu Piccu in the morning.
When we entered the park it was in a cloud. We could barely see ten feet in front of us. Grey Incan walls materialized out of nowhere from the swirling white mist. As mother is like son, we didn't bother to bring much of a map into the ruins, trusting that our superior sense of direction and animal like instincts would guide us through the sprawling ruins without any effort. We were lost immediately. Once a park worker pointed us back on the right track we wandered down into the ruins. The city itself is straddles a sharp ridge between two jagged mountains, and is surrounded by beautiful green terraces that stair-step down into deep valleys below as far as the eye can see. But as of yet we didn't know this, since our eyes couldn't see a damn thing. I read in my book that we could easily climb the mountain that overlooked the ruins, so after stumbling blindly through the ruins we finally found the trail head. The sign cheerfully told us that it was just a short 40 minute hike, and we thought "hey no problem" and since we couldn't see the mountain at that moment, we decided to take their word for it. I'm not sure when Tenzig Norgay visited the park, but a forty minute hike it was not. It was an hour or two of hiking straight up, much of it stairs. In some places the park thoughtfully provided a rope, but in other places, not. Now though my mother has always been an adventurous spirit, a mountaineer she's not. But slowly and surely we made our way up the mountain and when we got to the top, the clouds broke and we were finally rewarded with a stunning view of not only the ruins but of the craggy peaks and never ending valleys below. We made our way back down and were able to explore the ruins in daylight, taking some amazing photos of the ruins. The city is a jumble of geometry with square windows set into triangular walls that overlook rectangular plazas and are built with perfect fitting smooth stones.
The next day we found out that a landslide had taken out the train tracks and we ended up stranded in Aguas Calientes for a couple of days. I had been trying to buy a return ticket ever since we had come, but had been thwarted for different reasons every time. My chagrin increased when I found out that the ticketholders were being flown out by helicopter. Damn, that would have been cool. In the end we had to hike out past the landslide where a train picked us up. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I see that this is getting a bit long, and so I'll cut it short saying that we enjoyed the rest of my Mom's visit. Anyway, next time I will try to update the endeavor that I am partaking in now, but for now I wish you all a good night. Moe.
Hello all. Man I was doing so well, I had you all caught up and everything, but then I guess I got a little arrogant in my sucess and now I'm all behind again. We last left you in Montanita for carnaval I believe. Let's see now the next big thing to happen was Spring Break, which meant the end of my studying in Quito (I am now working in an internship on a small island, but we'll have to save that for another email), and the arrival of my mother for visit for a few weeks. This was exciting, since in all my travels and all my working in various places, this was the first time that she was able to make it down to visit me, and her first time travelling in a number of years. We spent her first few days in Quito. She got to meet my Quito parents and experience the attitude, altitude and culture of my home of the last six months. Then, since I was ready to go somewhere outside of Ecuador, we headed off to Cuzco, Peru. Cuzco is a city whose beauty almost makes up for the massive infestation of tourists and the locals who inevitably capitalize on such an infestation. It's full of beautiful churches, narrow cobblestone passageways, and cute little girls traditionally dressed holding baby goats and badger you to take their picture for 50 cents. Despite the annoyance of so many touristas (which I do realize, I am apart of) the sacred valley around Cuzco is incredible. I have never seen so much evidence of an ancient civilization infused with modern life. The first day we were there, we went to a cool little market that was run by a womens co-op, and it wasn't long before we joined the mass of sheepish gringos walking around, wondering how in the hell we're going to get that entirely unnecessary huge alpaca blanket home. The next day we headed off to Macchu Piccu, the real reason for our trip. The only way to get there is to take a train that runs between magnificent craggy peaks and churning blue rivers. We made it to the town of Aguas Calientes, spent the night and were ready to go up to Macchu Piccu in the morning.
