I gained a new fake name from the bus: Seth Fehicund. At least, that's what my bus ticket said. That nickname joined a rich pantheon that includes Chico (little boy), Arroz (spanish for rice, sounds like Bryce), Pelirojo Loco (crazy redhead) and "OI, GRINGO!", which requires no explanation.
Like any good South American bus, it broke down. In fact, like any good South American bus, it broke down within an hour of leaving the terminal. For once, I didn't mind. Rather than being stuck behind a mudslide in the middle of the night, we were on an empty Peruvian beach, just as the sun was beginning to show an inclination to head for the horizon. I played like a little kid, romping in the sand, flirting with the surf, digging up shells and identifying decayed bird remains... ok, perhaps not exactly like a little kid.
They had to replace the engine belt, which took a leisurely half an hour. I didn't mind. We then drove to the nearest town, and changed buses. Changed companies too. Still not atypical. We then drove on a few hours, stopped in another town, and changed buses again for reasons unknown. But we didn't just change buses, we all took motorcycle rickshaws (seriously) across town to get it. I believe while on the rickshaw that this began to dawn on me as abnormal.
As we got on the third bus, people started loudly jeering us, booing and beating their seats. Either they were pissed at us for slowing their travels, or they just wanted to haze the newbies.
This bus took off, but over the course of the night, stopped multiple times on the side of the road for reasons still unknown. I suspect once was a swine flu checkpoint, another an illegal military bribepoint. Whatever. I faded into and out of sleep, oddly comforted by the cockroaches swarming inside the bus. They reminded me of the Amazon.
Rest didnt last long. A strange loud 'crack' cut the darkness. The bus again stopped and pulled over, and a quick investigation revealed that a bus window had broken. You know, one of those unbreakable plastic ones. So we drove on to the next town and stopped again, getting plywood to board over the window before carrying on.
By hour 18, my knees were killing me, and today I'd eaten less than Callista Flockhardt to boot. (Remember her? How about Lara Flynn Boyle?)
Thankfully, the bus doesnt go straight to Lima, and we stopped for a few hours in Trujillo. Rather than in a bus terminal, the driver unceremonially ditched us all at a gas station. I took a taxi into town rather than wait. Sleep was an option, but the hostels wanted to charge a full night, and checkout time was just a few hours way. It worked out to about 10 dollars an hour of sleep, about equivilent to a crack whore motel, so I opted to go without sleep instead and make the most of Trujillo.
Not a bad place. Pyramids, ruins, beaches, ect.
The bus to Lima left that night, another 10 hours further. Before we got on, they searched us, patted us, wanded us, fingerprinted us, and videotaped us. Like airplane security, I felt more unsettled than safe.
Thankfully, this ride didn't break down. However, I kinda wished it did so I could change seats. I had the foul luck of having a gay kid sitting in front of me, and despite my lack of interculture gaydar, he could apparently sniff me out. Persistent inquiries of "Do you like men or women" bled into "Do you like music" bled into "Can I touch you?" They poor bastard had no game, and there's nothing less sexy than poor game subjugated to poor English. I responded by 'falling asleep'.
In fact I didn't sleep a wink, and hadn't much in 2 or 3 days. So upon arriving in Lima, the first thing I do is find a hostel and pass out for most of the day. And that night, not knowing anybody, I followed my typical tactic and went to a gay bar. Hadn't I learned my lesson. I didn't have to sit at the bar long for two guys to come up and strike up a conversation. They seemed friendly, and one even spoke decent English. I drank with them, met their friends, dance with them, and even agreed to go drink more back at their place.
Ill-advised? Most likely. Very frequently when visiting gay bars, I get invited to afterparties. Without fail they end poorly. Sometimes I fool around with someone I regret the next day. More frequently, I have to fend off awkward advances and either take a taxi home or pretend to pass out.
This time I took the taxi. After the crazy one tried jamming his hand down my pants, and finding no response from me, he stormed off in a huff and drove home drunk. His friend, who's house it was, tried laughing it off before suggesting we go to sleep. I didn't like his intonation, so I told him I wasnt tired and was going to walk around a bit. When he pulled the exact same "Can I touch you?" line, I walked.
Peruvians: No subtlety. Cant work a bus, cant work a date.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Running for, then from, the border
I had originally planned to visit a few more cities in Ecuador, but with ennui oozing and a likely E-coli infection festering, things conspired against the little country. I was sleepless in Cuena, partially from a lack of AC and partially from horrible shits, but mostly from the mutated, monsterous sounding roosters that crowed starting at 4am and going unabated past lunch. I decided then to go directly to Peru.
There are two ways into Peru, south of Loja or along the coast. The Loja route was longer and slower, but allegedly more scenic. The coastal route was down the Panamerica, a major highway traversing the continenent from the Panama Canal down to Tierra del Fuego, and I expected would be a major artery for me along the way. It didnt wind through mountains, and I'd learned in Quilotoa that distance is deceptive with big mountains and shitty drivers.
However, its also known as the worst border crossing in South America. Still, it is faster.
The bus wound from dull Andean plateau into stark montane desert. Boring? It was stunning. The desert bloomed suddenly into lowland jungle just over the pass, which graded into sprawling banana plantations, which gave way into coastal marsh, and back into desert again, all within perhaps 2 hours of driving. Why's this route always getting crap?
As the border approaches, the bus stocks at a small shack, also known as Ecuadorian Immigration/Emigration. A man from the bus (I think) picks up my bag, gives me the forms to fill out, and walks me to where I take care of exit formalities. Then he leads me to a taxi. Only when he gets into the passenger seat do I get suspicious of him.
As we drive, I give him the evil eye, and he notices, reassuring me repeatedly that he's a friend. But I only get more suspicious as the route gets more convoluted. When we turn down what appears to be a back alley, I say "Pare, por favor", which means "Stop please". The driver chuckles. I scream loudly, with the windows rolled down "PARE!!".
Instead of stopping, he turns the corner of this shifty back alley, and there's the Welcome to Peru sign. This shitty back alley is apparently a major thouroughfare into Peru. The taxi hasn't filled out his forms, so we stop there are get out. I mumble an apology and give him his 2 bucks. I walk off, and my helper accompanies me.
He informs me that the border area in Peru has no ATMs, and that I should take out and exchange money here if I want to get a bus down to Lima. With convenient timing, a money changer walks up. The two are clearly friends. I ask him what the cost is of a bus to Trujillo (a town about halfway between the border and Lima, 10 hours drive from where I was). He tells me it costs 120 sole, or 40 dollars American, so I'll need to take out at least that much. Now I'm suspicious again.
Just then, people with Tourist Police hats walk up, 3 of em. Another con? Their uniforms look real enough, I'll try em. While they confront my helper, I take the opportunity to ask loudly in spanish, with a smirk, "Why are you helping me?" That's all the cue the cops need. Two police take my friend for a chat while a third leads me to the English speaking Tourist Info booth. There I get the real bus prices ($15) and exchange my money at a fair rate.
After giving me all the information I need, the police pass me off to a new man, who leads me to a car and driver. I'm immediately suspicious of an unmarked car, but he shows me his tour guide ID and assures me he's a friend. I'd heard it before. He points out he's friends with the cops too.
He gives me an immigration form to fill out; I show him the form I already had. He takes it and rips it up, saying "It's a fake, a copy", before giving me an identical form.
All seems well until he says I need money to show immigration. Suspicious again. We stop at an ATM, and I take out the equivilent of 80 bucks and hide it on me, watching the whole time the car with my bag to make sure it doesnt try and speed off. It doesnt.
I walk back to the car, where the guide explains my 'mistake'. I need American money to show customs, a currency not used in Peru. I press hard for an explanation, but none comes. However, I fear getting stuck without bribe money, so I go back to the ATM and take out 60 US, which I hide elsewhere on me. With this much money on me, I feel very threatened, and the guide has the chutzpah to ask why I seem tense.
Driving towards the Peruvian immigration office, the driver stops to pick up a new passenger, a huge no-no. I'm ready to bail and they know it. But we pull up to immigrations without incident. The new passenger, the guide, and I all go inside. While waiting on line, I turn around every few seconds to glare at our guide, make sure he hasnt bolted with our bags. He stays put.
Customs never checks my money. Outside, I angrily demand the guide explain. He seems confused by my anger, and says the money is to pass a military checkpoint. That's the con. Fucking military.
The guide asks to hold our papers and money as we approach the military presence. I don't want to, but as the new passenger does, I reluctantly oblige as well. The guide rolls down the window and waves our money and yells something, while the driver speeds up and past and never gives the soldiers a passing glance.
"Bastard! We could've done that with 2 bucks!" I bellow, but he pretends to not understand. He did however immediately return our money, and a quick count revealed it to all be there. I was more confused than anything.
We continued driving, further out of town and away from the police who gave me to them. "Ok, 120 soles each," the guide says. A robbery? Is he channelling Davy Jones? No, a taxi. Rather than drop us off at immigration and let me a local bus to the next sizable town as they were supposed to, they decided to take us themselves and charge us handsomely for it. I could protest and get out, but we were in the middle of nowhere. That was the con.
That's the cost of a bus to Trujillo, right?
So on guard and on edge as I was, I still managed to fall into a trap and get conned out of 40 bucks. Still, I had no idea where the immigration office was, or what papers I needed, or where to get a bus. So while their service wasnt worth 40 bucks, and they certainly werent my friends, there couldve been outcomes worse than this.
The true beauty of their scheme didnt hit me until the next day when I tried to exchange my American bribe money in Trujillo. They were cleverly, but clearly, counterfeit.
They bills were made on a paper superficially similar to the fabric of US dollars, but definitely felt different to careful inspection. No interwoven colored fibers either. The watermakers were all off in some way or another, cartoonishly bad in one case. The fake security strip of one was poking a bit of plastic out the top. In fact, they werent even all the same size.
At first, I was horrified. An ATM giving out fake money? No, the fake money came at what I knew was the most suspect moment, the money flash. I broke a cardinal rule of travel, to never let anyone else touch your money. Why did I let him ever touch my money? It was because the other passenger did; he was naive, and I was a sheep, and we both lost our money. Or did we? Maybe they just swapped mine with his, and maybe he was in on it the whole time.
Then I thought further. His claim to trust was that he was associated with the police. Were the police in on it? Or worse, were they fake cops, employed by the local tourist office, knowingly sending off their trusting needy clients like lambs to slaughter. Those cops rescued me from the other scammers, were they all wolves fighting over fresh meat, or was everyone colluding from the start? I don't know, but Jesus, that reputation is earned.
