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.
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