When we entered the park it was in a cloud. We could barely see ten feet in front of us. Grey Incan walls materialized out of nowhere from the swirling white mist. As mother is like son, we didn't bother to bring much of a map into the ruins, trusting that our superior sense of direction and animal like instincts would guide us through the sprawling ruins without any effort. We were lost immediately. Once a park worker pointed us back on the right track we wandered down into the ruins. The city itself is straddles a sharp ridge between two jagged mountains, and is surrounded by beautiful green terraces that stair-step down into deep valleys below as far as the eye can see. But as of yet we didn't know this, since our eyes couldn't see a damn thing. I read in my book that we could easily climb the mountain that overlooked the ruins, so after stumbling blindly through the ruins we finally found the trail head. The sign cheerfully told us that it was just a short 40 minute hike, and we thought "hey no problem" and since we couldn't see the mountain at that moment, we decided to take their word for it. I'm not sure when Tenzig Norgay visited the park, but a forty minute hike it was not. It was an hour or two of hiking straight up, much of it stairs. In some places the park thoughtfully provided a rope, but in other places, not. Now though my mother has always been an adventurous spirit, a mountaineer she's not. But slowly and surely we made our way up the mountain and when we got to the top, the clouds broke and we were finally rewarded with a stunning view of not only the ruins but of the craggy peaks and never ending valleys below. We made our way back down and were able to explore the ruins in daylight, taking some amazing photos of the ruins. The city is a jumble of geometry with square windows set into triangular walls that overlook rectangular plazas and are built with perfect fitting smooth stones.
The next day we found out that a landslide had taken out the train tracks and we ended up stranded in Aguas Calientes for a couple of days. I had been trying to buy a return ticket ever since we had come, but had been thwarted for different reasons every time. My chagrin increased when I found out that the ticketholders were being flown out by helicopter. Damn, that would have been cool. In the end we had to hike out past the landslide where a train picked us up. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I see that this is getting a bit long, and so I'll cut it short saying that we enjoyed the rest of my Mom's visit. Anyway, next time I will try to update the endeavor that I am partaking in now, but for now I wish you all a good night. Moe.
Friday, February 20, 2004
A Day in the Life: Montanita Carnaval
Note: this email was reworked into a non-fiction piece in college, hence the lack of typos and overall cleanliness
Montanita, Ecuador
I wake up in a tangle of white. Have I died? Am I now in the feathery embrace of an angel? Am I drowning in albino silk? Nope. I'm stuck in my mosquito net again. My six-foot-three-inch body has difficulty with the five-foot-ten-inch net and though it hangs from a frame suspended above me, I usually wind up in the morning all tangled in it. It's better than the alternative, however. At least I am able to confine the infernal itching to my lower extremities. God it’s humid. My roommates forgot to open the windows before they went to bed last night, or perhaps it was partially my fault. All I know is that I haven’t been awake thirty seconds and I’m already sweating.
Memories of last night come back in flashes. Bonfires on the beach, a bottle of sugarcane alcohol passed around, that girl from I forget where, salsa blending into pop blending into hip-hop as you pass one thatched roof beach bar to another. I pull myself up and open the window above my bed. Blessed breeze passes through the room. Looking around, I see the bodies of my companions strewn about, passed out in their bunks. I doze in and out of contented sleep.
Eventually, we wake from our slumber and get ready for the upcoming day. We slather sunscreen all over each other. I let my friend do it this time as thin day-old strips of roasted red skin that I missed with sunscreen yesterday still sting. We gather everything we need into a bag and get ready to go. It’s amazing how much preparation and materials one needs for a long afternoon of doing nothing.
Montañita is a small town waiting to fall. It teeters precariously on the edge of Ecuador where the Pacific Ocean swallows those who are careless. Moreover, like a chair on two legs, the small fishing village waits to topple into the greedy outstretched fingers of the tourism industry. It’s only a matter of time. Ten years ago, Montañita was a traveler’s secret. Good surfing and amazing seafood awaited the hardy traveler who made the four-hour bus trip north from Guayaquil. The ca t, as they say, is out of the bag. Now, Montañita is prominently in all the guidebooks. Now, the buses to Montañita are stuffed with backpacks, surfboards and smelly-sunburned gringos. Nonetheless, it hasn’t completely lost its charm. The big resorts have not yet moved in. The town is still dominated by hastily thrown together hostels owned by ex-pats and well-connected locals and you can still find a decent room with a fan for seven bucks a night. However, it’s clear that the tide is turning and soon the town will be accessible to the average holidaymaker, which will render the town obsolete to the tranquilo travelers who currently inhabit the haven.