There are two ways into Peru, south of Loja or along the coast. The Loja route was longer and slower, but allegedly more scenic. The coastal route was down the Panamerica, a major highway traversing the continenent from the Panama Canal down to Tierra del Fuego, and I expected would be a major artery for me along the way. It didnt wind through mountains, and I'd learned in Quilotoa that distance is deceptive with big mountains and shitty drivers.
However, its also known as the worst border crossing in South America. Still, it is faster.
The bus wound from dull Andean plateau into stark montane desert. Boring? It was stunning. The desert bloomed suddenly into lowland jungle just over the pass, which graded into sprawling banana plantations, which gave way into coastal marsh, and back into desert again, all within perhaps 2 hours of driving. Why's this route always getting crap?
As the border approaches, the bus stocks at a small shack, also known as Ecuadorian Immigration/Emigration. A man from the bus (I think) picks up my bag, gives me the forms to fill out, and walks me to where I take care of exit formalities. Then he leads me to a taxi. Only when he gets into the passenger seat do I get suspicious of him.
As we drive, I give him the evil eye, and he notices, reassuring me repeatedly that he's a friend. But I only get more suspicious as the route gets more convoluted. When we turn down what appears to be a back alley, I say "Pare, por favor", which means "Stop please". The driver chuckles. I scream loudly, with the windows rolled down "PARE!!".
Instead of stopping, he turns the corner of this shifty back alley, and there's the Welcome to Peru sign. This shitty back alley is apparently a major thouroughfare into Peru. The taxi hasn't filled out his forms, so we stop there are get out. I mumble an apology and give him his 2 bucks. I walk off, and my helper accompanies me.
He informs me that the border area in Peru has no ATMs, and that I should take out and exchange money here if I want to get a bus down to Lima. With convenient timing, a money changer walks up. The two are clearly friends. I ask him what the cost is of a bus to Trujillo (a town about halfway between the border and Lima, 10 hours drive from where I was). He tells me it costs 120 sole, or 40 dollars American, so I'll need to take out at least that much. Now I'm suspicious again.
Just then, people with Tourist Police hats walk up, 3 of em. Another con? Their uniforms look real enough, I'll try em. While they confront my helper, I take the opportunity to ask loudly in spanish, with a smirk, "Why are you helping me?" That's all the cue the cops need. Two police take my friend for a chat while a third leads me to the English speaking Tourist Info booth. There I get the real bus prices ($15) and exchange my money at a fair rate.
After giving me all the information I need, the police pass me off to a new man, who leads me to a car and driver. I'm immediately suspicious of an unmarked car, but he shows me his tour guide ID and assures me he's a friend. I'd heard it before. He points out he's friends with the cops too.
He gives me an immigration form to fill out; I show him the form I already had. He takes it and rips it up, saying "It's a fake, a copy", before giving me an identical form.
All seems well until he says I need money to show immigration. Suspicious again. We stop at an ATM, and I take out the equivilent of 80 bucks and hide it on me, watching the whole time the car with my bag to make sure it doesnt try and speed off. It doesnt.
I walk back to the car, where the guide explains my 'mistake'. I need American money to show customs, a currency not used in Peru. I press hard for an explanation, but none comes. However, I fear getting stuck without bribe money, so I go back to the ATM and take out 60 US, which I hide elsewhere on me. With this much money on me, I feel very threatened, and the guide has the chutzpah to ask why I seem tense.
Driving towards the Peruvian immigration office, the driver stops to pick up a new passenger, a huge no-no. I'm ready to bail and they know it. But we pull up to immigrations without incident. The new passenger, the guide, and I all go inside. While waiting on line, I turn around every few seconds to glare at our guide, make sure he hasnt bolted with our bags. He stays put.
Customs never checks my money. Outside, I angrily demand the guide explain. He seems confused by my anger, and says the money is to pass a military checkpoint. That's the con. Fucking military.
The guide asks to hold our papers and money as we approach the military presence. I don't want to, but as the new passenger does, I reluctantly oblige as well. The guide rolls down the window and waves our money and yells something, while the driver speeds up and past and never gives the soldiers a passing glance.
"Bastard! We could've done that with 2 bucks!" I bellow, but he pretends to not understand. He did however immediately return our money, and a quick count revealed it to all be there. I was more confused than anything.
We continued driving, further out of town and away from the police who gave me to them. "Ok, 120 soles each," the guide says. A robbery? Is he channelling Davy Jones? No, a taxi. Rather than drop us off at immigration and let me a local bus to the next sizable town as they were supposed to, they decided to take us themselves and charge us handsomely for it. I could protest and get out, but we were in the middle of nowhere. That was the con.
That's the cost of a bus to Trujillo, right?
So on guard and on edge as I was, I still managed to fall into a trap and get conned out of 40 bucks. Still, I had no idea where the immigration office was, or what papers I needed, or where to get a bus. So while their service wasnt worth 40 bucks, and they certainly werent my friends, there couldve been outcomes worse than this.
The true beauty of their scheme didnt hit me until the next day when I tried to exchange my American bribe money in Trujillo. They were cleverly, but clearly, counterfeit.
They bills were made on a paper superficially similar to the fabric of US dollars, but definitely felt different to careful inspection. No interwoven colored fibers either. The watermakers were all off in some way or another, cartoonishly bad in one case. The fake security strip of one was poking a bit of plastic out the top. In fact, they werent even all the same size.
At first, I was horrified. An ATM giving out fake money? No, the fake money came at what I knew was the most suspect moment, the money flash. I broke a cardinal rule of travel, to never let anyone else touch your money. Why did I let him ever touch my money? It was because the other passenger did; he was naive, and I was a sheep, and we both lost our money. Or did we? Maybe they just swapped mine with his, and maybe he was in on it the whole time.
Then I thought further. His claim to trust was that he was associated with the police. Were the police in on it? Or worse, were they fake cops, employed by the local tourist office, knowingly sending off their trusting needy clients like lambs to slaughter. Those cops rescued me from the other scammers, were they all wolves fighting over fresh meat, or was everyone colluding from the start? I don't know, but Jesus, that reputation is earned.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Bad Day
Let me tell you why today sucks.
It all ties back to food and sleep. See, I'm a very simple man. If I sleep and I eat, I'm happy. However, in Baños, I could do neither. My cheap room, with 4 roommates, was small, cramped, and had no air conditioning or even a fan. By 4am, the heat and sweat-induced humidity became unbareable. I'd burn through all my water, need to get up repeatedly to piss it away, and when I inevitably ran out, I'd be kept awake by antagonistic thirst.
Nor could I really eat. Well I could, but it would do me no good. Up until recently, my bowels have held strong in the face of foreign food. However, I must've ate something bad up in Quilotoa. While I'm not vomiting or have horrible cramps or find myself living on a toilet, I'm unable to keep food in. I eat it, and within minutes shit it out violently. I'm usually hungry, but eating is a liability when most days involve atleast a few hours on a cramped bus.
Here's also why today sucks. In Baños, there's a big celebration for most of October to honor the Virgin Mary. This entails a parade constantly marching around town, typically when I'm trying to make a phonecall on Skype, or setting off small explosives when I'm trying to relax or sleep.
And I had 30 dollars stolen from my bag, presumably by a roommate.
Around lunch I left Baños to travel to Riobamba, to buy a ticket to the steep, occasionally-derailing Devil's Nose train. When I arrive, I learn that the ticketmaster is away, and I'll have to wait half an hour. That's half an hour Latin American time, which was over an hour. When he arrived, he informed us there were no tickets left. I of course couldn't understand his thick Andean accent, and constantly needed to ask selfish ticket-coveting tourists around me to translate for me how I could possibly get one of the non-existant tickets they crave. Doesnt work.
One of the other tourists, an older man with experience written on his face, took me and two girls under his wing and translated for us. He was the one who explained that a woman was scalping tickets outside. He was the one who told me to write my name and passport number on a piece of paper to give to her to transfer the ticket. He was the one who, when the woman told him she had 3 tickets left, said that "I'm here with these two fine girls", and left me out in the cold.
I went back in the ticket office, and tried to ask whether they were selling any later down the route in Alausi. The ticketmaster, a surly man with a cliche mustache, answered me. Except, he never bothered to compensate for my inexperience with the language. I asked him repeatedly to talk slower, but he responded by getting more garbled and dismissive. I was tired and hungry and sick, and in no mood to argue. My will sapped, I lost the ability to speak Spanish, and nearly cracked right there in the office.
Finally, someone decently bilingual spoke up to explain that ticketmaster doesnt know what's going on in Alausi, since the office wont pick up (infrastructure, what's that?), but Riobamba tickets are sold out until early November. Angry and defeated, I considered taking the next bus directly to Peru. Instead, I took the next bus to Alausi, to see if I can get a scalped ticket in the morning.
The 2 hour bus ride had me swimming in my own mind. Being hungry, sick, and tired (both literally and figuratively) left me a broken man. I'd also recently come to the conclusion that I wouldnt be able to apply to graduate school this year, and the incipient depression was eating my guts worse than any illness. I couldnt talk to anyone and for once didnt try. I was struggling with exhaustion both physical and mental. I just wanted to be home, with friends, eating Mac & Cheese or some other comfort food. Instead, I ate a few Ritz crackers (which resulted in some vile farts, but thankfully no shits. Sorry, innocent woman next to me) and passed out for an hour.
I woke up right before sunset, seeing the vivid colors silloueting sharp Andean peaks. The bus was barreling down steep mountain switchbacks at terrifying speed. It seemed to me that I was getting a more thrilling ride, with a better backdrop, and protection from the wind, all for much cheaper than the Devil's Nose Train. There's a theme going on here, that just when I feel like I'm bottoming out, I find something to remind me why my seemingly masochistic travels are truly blessed, vile farts and all.
Post Script: I was actually able to catch the Devil's Nose train in Alausi. A bit overpriced for a glorified bus on tracks down a hill, but not a bad way to spend an hour either. Also, I'm beginning to suspect my momentary happiness is almost entirely depending on my blood sugar level (this will not shock my boss or her mother).
It all ties back to food and sleep. See, I'm a very simple man. If I sleep and I eat, I'm happy. However, in Baños, I could do neither. My cheap room, with 4 roommates, was small, cramped, and had no air conditioning or even a fan. By 4am, the heat and sweat-induced humidity became unbareable. I'd burn through all my water, need to get up repeatedly to piss it away, and when I inevitably ran out, I'd be kept awake by antagonistic thirst.
Nor could I really eat. Well I could, but it would do me no good. Up until recently, my bowels have held strong in the face of foreign food. However, I must've ate something bad up in Quilotoa. While I'm not vomiting or have horrible cramps or find myself living on a toilet, I'm unable to keep food in. I eat it, and within minutes shit it out violently. I'm usually hungry, but eating is a liability when most days involve atleast a few hours on a cramped bus.