I’m in Montañita for Carnival, the Mardi Gras of South America. Travelers from all over the world have converged for a long weekend of surfing, dancing and general debauchery. I’ve been studying in Quito for about five months and have come on the long overnight bus with seven of my female classmates. We arrived yesterday morning, sweaty and groggy. However, within twenty minutes the cool ocean had already washed away the fourteen hours of discomfort it had taken to get here. Throughout the day and well into the evening, we reveled in the giddy feeling of freedom that comes in the first hours of a long weekend. This morning I find that the giddiness still hasn’t worn off.
We walk into the small town looking for breakfast, down the dusty street that divides the tall thatched-roofed hostels, each built with a haphazard mixture of bamboo and concrete. Paint is a resource not wasted on the outside of these buildings. It’s conserved for the inside, which are painted by artistic travelers who trade their time and craft for room and board and create virtual seascapes in every living space. Hammocks dangle like cobwebs on every balcony. Swimsuits and towels are carelessly slapped over bamboo banisters. Beachball-bellied, mustachioed local men shoot us welcoming smiles as they shoo away the small feral dogs who linger near the entrances of every restaurant, waiting for a handout.
Montañita is not an Ecuadorian cultural epicenter, but it has a culture of its own nonetheless. Dozens of countries are represented here and it’s not uncommon to wake up in an Israeli owned hostel, to be served breakfast by a Brit, to buy jewelry from a Thai and to rent a surfboard from an Argentinean, all in the space of one morning.
As we walk through the town we’re coolly eyed by dread-locked, bare-chested hippies, who sit in front of the hostels with their goods laid out before them: dijaridoos, tie-dyed cotton pants, hemp bracelets, hemp necklaces, hemp… whatever. They have that satisfied look in their eye, which seems to say, “Yeah, that’s right, we did it. We dropped out and now live on the beach selling felt hats, ivory nut jewelry, and bamboo bracelets. Your vacation is my life.” I have a half-a-mind to join them. However, then I wonder: where do they go on vacation?
We sit at an outside table at our favorite breakfast restaurant, owned by a German couple. I sip a large mango jugo and drink a real coffee, the only non-Nescafé coffee that I’ve had in Ecuador. A fruit-filled crepe smothered in honey is my favorite tropical breakfast. The crepe is an explosive sweet taste of pineapple tempered by the mellow flavor of banana.
Finished with breakfast, we meander down to the beach with our bags carelessly thrown over one shoulder. We lay out our towels to secure a prime spot to watch the surf competition that starts today. I strain to see the action, but soon realize that surfing is not really a spectator sport; however, watching beautiful Latina girls in bikinis is. Their soft eyes apologize for their mocking smiles, as they tease me with their sultry saunter, their silky brown skin and their furtive glances perfectly cast to catch the corner of my eye that leave me wondering if they were real. I love it here.
A few of us walk into the water to cool off. Coming back to our towels, I catch a passing cevíche vendor and buy an oyster cevíche. He cracks open four or five fresh oysters, each the size of a child’s fist. He cuts them up and mixes them with raw onion, tomato and green peppers. He then squeezes two limes into the bowl and adds a little hot sauce. It tastes like nothing else. The fresh vegetables crunch in the soft sweet oyster meat. As each bite slides down the back of my throat, the hot sauce burns the top of my mouth, so I douse it with cold beer. This meal could never be recreated in any restaurant. My friends sitting next to me, the saltwater in my hair and even the sand in m y swimsuit all add to its exquisite taste.
After lunch, I decide to rent a surfboard for a couple hours. The competition is on the north side of the beach, so I head towards the south side. There is something undeniably cool about walking down the beach with a surfboard under your arm, the rubber cord trailing from the board down to the Velcro strap around your ankle. Even though I have no talent and I’m carrying a pink long board that says Ocean Butterfly on it, I feel as if I’m a warrior about to enter battle. I saunter past the brown-skin bodies of three bikini-clad gringo ladies, who lay on their towels, and mercilessly assess the passing multitudes. I earn a slight smile from one of them. They don’t know. I could be the best surfer on the beach and as long as I walk far enough down the playa with my pink surfboard, they’ll never know.
I find a good spot and enter the water. The refreshing shock only lasts a couple of seconds before the ocean feels as cool as my sweat. I fight to get out to the bigger waves. I watch the other surfers nonchalantly duck under them with their board and then re-emerge paddling once the wave has passed them by. I try to mimic them, but the wave shoots the board out from under me and I end up tumbling end-over-end through the water and slamming down into the sandy bottom. I eventually figure out which way is up and get my feet on solid sand. I jump up and my head is just able to break the surface of the water and locate precious air before I have to brace myself for the next wave.
Finally, I get everything under control and work my way hand-over-hand on the leash attached to my ankle until I reach my board. I find that it’s easier for me to work my way through the waves by walking on the sand than by paddling through the water. When a wave comes, I jump and hold the board over my head. Though I get pushed back a step or two, between waves I’m able to move forward four of five steps and in this way I’m able to slowly struggle out to the bigger waves. When I get out as far as I can go, about fifty yards, I turn around and look for the right wave. When it comes, I paddle hard until I feel myself get picked up by the wave. My board races down the front of the swell and I wobbly start t o rise to my feet. Just as I stand upright, my back foot slides off the board and I go tumbling after in a spectacular wipeout. Once again, I’m in a spin cycle. When I recover, I blow the salt water from my nose, dig the sand out of my ear, locate my board and repeat the process a couple of times before retiring to the stable sanctity of the beach. I still look cool walking with my board.
Four o’clock. I head back to my hostel. I take a shower to rinse off the salt and sand. The nice showers in Ecuador have an electric head that warms the water. There are two settings, warm and hot, the price paid for this luxury for someone as tall as I am, is the opportunity for electrocution. When my head gets too close to the nozzle, the water drips electricity down my skin and if I accidentally touch it with my hand while I’m washing my hair, I might find myself shot out of the shower and lying on the floor with smoke rising from my shampooed head. I take a cold shower.
The shower felt good, but my skin still feels tight, as if it has shrunk a size or two. I lie back in my hammock and I can still feel the waves, except now they’re gentle. I relax like a man with nowhere to go and nobody to be. It doesn’t last long. Eventually, one of my friends pulls me up by my wrists out of the hammock. It’s time to go watch the sunset. We stroll on down to the beach. Inti, the sun god, is getting ready to call it a night. Surfers are getting in one last wave against the bloody backdrop of a dying sol. Children are running, rolling and wrestling in the sand, their bright white ecstatic smiles flashing against their brown bodies that blend with the brown sand. Do gs are romping in the surf, gaunt but content. A respectful hush settles over the beach as the sun makes its descent. The surfer’s shadows stop and sit on their boards. They float out beyond the break and put their hands over their eyes, giving the sun a final salute. The children look up from their entangled positions on the beach, oblivious to the sand plastered to their bodies. The dogs continue to romp. Finally, the sun succumbs and splashes down into the sea, defiantly throwing pink streaks up into the ever-growing darker sky. Love it here.
What’ll it be tonight? Seafood? Pizza? Perhaps we’ll try that vegetarian restaurant. Tonight, we decide to try out the barbecue place that had been tempting us with its sizzle ever since we’d arrived. For three dollars, we have the choice of large helpings of fresh fish, chicken or beef. Each comes with enough of beans and rice to feed the small army of dogs congregated at our feet. After dinner, we sit in our favorite little spot, on our favorite part of the street, with our favorite bottle rum and our favorite lovely people. The world walks by. Everybody we meet we give a nickname. Fuego, Galapagos, Zoolander. We finish our bottle, buy another one and walk down to the beach.