Here's also why today sucks. In Baños, there's a big celebration for most of October to honor the Virgin Mary. This entails a parade constantly marching around town, typically when I'm trying to make a phonecall on Skype, or setting off small explosives when I'm trying to relax or sleep.
And I had 30 dollars stolen from my bag, presumably by a roommate.
Around lunch I left Baños to travel to Riobamba, to buy a ticket to the steep, occasionally-derailing Devil's Nose train. When I arrive, I learn that the ticketmaster is away, and I'll have to wait half an hour. That's half an hour Latin American time, which was over an hour. When he arrived, he informed us there were no tickets left. I of course couldn't understand his thick Andean accent, and constantly needed to ask selfish ticket-coveting tourists around me to translate for me how I could possibly get one of the non-existant tickets they crave. Doesnt work.
One of the other tourists, an older man with experience written on his face, took me and two girls under his wing and translated for us. He was the one who explained that a woman was scalping tickets outside. He was the one who told me to write my name and passport number on a piece of paper to give to her to transfer the ticket. He was the one who, when the woman told him she had 3 tickets left, said that "I'm here with these two fine girls", and left me out in the cold.
I went back in the ticket office, and tried to ask whether they were selling any later down the route in Alausi. The ticketmaster, a surly man with a cliche mustache, answered me. Except, he never bothered to compensate for my inexperience with the language. I asked him repeatedly to talk slower, but he responded by getting more garbled and dismissive. I was tired and hungry and sick, and in no mood to argue. My will sapped, I lost the ability to speak Spanish, and nearly cracked right there in the office.
Finally, someone decently bilingual spoke up to explain that ticketmaster doesnt know what's going on in Alausi, since the office wont pick up (infrastructure, what's that?), but Riobamba tickets are sold out until early November. Angry and defeated, I considered taking the next bus directly to Peru. Instead, I took the next bus to Alausi, to see if I can get a scalped ticket in the morning.
The 2 hour bus ride had me swimming in my own mind. Being hungry, sick, and tired (both literally and figuratively) left me a broken man. I'd also recently come to the conclusion that I wouldnt be able to apply to graduate school this year, and the incipient depression was eating my guts worse than any illness. I couldnt talk to anyone and for once didnt try. I was struggling with exhaustion both physical and mental. I just wanted to be home, with friends, eating Mac & Cheese or some other comfort food. Instead, I ate a few Ritz crackers (which resulted in some vile farts, but thankfully no shits. Sorry, innocent woman next to me) and passed out for an hour.
I woke up right before sunset, seeing the vivid colors silloueting sharp Andean peaks. The bus was barreling down steep mountain switchbacks at terrifying speed. It seemed to me that I was getting a more thrilling ride, with a better backdrop, and protection from the wind, all for much cheaper than the Devil's Nose Train. There's a theme going on here, that just when I feel like I'm bottoming out, I find something to remind me why my seemingly masochistic travels are truly blessed, vile farts and all.
Post Script: I was actually able to catch the Devil's Nose train in Alausi. A bit overpriced for a glorified bus on tracks down a hill, but not a bad way to spend an hour either. Also, I'm beginning to suspect my momentary happiness is almost entirely depending on my blood sugar level (this will not shock my boss or her mother).
Friday, October 23, 2009
Mission Accomplished: Guinea Pig
Guinea Pig, or Cuy as its known here (for the squeaking sound it makes as you're killing it, seriously), is a known delicacy of the northern Andes cultures. Baños is not a traditional Andean village; it's a tourist ghetto cesspool. So naturally, they have it to try. An old woman sits outside the center market, roasting guinea pigs on spits over an open fire.
In life, guinea pigs are cute. In death, they are shaved and taught, skin charred and crispy, with mouths frozen in a horrifying death scream, jaws protruding ugly. When it came time to eat, she pulled it off the spit, took a cleving knife to the head and hind quarters, and gave me the guinea pig equivilent to a drumstick, the leg and foot still very much intact.
And like a drumstick, the dark meat is the best part. The skin is kinda thick and tough to eat, and the meat itself is a bit chewy and gamey. But it has a satisfying salty taste to it, and trying to rip a small mammal's leg to pieces to slurp up every last piece of meat is oddly satisfying to the primeval carnivore deep in our collective minds. Didn't taste bad either. Paired with a fresh green coconut hacked up in front of you to slurp the coconut milk directly from the husk, it makes a pretty good meal at 4 bucks.
So today I ate a guinea pig and rapelled down a 100 foot waterfall. Typical day, really.
In life, guinea pigs are cute. In death, they are shaved and taught, skin charred and crispy, with mouths frozen in a horrifying death scream, jaws protruding ugly. When it came time to eat, she pulled it off the spit, took a cleving knife to the head and hind quarters, and gave me the guinea pig equivilent to a drumstick, the leg and foot still very much intact.
And like a drumstick, the dark meat is the best part. The skin is kinda thick and tough to eat, and the meat itself is a bit chewy and gamey. But it has a satisfying salty taste to it, and trying to rip a small mammal's leg to pieces to slurp up every last piece of meat is oddly satisfying to the primeval carnivore deep in our collective minds. Didn't taste bad either. Paired with a fresh green coconut hacked up in front of you to slurp the coconut milk directly from the husk, it makes a pretty good meal at 4 bucks.
So today I ate a guinea pig and rapelled down a 100 foot waterfall. Typical day, really.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
A Quick Stroll
As I speed through the continent, I wished to see a taste of the slow, the rural Indiginous villages. To that end, I made a small side trip to the Quilotoa Caldera smack in the middle of the Ecuadorian Andes, and the little villages that surround it, a famous little tangent known as the Quilotoa Loop.
Next to the caldera was a small, quaint little village with a small store and a few hostels. I stayed in a family-owned hostel, and while I had my own private room, the few of us staying at the hostel ate together with the family in a big dinner. A polite and inquisitive father, a quiet and industrious mother, a boisterous son (except when practicing his improper fractions, quite difficult apparently), a cadre of shy daughters, and a scruffy little dog. Life was slow and tranquil. This was the authentic experience I was looking for.
Except it wasnt. I learned from a fellow traveler at the hostel that this village was less than 5 years old, and created explicitly to cater to the gringos visiting the pretty crater lake. Well, shit.
Still, the town was lovely and the crater lake stunning. I saw it by sunset, watched the sun rise over the rim, and even hiked down to the bottom. The way down was a bouncy and hoppy jaunt down the muddy path to the bottom, only half an hour to the edge of that serene, acidic, fish-killing body of water. However, the return trip was a strenuous huff-and-puff lasting over an hour. At times I felt like I couldnt catch my breath, as if I were slowly suffocating while my heart beat out of my chest. This is what happens at altitude. It shouldve been a sign.
The next day, I decided to walk to an even smaller and actually authentic village, only 14 kilometers away. Starting at the trailhead at the same time were an English bloke, a man whose carefree attitude and lack of wrinkles belie his age, and an ex-pat French girl with a serious chip on her shoulder when it comes to 'proper traveling'. No guides, no giving money to beggers, no staying at foreign owned hostels, always ask spirits for permission to enter ruins... yeah. I enjoyed not having to do the hike alone, but stopping for photos every 20 seconds was deeply aggrevating.
We started up the path, reported to be blazed by blue arrows, and clearly lost our way. We walked out onto the steep sandy side of the crater, and had to precariously backtrack ourselves to find the right way. Repeat at the next 6 forks. This trail wasnt marked at all, and forked all over the place by local farmers taking their cattle to greener alpine meadows. Were the bootprints from farmers or backpackers? Was that pile of shit from a pack mule or a dairy cow? We had no idea, and simply made educated guesses. Except, they were far from educated and wrong more than random chance would predict. 14 kilometers my ass.
We came across an old man and asked for directions. He assumed we'd thus hired him as our guide. When the ex-pat refused to pay him, he purposefully lead us down the wrong path before walking off.
Blazes aside, we had a basic idea about the layout of the trail. It went down, then up, then into a canyon, then out it, then to a village. We found the canyon, small but gorgeous, and could see the village in the distance. Spirits buoyed, we raced the way there, only slowing our pace to chat briefly with the friendly but bucolic villagers we passed. I of course abstained from actually chatting, since I dont know Spanish.
Upon reaching the village, we threw off our packs and all bought a celebratory Coke. About halfway through it, I noticed the name on the store did not have the correct town name. Dreading, I asked the store owner. We were not in our destination, but in fact in a tiny waystation halfway there. Leaving the village, we crested the next ridge, and could see the real village directly in front of us, perhaps only a mile as the crow flies. I mean that literally. Between us and the village was a yawning chasm, a vast and deep gash in the earth. We'd passed a small gully earlier, this was the real canyon.
With resignation, we started down the steep, muddy, twisted, highly unsafe journy down. We passed a local woman on her way up, carrying her baby on her back. From the look on her face, she may have well been carrying Jesus's crucifixion cross. That was what we were in for.
At this point, we were drained, and a wrong turn down this steep path could leave us stranded. Luckily, my companions' slow snap-happy pace had an upside. Coming up behind us were an American couple, and with them a (paid for, we hoped) guide. This time, the guide was just a boy, maybe 15 at best, with an uncanny resemblence to Short Round from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, baseball hat and goofy smile included. We stuck with them for the torturous, but correct, ascent. The ex-pat never objected.
Finally, to our relief, we reached the road that leads to the village, and started to walk along its relatively shallow grade. Almost immediately, our guide lead us up a dirt path, a 'shortcut'. Already in deflated shape, the shortcut was cruelly steep, even muddier, and sprinkled with the town's collective trash. At this point, the hike stopped being fun. When we finally did achieve the pinnacle, we could see the road below us. In my estimation, our 'shortcut' saved us 5, maybe 10 minutes at best.
Still, we made it, and we celebrated by going to a liquor store and getting drunk outside next to a ball court, while young children played nearby. Tired and somewhat smashed, I offered to kick the ball and shoot hoops with a small boy, probably still in kindergarden. I dont know whether it was the booze, my exhaustion, the altitude, or the sheer magnitude of my suck, but the boy schooled me. I even managed to injure my thumb along the way, not realizing it until later sobriety. My new Euro friends just watched.
I'd made friends with these ex-pats, as common struggle often makes for fast and strong bonds. They were seasoned travelers, on the road since before I entered college. I'd learned from them, and knew I could learn much more. Better yet, they were following my itinerary nearly to the letter. But unlike me, they had the luxury of pure freedom in both time and money. I would race far ahead of them to make Tierra del Fuego before Christmas, while they may still be in Peru or Bolivia. They had it right. As I counted the days until hearing back from my Australian schools, I pondered the possibility of skipping my PhD altogether, like them traveling always.
Pure freedom sure, but could I really stand freedom from grounding, freedom from roots, freedom from accomplishment, and freedom from real long-term human bonds? 24 hours along a crater is not enough.
Next to the caldera was a small, quaint little village with a small store and a few hostels. I stayed in a family-owned hostel, and while I had my own private room, the few of us staying at the hostel ate together with the family in a big dinner. A polite and inquisitive father, a quiet and industrious mother, a boisterous son (except when practicing his improper fractions, quite difficult apparently), a cadre of shy daughters, and a scruffy little dog. Life was slow and tranquil. This was the authentic experience I was looking for.
Except it wasnt. I learned from a fellow traveler at the hostel that this village was less than 5 years old, and created explicitly to cater to the gringos visiting the pretty crater lake. Well, shit.
Still, the town was lovely and the crater lake stunning. I saw it by sunset, watched the sun rise over the rim, and even hiked down to the bottom. The way down was a bouncy and hoppy jaunt down the muddy path to the bottom, only half an hour to the edge of that serene, acidic, fish-killing body of water. However, the return trip was a strenuous huff-and-puff lasting over an hour. At times I felt like I couldnt catch my breath, as if I were slowly suffocating while my heart beat out of my chest. This is what happens at altitude. It shouldve been a sign.
The next day, I decided to walk to an even smaller and actually authentic village, only 14 kilometers away. Starting at the trailhead at the same time were an English bloke, a man whose carefree attitude and lack of wrinkles belie his age, and an ex-pat French girl with a serious chip on her shoulder when it comes to 'proper traveling'. No guides, no giving money to beggers, no staying at foreign owned hostels, always ask spirits for permission to enter ruins... yeah. I enjoyed not having to do the hike alone, but stopping for photos every 20 seconds was deeply aggrevating.
We started up the path, reported to be blazed by blue arrows, and clearly lost our way. We walked out onto the steep sandy side of the crater, and had to precariously backtrack ourselves to find the right way. Repeat at the next 6 forks. This trail wasnt marked at all, and forked all over the place by local farmers taking their cattle to greener alpine meadows. Were the bootprints from farmers or backpackers? Was that pile of shit from a pack mule or a dairy cow? We had no idea, and simply made educated guesses. Except, they were far from educated and wrong more than random chance would predict. 14 kilometers my ass.
We came across an old man and asked for directions. He assumed we'd thus hired him as our guide. When the ex-pat refused to pay him, he purposefully lead us down the wrong path before walking off.
Blazes aside, we had a basic idea about the layout of the trail. It went down, then up, then into a canyon, then out it, then to a village. We found the canyon, small but gorgeous, and could see the village in the distance. Spirits buoyed, we raced the way there, only slowing our pace to chat briefly with the friendly but bucolic villagers we passed. I of course abstained from actually chatting, since I dont know Spanish.
Upon reaching the village, we threw off our packs and all bought a celebratory Coke. About halfway through it, I noticed the name on the store did not have the correct town name. Dreading, I asked the store owner. We were not in our destination, but in fact in a tiny waystation halfway there. Leaving the village, we crested the next ridge, and could see the real village directly in front of us, perhaps only a mile as the crow flies. I mean that literally. Between us and the village was a yawning chasm, a vast and deep gash in the earth. We'd passed a small gully earlier, this was the real canyon.
With resignation, we started down the steep, muddy, twisted, highly unsafe journy down. We passed a local woman on her way up, carrying her baby on her back. From the look on her face, she may have well been carrying Jesus's crucifixion cross. That was what we were in for.
At this point, we were drained, and a wrong turn down this steep path could leave us stranded. Luckily, my companions' slow snap-happy pace had an upside. Coming up behind us were an American couple, and with them a (paid for, we hoped) guide. This time, the guide was just a boy, maybe 15 at best, with an uncanny resemblence to Short Round from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, baseball hat and goofy smile included. We stuck with them for the torturous, but correct, ascent. The ex-pat never objected.
Finally, to our relief, we reached the road that leads to the village, and started to walk along its relatively shallow grade. Almost immediately, our guide lead us up a dirt path, a 'shortcut'. Already in deflated shape, the shortcut was cruelly steep, even muddier, and sprinkled with the town's collective trash. At this point, the hike stopped being fun. When we finally did achieve the pinnacle, we could see the road below us. In my estimation, our 'shortcut' saved us 5, maybe 10 minutes at best.
Still, we made it, and we celebrated by going to a liquor store and getting drunk outside next to a ball court, while young children played nearby. Tired and somewhat smashed, I offered to kick the ball and shoot hoops with a small boy, probably still in kindergarden. I dont know whether it was the booze, my exhaustion, the altitude, or the sheer magnitude of my suck, but the boy schooled me. I even managed to injure my thumb along the way, not realizing it until later sobriety. My new Euro friends just watched.
I'd made friends with these ex-pats, as common struggle often makes for fast and strong bonds. They were seasoned travelers, on the road since before I entered college. I'd learned from them, and knew I could learn much more. Better yet, they were following my itinerary nearly to the letter. But unlike me, they had the luxury of pure freedom in both time and money. I would race far ahead of them to make Tierra del Fuego before Christmas, while they may still be in Peru or Bolivia. They had it right. As I counted the days until hearing back from my Australian schools, I pondered the possibility of skipping my PhD altogether, like them traveling always.
Pure freedom sure, but could I really stand freedom from grounding, freedom from roots, freedom from accomplishment, and freedom from real long-term human bonds? 24 hours along a crater is not enough.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Lights Out Mindo
Mindo has problems with electrical things.
Mindo is a small town about 2 hours north of Quito, which is 2 hours north of Latacunga, my next destination. The town is surrounded by cloud forest, which is a euphamism for second growth scrub trees where it rains alot. However, birds love it, so the major draw of the town is birding. I of course hate birds, so my purpose was to hit up the series of zip lines spread around the forest. Such a setup existed in Durango, for 300 a pop. Here, you get the day for 15 bucks, 10 if you pretend you're still a student.
I also couldnt pass up an opportunity to visit the Butterfly Farm, only 3 bucks. I spent entirely too much time, energy, and sanity in the rainforest trying to get a picture of a wild Blue Morpho Butterfly, but I figured I'd settle on a captive one and pretend otherwise.
A full day of touristy shit for 13 bucks? Awesome! Especially since I only had 15 in my wallet. Wanting lunch but figuring 2 dollars might be a little short, I hit up the town's only ATM. It beeped and whirred and displayed strange text, but did not give me any money. The town's only ATM was broken.
The closest ATM, and therefore lunch, was in the next town over, a small town called Los Bancos. The irony was not lost on me. My options were to wait an hour, take a bus (one dollar), hit the ATM, wait an hour, take a bus back to the town's entrance road (another dollar), and hire a taxi into town (a third buck). Then, I could try and make it in time for one of the activities, and skip the other. Or I could pay 10 bucks for a roundtrip taxi, and 3 bucks to take me to the zipline. Dejectedly, depressingly, I chose the more expensive option. I paid as much to get there as I did to do it. My friend who'd been to Ecuador before me was right: after only a short while, you learn to become infuriated by small expenditures.
That said, I'm kinda glad. The buses here are simultaneously slow and homicidally fast, and the walk to the zipline was long and muddy, so once was enough. The zipline itself was worth it, as you do it sitting (makes your butt hurt), Superman-style (makes your hips hurt), or even upside down (makes your head hurt). The Butterfly Garden was fun too, a little Garden of Eden to an entomologist wannabe such as myself. They had Morphos, and I manically chased the terrified insects back and forth across the garden, banging helplessly to escape against the impenetrable mist net walls. And yet, I still failed to get a good photo of the flighty flyers. Only when I was calm, slow, and non-pursuing could I get a worthy shot. Lesson learned. Finally getting a good look, I saw the Morpho was old, tired, with beat up wings, and suddenly felt contrite. Lo siento, mariposa.
Afterwards, I returned to my hostel. I'd managed to score a room in a small place on the outer fringes of town. I was roomed up in the attic, a respectable size place for one, if you dont mind walking up rickety steps to squeeze through a crotch-height door where you repeatedly bang your head and back trying to simply go to sleep. Oh, and the pillow is draconian, the bug net too small and full of holes to be of any value, and like every other bed I've slept in so far, I share it with cockroaches. Oh, and the claptrap tin roof slams agains the walls with frightening vigor in the slightest gust, making the whole room shake at all hours of the night. Still, I had the room to myself, and isolation by choice is a premium here.
Better still, the woman who owns the hostel does the laundry for you, for cheaper than I paid the self-serve machines in the WashU dorms. Maybe there is a God after all.
As I left my clothes with the old woman and turned to walk back to town for dinner (which I could pay for now), she commented off-hand that the porch light was broken. I dismissed it as 'shitty old hostel syndrome'. The place I wanted to eat dinner appeared closed, lights out, and I dismissed it as 'shitty old Ecuadorian syndrome'. However, by the time I'd hit town square, it dawned on me that lights were out everywhere in the town, and it was easy to see why. A truck had smashed into and toppled a power pole of the only major electrical line into town.
Still, there was an upside. Kids were playing ball in the streets. Musicians were performing impromptu jams in the park. Families were eating dinner together by candlelight. This is the way a small town is supposed to be. Bah Fucking Humbug, I want my internet!
After dinner, with nothing to do in a small town without electricity where you cant communicate with any of the locals, I had nothign better to do than go back to the hostel. With no sun, lamps, or flashlight, it would not be easy. I wouldnt be able to see the turnoff, or the approaching feral dogs. I asked the family who owns the restaurant I'd eaten at for help, and they responded by sending their youngest daughter to guide me back by candlelight, the hot wax audibly searing her hands as she walked without complaint. Lo siento. I'd have rather just stumbled along blindly, which is what I ended up doing anyway for nearly 10 minutes when I reached the hostel, trying to find my room and the flashlight within.
Speaking of, I'd like to make a small tangent about communication. I've noticed there are two kinds of Ecuadorians: those who try to understand and help me with my broken Spanish, and those who just stare and say nothing. Or worse, giggle and say nothing. I'm seriously beginning to hate the second type. Then again, the first type usually fails miserably at helping, merely managing to confuse me more, which pisses me off all the same. People understand my English more than they do my Spanish, and they dont even fucking speak English! I realize my grammar isnt perfect, but cuando yo hablo a usted, respondeme, motherfucker!