The tide has deserted us and left a desert playground. Small bonfires illuminate the darkness. In the soft yellow firelight, everyone is smiling and beautiful. I watch where I’m going, careful not to step on the passed or making out. We decide which music we want to dance to and place ourselves in front of the appropriate thatched-roofed bar. Tonight we choose to dance to reggaetone, which is the popular hip-hop, salsa blend currently sweeping the nation.
The fact that I’m the only guy traveling with seven single, and in fact very available women sounds good on paper, but I always have to keep an eye on them. At some point during the weekend, when sleazy men approach, I am forced into boyfriend duty with each of them and at one awkward point with two of them at the same time. I look at the two would-be suitors and said “Uhh…Yo soy un hombre suerte” (I’m a lucky man). Nonetheless, there are benefits. When I walk through town and my reputation precedes me. Guys approach me every couple of minutes and offer me a drink, but it’s not me they want to see and they quickly dispense with the small talk, “Sooo… where’s Laura?”
Back down on the beach, I find a hypnotic symphony of people playing all sorts of flutes, tambourines and dijaridoos. I rhythmically tap a beer cap on the side of a bottle and fit right in. Our friend Fuego is fire dancing in the middle of the circle and earning his nickname. He finishes and steps out as two dreddy Brazilians step in and dance the flippy, twisty, turny, martial art dance of capoiera. Once they tire out, another guy jumps in and starts juggling fire. When he is exhausted, he walks around the crowd shaking a tambourine into which people happily deposit change. As he does this, two guys hold up a sheet and a woman dances behind it. A woman behind her holds a torch that creates flicker ing shadow patterns on the sheet that bounces, tumbles and twists to the African beat. Finally, the circle breaks down into tribal dancing. We glisten with sweat underneath an observant Buddha moon. It’s watching, listening and smiling, but never saying a word.
After two hours or so of dancing, I find my sandals and shirt and walk up into town. I buy a 50-cent empanada, cheese and chicken in a fried doughy pocket. I’m tired. I stumble towards my hostel, my eyes barely staying open for the journey. Once I’m there, I slip under my mosquito net and collapse into my bed with a euphoric smile. I love it here. Yo soy un hombre suerte.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Las Fiestas
Quito, Ecuador
What's up everyone? Well, well it's been a long time. Once again, I've been totally slacking on my group emails. I think that I left you guys back in November. So, again, I will try to catch y'all up. So the final few weeks of the quarter were quite exciting for us, after the trip to the Amazon, we had the fiestas de Quito to return to back in the big city. For an entire week the city erupted in drininking, dancing, bullfighting, and revelery. We had our final on Monday, and besides a day of review, and a day of playing cards (at which our professors made us drink canelazo, a fruity drink spiked with aguardiente, a local alchol, at 9am), we were left to our own devices. We partied in the streets with the locals, partied in the clubs with the gringos, attended a bullfight, and best of all rented a chiva. What is a chiva? you might be asking. A chiva is a double decker truck-bus thing that has a live band on top. About 30-40 people cram in on top next to the band, or on the platform hanging off the back. They are givin whistles, and little cups to hang around the neck. The cups are routinely filled with canelazo (the drink I mentioned earlier, and the official drink of the fiestas de Quito). The chiva then tools around through the crowds of the fiestas, the chiva honking, the passengers whistling, yelling and dancing to the music being played next to their ears. The crowds on the street whistle yell and dance back and general merriment ensues. After the chiva, some of us went to an all-night party featuring some of the famous local pop bands and continued fiestaing.
After the fiestas de Quito, the quarter was finally over, and we had a month off to do what we pleased. Most people went home, but I was lucky as my girlfriend Vicky came down from New Orleans for 2 weeks. We first went to Banos a little town a couple of hours south of Quito where we got to visit waterfalls, and soak in the hotsprings. The first morning we were there, we awoke to a marching band marching through our room...well ok not through, but right outside our room. I looked out the window through bleary eyes to see thirty or forty ten year old's banging away on drums with fierce abandon, and twenty or thirty ten year old girls dressed in short skirts, tights, and six pounds of make-up throwing batons recklessly close to our open window. Once a marching band, troops by your window in the morning there's no going back to sleep. So we stumbled down the stairs, and on the way to breakfast, I asked a local what was going on and they said - Oh their practicing for the fiestas tomorrow. Hey, what do you know more fiestas. That night, we heard some fireworks going off, so we went to check it out, and I saw one of the craziest things that I've seen in all my travels. The locals had built large towers made out of bamboo about twenty or thirty feet high. Each tower was wrapped in pounds of fireworks. Some brave soul would walk up under the tower, light the fuse and run back. There was then a chain reaction of random rockets, bombs, and pinwheels. The tower would shake back in forth spewing sparks, fire balls, and fireworks in every direction, and there was about fifteen towers that were lit off one at a time, each in danger of being set off by a random spark from the one next to it. The crazy thing was, was that there was no crowd control what-so-ever. People could stand as close as they dared. Every tower showered the crowd with clothes melting, skin burning balls of fire. Every so often, a firework would be shot up in the air upside-down and would propel straight down into the crowd. A guy standing right next to me got nailed right in the head and blood gushed out of the burn in his forehead, much to the delight of the surrounding crowd. Nobody seemed to be too concerned. In all my travels I have never seen something so dangerous to so many people, I wish I could fully convey the absurdity of it all. I, of course, loved it. You'll have to wait for the pictures. Well, durn it, this is getting to be a bit long, so let me just tell you that for the rest of the time Vicky was down we hung out at the beach learning to surf and laying on the sand soaking up the sun. I'd like to wish everyone a belated happy New Year. I hope everything is going well for y'all. Feel free to give me an email, and I'll try to get back to ya'. Hasta, Moe.
What's up everyone? Well, well it's been a long time. Once again, I've been totally slacking on my group emails. I think that I left you guys back in November. So, again, I will try to catch y'all up. So the final few weeks of the quarter were quite exciting for us, after the trip to the Amazon, we had the fiestas de Quito to return to back in the big city. For an entire week the city erupted in drininking, dancing, bullfighting, and revelery. We had our final on Monday, and besides a day of review, and a day of playing cards (at which our professors made us drink canelazo, a fruity drink spiked with aguardiente, a local alchol, at 9am), we were left to our own devices. We partied in the streets with the locals, partied in the clubs with the gringos, attended a bullfight, and best of all rented a chiva. What is a chiva? you might be asking. A chiva is a double decker truck-bus thing that has a live band on top. About 30-40 people cram in on top next to the band, or on the platform hanging off the back. They are givin whistles, and little cups to hang around the neck. The cups are routinely filled with canelazo (the drink I mentioned earlier, and the official drink of the fiestas de Quito). The chiva then tools around through the crowds of the fiestas, the chiva honking, the passengers whistling, yelling and dancing to the music being played next to their ears. The crowds on the street whistle yell and dance back and general merriment ensues. After the chiva, some of us went to an all-night party featuring some of the famous local pop bands and continued fiestaing.