And if I have to eat arroz con pollo one more god damn time...
Anyway, enough ranting. All things considered, I enjoyed Mindo, and was a little reluctant to leave for Latacunga. Now, seven hours, four buses, 3 Ninjas (dubbed, poorly), a second mudslide, and one snake oil salesmen who droned on to his captive audience on the bus from here to fucking Doomsday later, I have arrived in Latacunga, ready for more rain and misadventure.
Mindo is a small town about 2 hours north of Quito, which is 2 hours north of Latacunga, my next destination. The town is surrounded by cloud forest, which is a euphamism for second growth scrub trees where it rains alot. However, birds love it, so the major draw of the town is birding. I of course hate birds, so my purpose was to hit up the series of zip lines spread around the forest. Such a setup existed in Durango, for 300 a pop. Here, you get the day for 15 bucks, 10 if you pretend you're still a student.
I also couldnt pass up an opportunity to visit the Butterfly Farm, only 3 bucks. I spent entirely too much time, energy, and sanity in the rainforest trying to get a picture of a wild Blue Morpho Butterfly, but I figured I'd settle on a captive one and pretend otherwise.
A full day of touristy shit for 13 bucks? Awesome! Especially since I only had 15 in my wallet. Wanting lunch but figuring 2 dollars might be a little short, I hit up the town's only ATM. It beeped and whirred and displayed strange text, but did not give me any money. The town's only ATM was broken.
The closest ATM, and therefore lunch, was in the next town over, a small town called Los Bancos. The irony was not lost on me. My options were to wait an hour, take a bus (one dollar), hit the ATM, wait an hour, take a bus back to the town's entrance road (another dollar), and hire a taxi into town (a third buck). Then, I could try and make it in time for one of the activities, and skip the other. Or I could pay 10 bucks for a roundtrip taxi, and 3 bucks to take me to the zipline. Dejectedly, depressingly, I chose the more expensive option. I paid as much to get there as I did to do it. My friend who'd been to Ecuador before me was right: after only a short while, you learn to become infuriated by small expenditures.
That said, I'm kinda glad. The buses here are simultaneously slow and homicidally fast, and the walk to the zipline was long and muddy, so once was enough. The zipline itself was worth it, as you do it sitting (makes your butt hurt), Superman-style (makes your hips hurt), or even upside down (makes your head hurt). The Butterfly Garden was fun too, a little Garden of Eden to an entomologist wannabe such as myself. They had Morphos, and I manically chased the terrified insects back and forth across the garden, banging helplessly to escape against the impenetrable mist net walls. And yet, I still failed to get a good photo of the flighty flyers. Only when I was calm, slow, and non-pursuing could I get a worthy shot. Lesson learned. Finally getting a good look, I saw the Morpho was old, tired, with beat up wings, and suddenly felt contrite. Lo siento, mariposa.
Afterwards, I returned to my hostel. I'd managed to score a room in a small place on the outer fringes of town. I was roomed up in the attic, a respectable size place for one, if you dont mind walking up rickety steps to squeeze through a crotch-height door where you repeatedly bang your head and back trying to simply go to sleep. Oh, and the pillow is draconian, the bug net too small and full of holes to be of any value, and like every other bed I've slept in so far, I share it with cockroaches. Oh, and the claptrap tin roof slams agains the walls with frightening vigor in the slightest gust, making the whole room shake at all hours of the night. Still, I had the room to myself, and isolation by choice is a premium here.
Better still, the woman who owns the hostel does the laundry for you, for cheaper than I paid the self-serve machines in the WashU dorms. Maybe there is a God after all.
As I left my clothes with the old woman and turned to walk back to town for dinner (which I could pay for now), she commented off-hand that the porch light was broken. I dismissed it as 'shitty old hostel syndrome'. The place I wanted to eat dinner appeared closed, lights out, and I dismissed it as 'shitty old Ecuadorian syndrome'. However, by the time I'd hit town square, it dawned on me that lights were out everywhere in the town, and it was easy to see why. A truck had smashed into and toppled a power pole of the only major electrical line into town.
Still, there was an upside. Kids were playing ball in the streets. Musicians were performing impromptu jams in the park. Families were eating dinner together by candlelight. This is the way a small town is supposed to be. Bah Fucking Humbug, I want my internet!
After dinner, with nothing to do in a small town without electricity where you cant communicate with any of the locals, I had nothign better to do than go back to the hostel. With no sun, lamps, or flashlight, it would not be easy. I wouldnt be able to see the turnoff, or the approaching feral dogs. I asked the family who owns the restaurant I'd eaten at for help, and they responded by sending their youngest daughter to guide me back by candlelight, the hot wax audibly searing her hands as she walked without complaint. Lo siento. I'd have rather just stumbled along blindly, which is what I ended up doing anyway for nearly 10 minutes when I reached the hostel, trying to find my room and the flashlight within.
Speaking of, I'd like to make a small tangent about communication. I've noticed there are two kinds of Ecuadorians: those who try to understand and help me with my broken Spanish, and those who just stare and say nothing. Or worse, giggle and say nothing. I'm seriously beginning to hate the second type. Then again, the first type usually fails miserably at helping, merely managing to confuse me more, which pisses me off all the same. People understand my English more than they do my Spanish, and they dont even fucking speak English! I realize my grammar isnt perfect, but cuando yo hablo a usted, respondeme, motherfucker!
And if I have to eat arroz con pollo one more god damn time...
Anyway, enough ranting. All things considered, I enjoyed Mindo, and was a little reluctant to leave for Latacunga. Now, seven hours, four buses, 3 Ninjas (dubbed, poorly), a second mudslide, and one snake oil salesmen who droned on to his captive audience on the bus from here to fucking Doomsday later, I have arrived in Latacunga, ready for more rain and misadventure.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Deep Water
I'm not going to chronicle my adventures in the Amazon step-by-step. There's just too much minutia that happened. We boated around alot on a motorized canoe and saw some wildlife, much of which is documented in my Facebook photo album here: (http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2150522&id=3108199&l=2e2b5e5d20). We hiked some, in the day and night, and saw everything from birds to bullet ants, from monkeys to caimens, dart frogs to tarantulas (one of which I walked around with on my shoulder for awhile). Instead, let me give you some insight into my mind as it slipped away from me and drifted away with the current.
I spent the first night hunting around for any small creatures in the lodge compound. I would excitedly jump off the balcony into the mud to snatch a picture of a frog or moth on the ground, showing the photos off with pride glowing from my face. I explained all the diseases tropical mosquitos could carry over dinner, ate citrus-tasting ants off the branch for brunch, and by lunch the next day, where I gracefully shoveled my food into my mouth to continue chasing lizards, I'd developed a reputation and a nickname. Bryce the Bug Boy.
I was the first to pick up the spiders or snakes, first to taste the ants, first to taste fried pirana (before the girl who caught it), first to even cross muddly flats when everyone else was afraid of sinking in. They challenged me to be first, and waited to see how I'd respond. Were they afraid of these things, or just wanted to find my limits? My apparent leadership did not engender respect, it felt derisive and mocking instead.
The second day, we went pirana fishing. I was the first to catch something, though it sadly dropped off the hook. I proceeded to catch nothing else, while the others began reeling things in. Small fish kept annihilating my bait long before it could sink down to the levels of the piranas. Annoyed, I yank at one, and pull a small silvery fish up onto the boat. A fish like this would be great bait for a pirana, and far too big for any of the smaller fish. I drop it into the water, confident, and wait 15 seconds. Feeling a nudge, I pull up my line, and find half a fish, cut neatly in half, dripping blood. Stunned, I put the line back into the water. 5 seconds later, the upper half of the fish is gone too.
I caught nothing, but others were luckier. We kept the biggest fish to fry up at dinner. The cook presents it to the girl who caught it, but she balked at eating a fish that´s not in stick form. Everyone looks around, waiting to see who will stick their fork first, until all eyes look at me. "Bryce, you try." I did, and it was delicious. We passed the fish around, and everyone took a modest chunk, not wanting to selfishly hog the pirana. But, the fish was surprisingly meaty, and plenty was left after the plate had made its round. It fell back to me. I offered seconds to anyone who wanted it, especially the girl who the fish actually belonged to, but no takers. I proceeded to rip the fish apart, eating every scrap of meat I could find. One of the guys snickers and says "Hey Bryce, eat the eyeball!"
This time, I wont play. "Sure. I'll eat one if you eat the other with me." He blanches, and no one else makes comment. I kept the pirana jaw as a souvenir, and let my roommates pick it clean for me overnight. The next morning, I bring the shiny white bone to show everyone else. They marvel at it, until one girl points and asks, "Hey, is that a worm?" It is, and it crawls off the bone onto my hand. "Cool!", I exclaim, as it wanders between my fingers, but my excitement turns to horror as I realize the worm is trying to burrow into the flesh between my ring and pinky fingers. Freaking out, I immediately pick and pull and rub and scrub my hands together until every trace of the worm is gone (I think, I'll let you know). Either way, they finally see I'm not unflappable. From then on, they respected me.
Increasing harmony within the group was only matched by increasing dischord in my bed. At night, things were black. Without light for miles, not even the blinking light on the VCR, my room was blacker than black. So black your eyes hurt, so black you see color and shape in the ether. Awake and sleep blurred together for me, and I had strange dreams and hallucinations (nor did I try the shamen's hallucinagenic drink, 10 bucks a pop). Confusing, violent, and scary, I didn't understand what I was seeing. I tried to share my thoughts, fears, and philosophies with the teacher girl on the boat the next day, but she couldnt care less, and she was the only one in the group likely to.
I tried the next night to try what a Mormon bishop I met on my roadtrip had challenged me to try. I asked, with an open mind and an ernest voice, whether God was out there, playing with my head. No response. I asked if, despite my jewish family, Jesus was really the savior of man. No answer. I asked for Buddha and Xenu, and neither heeded my call. I spiraled deeper into my own mind, coming to the conclusion that everything we saw or did or felt was merely an extention of our biological craving to reproduce. And then I saw something.
The last day, I was to be one of the last departures to ship out downriver. As everyone else piled into the boat to leave, we all hugged and kissed each other's cheeks and promised to Facebook each other and write each other and share future wedding photos (seriously). I of course lied. There is no Bryce Walker on Facebook (actually there are 58), and I would not write or share photos or ever see them again. In my travels, I meet people at a shotgun pace. Quick, numerous, small pellets with the potential of taking a chuck out of your flesh if you're not careful. I hardened myself, and pretended to savor the sweet sorrow of goodbye like everyone else, when in reality I never bothered to learn their names in the first place. Bryce, the fake man with fake feelings. And yet, one vision from the black persisted.