After the fiestas de Quito, the quarter was finally over, and we had a month off to do what we pleased. Most people went home, but I was lucky as my girlfriend Vicky came down from New Orleans for 2 weeks. We first went to Banos a little town a couple of hours south of Quito where we got to visit waterfalls, and soak in the hotsprings. The first morning we were there, we awoke to a marching band marching through our room...well ok not through, but right outside our room. I looked out the window through bleary eyes to see thirty or forty ten year old's banging away on drums with fierce abandon, and twenty or thirty ten year old girls dressed in short skirts, tights, and six pounds of make-up throwing batons recklessly close to our open window. Once a marching band, troops by your window in the morning there's no going back to sleep. So we stumbled down the stairs, and on the way to breakfast, I asked a local what was going on and they said - Oh their practicing for the fiestas tomorrow. Hey, what do you know more fiestas. That night, we heard some fireworks going off, so we went to check it out, and I saw one of the craziest things that I've seen in all my travels. The locals had built large towers made out of bamboo about twenty or thirty feet high. Each tower was wrapped in pounds of fireworks. Some brave soul would walk up under the tower, light the fuse and run back. There was then a chain reaction of random rockets, bombs, and pinwheels. The tower would shake back in forth spewing sparks, fire balls, and fireworks in every direction, and there was about fifteen towers that were lit off one at a time, each in danger of being set off by a random spark from the one next to it. The crazy thing was, was that there was no crowd control what-so-ever. People could stand as close as they dared. Every tower showered the crowd with clothes melting, skin burning balls of fire. Every so often, a firework would be shot up in the air upside-down and would propel straight down into the crowd. A guy standing right next to me got nailed right in the head and blood gushed out of the burn in his forehead, much to the delight of the surrounding crowd. Nobody seemed to be too concerned. In all my travels I have never seen something so dangerous to so many people, I wish I could fully convey the absurdity of it all. I, of course, loved it. You'll have to wait for the pictures. Well, durn it, this is getting to be a bit long, so let me just tell you that for the rest of the time Vicky was down we hung out at the beach learning to surf and laying on the sand soaking up the sun. I'd like to wish everyone a belated happy New Year. I hope everything is going well for y'all. Feel free to give me an email, and I'll try to get back to ya'. Hasta, Moe.
The Peaks and Crevasses of Cotopaxi
Quito, Ecuador
I'm not sure whose idea it was. I know it wasn't mine. Climb Mt. Cotopaxi, all 19,700 ft of it. I don't know what made me think that I should be climbing the highest active volcano in the world, when I think the highest actual mountain that I had ever climbed previously was probably Mt. Si (a smallish mountain near my house) or something similar. But the weekend before we climbed Guaguapinchicha, which is about 15,000ft. So, I thought, hey only 4 or 5,000 more feet, no problem. Wrong. I think that it was the hardest thing that I have ever attempted. Even though we started at 1:00am, I still felt like I was in pretty good shape after climbing up the first part of loose pumasy hillside. Even after scrambling and hopping over and around deep cracks in the ice in the crevasse section, I felt fine, though my headlamp had gone out about thirty seconds after we had started, I was the last person on our three man rope and I couldn't see five feet in front of me.
It was when we were about half-way, around dawn, when I was able to look up and see how far we had to go, that I realized how exhausted I was. It seemed like we had been hiking for an eternity, but hadn't gone anywhere. But we just kept going, digging our crampons into the steep icy hillside, the thin air scraping our lungs, the fresh corn-like snow blowing in our faces. Finally at about 6:30 in the morning, our guide pointed up and said 'look almost there'. Though my gaze went up, my face dropped. We still had probably another 600 or so vertical feet to climb, and it looked to be the hardest, steepest section yet. I'm still not sure what kept me going during the final 2 or 3 hours. In the last section there was, out of the original nine of us, my friends, and classmates, Patrick and David, roped up to their guide, and this Australian guy that came with us, Erik, and myself roped up to our guide. Like I said, I was on the end of the rope, so although there was a beautiful sunrise, and an outstanding view of the other distant volcanos, all I looked at was the rope in front of me. When it moved, I moved. After about an hour, we had only made it about half way up, and as I sat, stuffing a frozen yet life-giving snickers bar into my mouth, I heard my guide call his boss on the radio and ask nonchalantly, 'hey, we're a bit late, should we finish, or come back down' I stared at him in disbelief, YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! We had already come so far. Turning back down, was not an option to me. I tried to voice my opinion, but didn't have the energy. Luckily, I didn't have to. The boss gave him the go-ahead to summit.
Finally, we crawled, scraped, and staggered our way up the last section,and with our emanciated breath freezing in front of our faces we finally reached the top. It was a full five minutes, when I saw Patrick and David inching their way up to the summit, before I could feel triumphant. We sat on the top for about a half hour, celebrating with candy, and taking pictures, when the full effects of exhaustion, dehydration, and altitude sickness finally hit me, and I was more than ready to go back down. The only thing to sour our accomplishment, was that none of the girls had made it up with us, but as we carefully made our way down the last section, we ran into Melanie and Erin, still plugging along, tired but determined. Now our triumph was complete. Only Alicia, who was 'feeling pukey' and Sunshine who had contact issues, couldn't make it, but I'm confident that they would have on another day. Though I felt an incredible sense of accomplishment, I was now dead tired. I could barely put one foot in front of another to make it back down the mountain. On the way we picked up Rolando, David's host brother, who had been roped to Erin and Melanie, but had looked at the last section and respectfully declined.
Coming back down, I felt like I was in a daze, struggling even to maintain consciousness. I became a little bit more awake, making our way back through the crevasse section, and actually seeing for the first time what we had been jumping over in the dark. Deep, dark cracks, that looked bottomless and unforgiving. We were making our way down a part that at first had a steep section that we had to climb down backwards, using only the front two prongs of our crampons, and our ice picks to hold our weight, and then make our way over a small ice bridge that crossed a formidable crevasse. It shouldn't have had been a big deal. It was far from the most technical part of the climb. The guide was first, the Aussie second, Rolando third, and I was last. The guide and the Aussie made it over easily, I had to start to climb down the steep section, as Rolando was just finishing it, as there was not enough rope for me to wait for him to cross the bridge. I made my way down slowly, concentrating, though my mind was mush. What happened next, I can only remember in flashes.
All of a sudden, I was lifted away from the wall, and smashed down on to the ice bridge. For a split second, I thought that I was going to be able to hold myself there, but something dragged me, head first, into the crevasse. Before I knew what had happened, I was hanging upside down thirty feet below the surface, in a crevasse, with the bottom, a conglomerate of ice and snow three feet below me. What had happened was, that Rolando had fallen when stepping from the wall to the bridge, and he took me with him. The only thing that saved me from being a mangled wreck at the bottom of a crevasse was that the Aussie jammed his ice pick into the ice, and him and the guide were able to secure themselves, just before being dragged in as well. So here we were, Rolando and I, hanging upside down in a crevasse. I was just close enough to the bottom, that I was able to swing myself right-side up and reach an area where I could stand up, and let loose some of the weight on the guys above, giving the guide enough leeway where he could set up an ice screw. They could only pull one of us up at a time (and I was more than a little skeptical that they could pull me up at all), so I had to unhook from the rope so they could pull up Rolando. I was a tad bit nervous about being where I was, standing on a very precarious lump of snow at the bottom of a crevasse without a rope, but finally after about twenty minutes of fiddling around setting up another ice screw, they threw me down the rope to attach to my harness. The plan was, that they would pull while I used my ice pick and crampons to try to climb out. The problem was, that the wall was made of thick, hard, slippery ice that the ice pick and crampons wouldn't stick into, only chip away, and my muscles were so dead tired anyway that I doubt I could've pulled myself out of a cardboard box, so I couldn't help much, and in the end, they weren't able to pull me out themselves. The only choice was to wait for Patrick and David's group to get there and help. Before they were only 15 minutes behind us, but they ended up taking 25 minutes to negotiate an earlier crevasse. So I got to wait for a total of about 45 minutes to an hour. This gave me plenty of time to realize what a precarious position I was in, to realize what had almost happened, and to snap some photos. They finally made it, and with the help of their guide (Patrick and David, took pictures and watched) they were able to pull me out. Well, now I was drained in every way possible, and more than a little shaken, but we still had an hour to go. We finally did made it back down, however, every one safe and sound, a mixture of exhilaration and relief rumbling in our bellies.
Well, hey this is exciting. You guys are all caught up. This happened yesterday. I'm sorry that this email ran a bit long, but the story had to be told. I hope everyone is having a lovely January. Moe.
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