I'm on the boat, speeding through the flooded forest with the rest of my trip cohort. But my friends and family are here too. The boat is huge. Everyone I knew from St. Louis and Australia was here, everyone I'd ever met on the road, however briefly, was with me. Adrift perhaps, but not alone. I carry them with me. Everyone I've ever met, anyone I've ever cared about, is with me on my big boat.
I spent the first night hunting around for any small creatures in the lodge compound. I would excitedly jump off the balcony into the mud to snatch a picture of a frog or moth on the ground, showing the photos off with pride glowing from my face. I explained all the diseases tropical mosquitos could carry over dinner, ate citrus-tasting ants off the branch for brunch, and by lunch the next day, where I gracefully shoveled my food into my mouth to continue chasing lizards, I'd developed a reputation and a nickname. Bryce the Bug Boy.
I was the first to pick up the spiders or snakes, first to taste the ants, first to taste fried pirana (before the girl who caught it), first to even cross muddly flats when everyone else was afraid of sinking in. They challenged me to be first, and waited to see how I'd respond. Were they afraid of these things, or just wanted to find my limits? My apparent leadership did not engender respect, it felt derisive and mocking instead.
The second day, we went pirana fishing. I was the first to catch something, though it sadly dropped off the hook. I proceeded to catch nothing else, while the others began reeling things in. Small fish kept annihilating my bait long before it could sink down to the levels of the piranas. Annoyed, I yank at one, and pull a small silvery fish up onto the boat. A fish like this would be great bait for a pirana, and far too big for any of the smaller fish. I drop it into the water, confident, and wait 15 seconds. Feeling a nudge, I pull up my line, and find half a fish, cut neatly in half, dripping blood. Stunned, I put the line back into the water. 5 seconds later, the upper half of the fish is gone too.
I caught nothing, but others were luckier. We kept the biggest fish to fry up at dinner. The cook presents it to the girl who caught it, but she balked at eating a fish that´s not in stick form. Everyone looks around, waiting to see who will stick their fork first, until all eyes look at me. "Bryce, you try." I did, and it was delicious. We passed the fish around, and everyone took a modest chunk, not wanting to selfishly hog the pirana. But, the fish was surprisingly meaty, and plenty was left after the plate had made its round. It fell back to me. I offered seconds to anyone who wanted it, especially the girl who the fish actually belonged to, but no takers. I proceeded to rip the fish apart, eating every scrap of meat I could find. One of the guys snickers and says "Hey Bryce, eat the eyeball!"
This time, I wont play. "Sure. I'll eat one if you eat the other with me." He blanches, and no one else makes comment. I kept the pirana jaw as a souvenir, and let my roommates pick it clean for me overnight. The next morning, I bring the shiny white bone to show everyone else. They marvel at it, until one girl points and asks, "Hey, is that a worm?" It is, and it crawls off the bone onto my hand. "Cool!", I exclaim, as it wanders between my fingers, but my excitement turns to horror as I realize the worm is trying to burrow into the flesh between my ring and pinky fingers. Freaking out, I immediately pick and pull and rub and scrub my hands together until every trace of the worm is gone (I think, I'll let you know). Either way, they finally see I'm not unflappable. From then on, they respected me.
Increasing harmony within the group was only matched by increasing dischord in my bed. At night, things were black. Without light for miles, not even the blinking light on the VCR, my room was blacker than black. So black your eyes hurt, so black you see color and shape in the ether. Awake and sleep blurred together for me, and I had strange dreams and hallucinations (nor did I try the shamen's hallucinagenic drink, 10 bucks a pop). Confusing, violent, and scary, I didn't understand what I was seeing. I tried to share my thoughts, fears, and philosophies with the teacher girl on the boat the next day, but she couldnt care less, and she was the only one in the group likely to.
I tried the next night to try what a Mormon bishop I met on my roadtrip had challenged me to try. I asked, with an open mind and an ernest voice, whether God was out there, playing with my head. No response. I asked if, despite my jewish family, Jesus was really the savior of man. No answer. I asked for Buddha and Xenu, and neither heeded my call. I spiraled deeper into my own mind, coming to the conclusion that everything we saw or did or felt was merely an extention of our biological craving to reproduce. And then I saw something.
The last day, I was to be one of the last departures to ship out downriver. As everyone else piled into the boat to leave, we all hugged and kissed each other's cheeks and promised to Facebook each other and write each other and share future wedding photos (seriously). I of course lied. There is no Bryce Walker on Facebook (actually there are 58), and I would not write or share photos or ever see them again. In my travels, I meet people at a shotgun pace. Quick, numerous, small pellets with the potential of taking a chuck out of your flesh if you're not careful. I hardened myself, and pretended to savor the sweet sorrow of goodbye like everyone else, when in reality I never bothered to learn their names in the first place. Bryce, the fake man with fake feelings. And yet, one vision from the black persisted.
I'm on the boat, speeding through the flooded forest with the rest of my trip cohort. But my friends and family are here too. The boat is huge. Everyone I knew from St. Louis and Australia was here, everyone I'd ever met on the road, however briefly, was with me. Adrift perhaps, but not alone. I carry them with me. Everyone I've ever met, anyone I've ever cared about, is with me on my big boat.
Just Getting There
It started auspiciously enough. We boarded the bus at 11pm for a 7 hour drive to Lago Agrio, in time for breakfast before our Amazon basin tour departure at 9:30. They put on a movie, a poorly dubbed, clearly pirated Steven Seagal movie, the acting so poor even the video cut out before it was all over. Rather than watch, I spent my time talking to the one American on the bus, a girl who taught English in Quito. Falling into her teacher role naturally, she started to put me through a spanish grammar boot camp. Difficult, frustrating work when there's 40+ ways to conjugate any verb, and most are irregular.
When she fell asleep, along with virtually everyone else on the bus, I tested myself by talking to the one woman still awake. I tried to talk to her, she tried to talk to me, but the language barrier was impenetrable. It made my head hurt. The only saving grace was the rare (but not rare enough, in her opinion) occasion I talked loud enough to wake up my teacher and have her fill in the gap in my sentence. The movie was over, the lights were out, and I couldn't talk to anyone. I knew this would be a long night.
Then we stopped. A roadblock, I figured. The driver, God willing, was legal and we'd be on our way in a minute or two. A minute turned into 5 turned into 10 turned into 30, and we didn't move. I became aware of other lights around us, and it dawned on me that nobody on this road was moving. Against better sense, I got out of the bus to look around. A line of buses was in front of us. I practiced my counting as I walked. Uno, dos, tres... I'd reached veinte y siete by the time I reached the front. 27 buses, stopped dead in their tracks by a mudslide. It was only 1am. This was going to be a very long night.
Attempting to talk to the people gathered to gawk was even more frustrating than before. Atleast the woman on the bus tried; the men on the road treated me like a leper, a person who wasn't even there. Before too long, I returned to the bus to try and sleep. Sleep would not come, and never did. When I tried to go for a walk, I discovered I was locked into the bus overnight. No light, no sound, no talk, no space, no freedom, no sleep. Pure hell. Truly homocidal thoughts bubbled.
Around 4:30, we finally started moving. Beautifully, we were unstuck in time to make our 9:30 departure... we pulled in line behind another bus near the front. A bus in front leapfrogged two spots ahead. We weren't going anywhere, just jostling around to see who'd be first to move when we finally did get moving. One driver tried to cut another, but the other bus wouldn't let him in, and he was stuck blocking the second lane. More buses turned the road into a giant clusterfuck. Stupid selfish dicks preventing help from ever actually reaching us.
Around 7am, the buses started moving. Other vehicles, squeezing past on the shoulder, honked in celebration as they passed. We were unstuck, and perhaps they'd even wait for us. After all, I'd come to find most of my tour was on the bus with us, including the tour guide and my English teacher. Except, we still werent moving, even as all 20-something buses behind us passed us. When I got out to investigate (the door was finally unlocked with the rising sun), I found the road hadn't been cleared at all; tired of waiting for nearly nonexistent government infrastructure to do their job, the buses just forced their way across the mud. Buses roared and lurched and tipped, nearly falling over, often getting stuck and needing to be pushed back to try again.
That said, buses were making it. Why were we sitting on the side of the road? Summoning the best of my Spanish, I talked to the driver and figured out that the bus was new, and he was scared of tipping it. We were stuck for hours because our driver is a pussy, despite the fact that he was previously a dick cutting everyone off. The man is both a dick and a pussy. He should go fuck himself.
Finally at 8:30, a steamshovel came and cleared the road. We were the last bus to cross.
Afterwards, the ride was pretty typical, except that we stopped for breakfast, which is strange for a public bus, and in the restaurant was a small monkey in a plastic cup, which is strange anywhere. In a small way, I was glad we were stuck, as I got to enjoy the beautiful cloud forest scenery we were driving through. Almost justified missing my Amazon tour.
We finally arrived in Lago Agrio at 2:30, and found to our surprise a small van waiting for us. Seems that if we really motor it, we would be able to catch a motorized canoe downriver to the lodge. The bumpy potholed road (Ecuador Dept. of Transportation) became a bumpy potholed dirt road, and sleep was impossible, especially since my head kept smashing against the window and the seat in front of me. We arrived at the river at 4:30.
Cruising down the river on a motorized canoe while the sun set was actually quite a lovely experience, almost justified being stuck behind a mudslide for 8 hours. We arrived at the lodge at 6:30, nearly 20 hours after leaving Quito.
After dinner, surprisingly tasty for a small jungle lodge lacking any electricity, we were shown to our beds. I had a room to myself, thanks to the imbalance of boys and girls and a preponderance of married couples. However, I wasn't alone. I shared my room with a gecko, ants, a colony of cockroaches under my bed (and later, in my backpack), a hornet nest near the door, potentially-malarial-or-worse mosquitos near the window, a brown widow spider above the toilet, and a goliath bird eating tarantula on my ceiling. I had arrived in the Amazon.
When she fell asleep, along with virtually everyone else on the bus, I tested myself by talking to the one woman still awake. I tried to talk to her, she tried to talk to me, but the language barrier was impenetrable. It made my head hurt. The only saving grace was the rare (but not rare enough, in her opinion) occasion I talked loud enough to wake up my teacher and have her fill in the gap in my sentence. The movie was over, the lights were out, and I couldn't talk to anyone. I knew this would be a long night.
Then we stopped. A roadblock, I figured. The driver, God willing, was legal and we'd be on our way in a minute or two. A minute turned into 5 turned into 10 turned into 30, and we didn't move. I became aware of other lights around us, and it dawned on me that nobody on this road was moving. Against better sense, I got out of the bus to look around. A line of buses was in front of us. I practiced my counting as I walked. Uno, dos, tres... I'd reached veinte y siete by the time I reached the front. 27 buses, stopped dead in their tracks by a mudslide. It was only 1am. This was going to be a very long night.
Attempting to talk to the people gathered to gawk was even more frustrating than before. Atleast the woman on the bus tried; the men on the road treated me like a leper, a person who wasn't even there. Before too long, I returned to the bus to try and sleep. Sleep would not come, and never did. When I tried to go for a walk, I discovered I was locked into the bus overnight. No light, no sound, no talk, no space, no freedom, no sleep. Pure hell. Truly homocidal thoughts bubbled.
Around 4:30, we finally started moving. Beautifully, we were unstuck in time to make our 9:30 departure... we pulled in line behind another bus near the front. A bus in front leapfrogged two spots ahead. We weren't going anywhere, just jostling around to see who'd be first to move when we finally did get moving. One driver tried to cut another, but the other bus wouldn't let him in, and he was stuck blocking the second lane. More buses turned the road into a giant clusterfuck. Stupid selfish dicks preventing help from ever actually reaching us.
Around 7am, the buses started moving. Other vehicles, squeezing past on the shoulder, honked in celebration as they passed. We were unstuck, and perhaps they'd even wait for us. After all, I'd come to find most of my tour was on the bus with us, including the tour guide and my English teacher. Except, we still werent moving, even as all 20-something buses behind us passed us. When I got out to investigate (the door was finally unlocked with the rising sun), I found the road hadn't been cleared at all; tired of waiting for nearly nonexistent government infrastructure to do their job, the buses just forced their way across the mud. Buses roared and lurched and tipped, nearly falling over, often getting stuck and needing to be pushed back to try again.
That said, buses were making it. Why were we sitting on the side of the road? Summoning the best of my Spanish, I talked to the driver and figured out that the bus was new, and he was scared of tipping it. We were stuck for hours because our driver is a pussy, despite the fact that he was previously a dick cutting everyone off. The man is both a dick and a pussy. He should go fuck himself.
Finally at 8:30, a steamshovel came and cleared the road. We were the last bus to cross.
Afterwards, the ride was pretty typical, except that we stopped for breakfast, which is strange for a public bus, and in the restaurant was a small monkey in a plastic cup, which is strange anywhere. In a small way, I was glad we were stuck, as I got to enjoy the beautiful cloud forest scenery we were driving through. Almost justified missing my Amazon tour.
We finally arrived in Lago Agrio at 2:30, and found to our surprise a small van waiting for us. Seems that if we really motor it, we would be able to catch a motorized canoe downriver to the lodge. The bumpy potholed road (Ecuador Dept. of Transportation) became a bumpy potholed dirt road, and sleep was impossible, especially since my head kept smashing against the window and the seat in front of me. We arrived at the river at 4:30.
Cruising down the river on a motorized canoe while the sun set was actually quite a lovely experience, almost justified being stuck behind a mudslide for 8 hours. We arrived at the lodge at 6:30, nearly 20 hours after leaving Quito.
After dinner, surprisingly tasty for a small jungle lodge lacking any electricity, we were shown to our beds. I had a room to myself, thanks to the imbalance of boys and girls and a preponderance of married couples. However, I wasn't alone. I shared my room with a gecko, ants, a colony of cockroaches under my bed (and later, in my backpack), a hornet nest near the door, potentially-malarial-or-worse mosquitos near the window, a brown widow spider above the toilet, and a goliath bird eating tarantula on my ceiling. I had arrived in the Amazon.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Gringo Love
Sunday, today, was to be the day I split from Quito. I'd pop up to Mindo - a lovely small town just north of Quito nestled in a cloud forest with a neat zipline - spend the day, then start moving south. Saturday would be spent sleeping, working on grad school apps, and maybe booking tours.
Two out of three aint bad. I achieved sleeping well enough, despite noisy German roommates, and set out on booking tours. First, breakfast... well, lunch. I hit the nearby 24 hour cafe, a known gringo haunt, and met my first Americans since arriving. Philidelphia and Detroit respectively, we naturally competed over who's heard the most gunfire from their apartments. I'll call it a draw. We ate hamburgers (for breakfast), drank Budweiser (for lunch) and reveled in our little bubble of Not-Ecuador. They wanted to trade numbers, hang out later, but I declined. I have no cell phone, I'm supposed to leave the next day, and I'm trying to avoid fellow gringos.
After shopping around online, I found the best deal was to be found right here in the Mariscal Square, a little tour booking agent called the Happy Gringo. A backpacker's special, 5 days in the Amazon, only 200 bucks, starts from the small distant outpost of Lago Agrio, starts Monday morning...
Qué what? This meant 3 immediate things. One, no Mindo. Two, I had an extra day in Quito. Three, my first intercity bus happens to be a night bus halfway across the country to the dangerous Columbian border, and I still can't speak Spanish.
Meanwhile, a day and a half to kill. I briefly flirted with the idea of doing work, but watched Return of the Jedi for the 8th time instead, figuring I'd have plenty of time tomorrow. Nor could I work after, since the big World Cup Qualifier match between Ecuador and Uruguay was on tonight.
Now, I've played [pee-wee] soccer, but I've never actually watched a full game. I just could never be bothered. Now, with hundreds of rabid fans filling the square, encircle by dozens of riot police, I couldn't help but get into the spirit. Still, the square itself was a terrible place to watch, I atleast wanted to be in a bar. All were jammed full well before the start of the game; the hundreds in the square were merely spillover.
The only spot I could find was on a broken stool placed ad-hoc in front of the bathroom doors near the bar in the very back of the Irish-American pub. Oh, you read that right. I watched a South American soccer game in an Irish pub, drinking Mexican beer, eating a Philly cheese steak, chatting up the Norwegeian girls (different ones) next to me. It was very multicultural, in that inauthentic Epcot kinda way. I could've atleast kept the theme by drinking a can of Guiness or Sam Adams, but at 15 bucks a can, I'd rather eat 3 meals and have a bed to sleep on for the night.
Late night snack, same café, new gringos. Two Australians, their first night in the Mariscal. They're even more naive and lost than me, so I take it upon myself to teach them some of the basic Spanish I'd picked up lately over beer and hamburgers. I'm shocked by how much Spanish I've picked up over just a few days. Lago Agrio seems less scary.
They want to trade numbers, I decline. I'm trying to avoid gringos.
The Sunday plan is simple. Wake up early, check out the touristy Mitad del Mundo (the Equator monument, more or less), work on my apps the rest of the day, catch the night bus while I'm good and sleepy. I wake up at 2. No apps this week.
The trip to Mitad is a bitch. The walk to the bus stop is long and rainy, the bus itself is crowded and slow, we get stuck in traffic right outside the city, and some bratty little niño won't stop poking me with the shitty candy bars he's trying to sell with his cute poverty-enhanced little kid charm. I wonder what child abuse laws are here.
Let me be the first to tell you, EquatorLand is not worth the price of admission. There's a small park, overpriced snack stands, a glorified "You Are Here" sign, and a statue/tower you can climb if you want to pay even more. The best part is that it's not actually on the equator. About 200 meters north is a smaller, cheaper tourist trap with Indian artifacts and cheap parlor tricks. You can balance an egg on a nail off the Equator, it's hard to walk in a straight line with your eyes closed anywhere, and the Coriolis effect does not affect kitchen sinks. A clever-shaped sink and a subtle change in how you pour the water in controls the direction of water flow in the tank and thus the subsequent whirlpool when you pull the drain. Sorry, I call bullshit. But atleast I had fun in this little hands-on tourist trap.
Perhaps that fun was due to the fact that for once I wasn't alone. Simultaneously, independantly, the little tourist trap was being visitedy by two naive Australians I never expected to see again. Together we explored the park, ate mysterious street vendor food (chicken ala plastic bag, I think), got lost, attempted to hitchhike, figured out the train schedule, got off at the wrong stop, hailed a taxi, got lost in a taxi, found our way in a taxi, bargined the taxi in faux-fluent Spanish, got off at different stops, and chanced into each other on the street half an hour later.
Temporary, sure. I'll probably never see them again. I don't have their phone numbers. I'm not here to spend time with fellow gringos.
But then again, maybe I will.
Two out of three aint bad. I achieved sleeping well enough, despite noisy German roommates, and set out on booking tours. First, breakfast... well, lunch. I hit the nearby 24 hour cafe, a known gringo haunt, and met my first Americans since arriving. Philidelphia and Detroit respectively, we naturally competed over who's heard the most gunfire from their apartments. I'll call it a draw. We ate hamburgers (for breakfast), drank Budweiser (for lunch) and reveled in our little bubble of Not-Ecuador. They wanted to trade numbers, hang out later, but I declined. I have no cell phone, I'm supposed to leave the next day, and I'm trying to avoid fellow gringos.
After shopping around online, I found the best deal was to be found right here in the Mariscal Square, a little tour booking agent called the Happy Gringo. A backpacker's special, 5 days in the Amazon, only 200 bucks, starts from the small distant outpost of Lago Agrio, starts Monday morning...
Qué what? This meant 3 immediate things. One, no Mindo. Two, I had an extra day in Quito. Three, my first intercity bus happens to be a night bus halfway across the country to the dangerous Columbian border, and I still can't speak Spanish.
Meanwhile, a day and a half to kill. I briefly flirted with the idea of doing work, but watched Return of the Jedi for the 8th time instead, figuring I'd have plenty of time tomorrow. Nor could I work after, since the big World Cup Qualifier match between Ecuador and Uruguay was on tonight.
Now, I've played [pee-wee] soccer, but I've never actually watched a full game. I just could never be bothered. Now, with hundreds of rabid fans filling the square, encircle by dozens of riot police, I couldn't help but get into the spirit. Still, the square itself was a terrible place to watch, I atleast wanted to be in a bar. All were jammed full well before the start of the game; the hundreds in the square were merely spillover.
The only spot I could find was on a broken stool placed ad-hoc in front of the bathroom doors near the bar in the very back of the Irish-American pub. Oh, you read that right. I watched a South American soccer game in an Irish pub, drinking Mexican beer, eating a Philly cheese steak, chatting up the Norwegeian girls (different ones) next to me. It was very multicultural, in that inauthentic Epcot kinda way. I could've atleast kept the theme by drinking a can of Guiness or Sam Adams, but at 15 bucks a can, I'd rather eat 3 meals and have a bed to sleep on for the night.
Late night snack, same café, new gringos. Two Australians, their first night in the Mariscal. They're even more naive and lost than me, so I take it upon myself to teach them some of the basic Spanish I'd picked up lately over beer and hamburgers. I'm shocked by how much Spanish I've picked up over just a few days. Lago Agrio seems less scary.
They want to trade numbers, I decline. I'm trying to avoid gringos.
The Sunday plan is simple. Wake up early, check out the touristy Mitad del Mundo (the Equator monument, more or less), work on my apps the rest of the day, catch the night bus while I'm good and sleepy. I wake up at 2. No apps this week.
The trip to Mitad is a bitch. The walk to the bus stop is long and rainy, the bus itself is crowded and slow, we get stuck in traffic right outside the city, and some bratty little niño won't stop poking me with the shitty candy bars he's trying to sell with his cute poverty-enhanced little kid charm. I wonder what child abuse laws are here.
Let me be the first to tell you, EquatorLand is not worth the price of admission. There's a small park, overpriced snack stands, a glorified "You Are Here" sign, and a statue/tower you can climb if you want to pay even more. The best part is that it's not actually on the equator. About 200 meters north is a smaller, cheaper tourist trap with Indian artifacts and cheap parlor tricks. You can balance an egg on a nail off the Equator, it's hard to walk in a straight line with your eyes closed anywhere, and the Coriolis effect does not affect kitchen sinks. A clever-shaped sink and a subtle change in how you pour the water in controls the direction of water flow in the tank and thus the subsequent whirlpool when you pull the drain. Sorry, I call bullshit. But atleast I had fun in this little hands-on tourist trap.
Perhaps that fun was due to the fact that for once I wasn't alone. Simultaneously, independantly, the little tourist trap was being visitedy by two naive Australians I never expected to see again. Together we explored the park, ate mysterious street vendor food (chicken ala plastic bag, I think), got lost, attempted to hitchhike, figured out the train schedule, got off at the wrong stop, hailed a taxi, got lost in a taxi, found our way in a taxi, bargined the taxi in faux-fluent Spanish, got off at different stops, and chanced into each other on the street half an hour later.
Temporary, sure. I'll probably never see them again. I don't have their phone numbers. I'm not here to spend time with fellow gringos.
But then again, maybe I will.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Daylight, Reality, More.
Quito is allegedly a dangerous place. I don't see it. Perhaps because I've been drinking. Perhaps because the neighborhood is peppered with military police clutching semiautomatic rifles.
Today I woke up at a reasonable time (before sunset), and was determined to finally see Quito through a tourist's eyes. It was a simple matter of stumbling along lost until I found a bus to take me to the wrong area, at which point I could walk 20 minutes or so to the touristy center of Old Town. La Ciudad Vieja is pretty enough, with well-manicured parks, artificial lakes with rentable paddle boats, and cathedrals older than my grandmother. I could tell you about the endless shoe stores, lunch for under 2 bucks, or the hilarous street comedians which I failed to appreciate, but that's not what you're here for. You want to read how things go wrong.
There's a huge statue of an angel on top of a hill just south of Old Town. One could almost see it from the Mariscal, and it looms large over the Old Town. On a whim, I made it my goal to climb the hill to the statue. I figure since the Norwegian girls' number was a wrong number, this was the least I could do to regain my heternormative masculine status. Well, let me tell you, that hill made a bitch out of me. It looks easy enough to climb all those stairs, but try doing it at 10,000 feet altitude. I'd attempted to experience this by doing jumping jacks in the high Rockies, but for the first time, I was really feeling the altitude. I could not catch my breath. Thankfully, I did not have to use it, since I only came across one annoying incessent vendor on my way up, whom I politely told in Spanish to fuck off.
About 2/3 from the top, I came across a food vendor, a man and his wife, selling hot dogs on a landing off the stairs. They took one look at me and balked. The man started exclaiming something in confusing rapid Spanish. I could only gather a semblence of what he was saying, but one sign was international:
"What are you doing? Did you come from down there? It's not safe! Up here there are police, but where you came from..." The vendor made the interational sign of slashing one's throat. I understood. Without realizing it, I'd just passed through a crazy dangerous area, and it was mere luck that pulled me through. Once again, naivity provides a bubble of protection against the real world.
Unfortunately, that only works once. I made it to the top, a tourist sight with police presence, where one could see the entirety of Quito and its endless urban poor desperate violent sprawl. I took a taxi back to the Mariscal.
Oddly enough, I was beginning to feel confident. I survived the Mariscal, I survived Old Town, I survived the Hill, I talked to the locals and the waiters and the taxi drivers. I still couln't speak Spanish for shit, but I was feeling in my groove. I even looked in my guidebook and started to form a plan for my next month of travel. I wouldn't just survive Suramerica, I'd thrive!
That night, I decided to meet Artie in the club I declined to enter the night before. Well, I still had a lesson to learn about South America and Time Management. The cover was hefty (10 bucks, huge for Quito), but it came with an open bar, and I made the most of it. I even made friends along the way. I waited, perhaps an hour, until he finally made his appearance with his friends from the night before. We hit it off well enough, edging towards something more, when a rival entered.
He was tall, handsome, with a barrel chest and open shirt. He quickly swept Artie off his feet. My first instinct was to bristle, but I decided to let it happen. After all, I was leaving town in a few days or less. It's his right to find someone without my interference, yes?
This didn't last long. My horrific inner nature let out a tortured howl, and proceeded to fight back. I won back his attention, his interest. The rival made play after play to win him back, but this gringo had the edge. In the back of my head, I knew it wasn't right, and wished for some angel to come along and set things right. I wanted to tell him that I was leaving, and I was taking advantage of him, and that I was an awful human being, but I could not say it out loud.
Mercifully, the angel came in due time. A drag show started, the most horrifically bad drag show I've ever seen. Halfway through, the drag queen demanded a drink, and I offered my Vodka Tonic. She responded by pulling me on stage, in front of dozens of horny gay Quitorians, and attempted to auction me off to the highest bidder. 50 bucks. 100 bucks. 150 dollars! I was suddenly the most popular boy in Gay Quito. By the time I broke 200, I slinked off stage and back to Artie.
But I was, for better or worse, too late. He'd found his ex-boyfriend, and the two were deeply involved in tonsil hockey. Better still, his ex was one of the people from the unintelligable burger conversation from the night before! I felt angry, defeated, and left the club in a huff.
The computer back at the hotel was naturally abandoned at 3am, and in a drunk tizzy, I began to write this post. Meanwhile Artie messaged me on Facebook. His ex had left him for the night, and he once again wanted me to come over and keep him warm. I knew then it was time to leave Quito. Bryce Walker had had enough. Bryce is fake, a ghost, a shadow, and he has already made too much an impression on Quito gay politics. I may not speak the language, but it's no different here than anywhere else. I found my comfort zone, and I wish I never had.
Today I woke up at a reasonable time (before sunset), and was determined to finally see Quito through a tourist's eyes. It was a simple matter of stumbling along lost until I found a bus to take me to the wrong area, at which point I could walk 20 minutes or so to the touristy center of Old Town. La Ciudad Vieja is pretty enough, with well-manicured parks, artificial lakes with rentable paddle boats, and cathedrals older than my grandmother. I could tell you about the endless shoe stores, lunch for under 2 bucks, or the hilarous street comedians which I failed to appreciate, but that's not what you're here for. You want to read how things go wrong.
There's a huge statue of an angel on top of a hill just south of Old Town. One could almost see it from the Mariscal, and it looms large over the Old Town. On a whim, I made it my goal to climb the hill to the statue. I figure since the Norwegian girls' number was a wrong number, this was the least I could do to regain my heternormative masculine status. Well, let me tell you, that hill made a bitch out of me. It looks easy enough to climb all those stairs, but try doing it at 10,000 feet altitude. I'd attempted to experience this by doing jumping jacks in the high Rockies, but for the first time, I was really feeling the altitude. I could not catch my breath. Thankfully, I did not have to use it, since I only came across one annoying incessent vendor on my way up, whom I politely told in Spanish to fuck off.
About 2/3 from the top, I came across a food vendor, a man and his wife, selling hot dogs on a landing off the stairs. They took one look at me and balked. The man started exclaiming something in confusing rapid Spanish. I could only gather a semblence of what he was saying, but one sign was international:
"What are you doing? Did you come from down there? It's not safe! Up here there are police, but where you came from..." The vendor made the interational sign of slashing one's throat. I understood. Without realizing it, I'd just passed through a crazy dangerous area, and it was mere luck that pulled me through. Once again, naivity provides a bubble of protection against the real world.
Unfortunately, that only works once. I made it to the top, a tourist sight with police presence, where one could see the entirety of Quito and its endless urban poor desperate violent sprawl. I took a taxi back to the Mariscal.
Oddly enough, I was beginning to feel confident. I survived the Mariscal, I survived Old Town, I survived the Hill, I talked to the locals and the waiters and the taxi drivers. I still couln't speak Spanish for shit, but I was feeling in my groove. I even looked in my guidebook and started to form a plan for my next month of travel. I wouldn't just survive Suramerica, I'd thrive!
That night, I decided to meet Artie in the club I declined to enter the night before. Well, I still had a lesson to learn about South America and Time Management. The cover was hefty (10 bucks, huge for Quito), but it came with an open bar, and I made the most of it. I even made friends along the way. I waited, perhaps an hour, until he finally made his appearance with his friends from the night before. We hit it off well enough, edging towards something more, when a rival entered.
He was tall, handsome, with a barrel chest and open shirt. He quickly swept Artie off his feet. My first instinct was to bristle, but I decided to let it happen. After all, I was leaving town in a few days or less. It's his right to find someone without my interference, yes?
This didn't last long. My horrific inner nature let out a tortured howl, and proceeded to fight back. I won back his attention, his interest. The rival made play after play to win him back, but this gringo had the edge. In the back of my head, I knew it wasn't right, and wished for some angel to come along and set things right. I wanted to tell him that I was leaving, and I was taking advantage of him, and that I was an awful human being, but I could not say it out loud.
Mercifully, the angel came in due time. A drag show started, the most horrifically bad drag show I've ever seen. Halfway through, the drag queen demanded a drink, and I offered my Vodka Tonic. She responded by pulling me on stage, in front of dozens of horny gay Quitorians, and attempted to auction me off to the highest bidder. 50 bucks. 100 bucks. 150 dollars! I was suddenly the most popular boy in Gay Quito. By the time I broke 200, I slinked off stage and back to Artie.
But I was, for better or worse, too late. He'd found his ex-boyfriend, and the two were deeply involved in tonsil hockey. Better still, his ex was one of the people from the unintelligable burger conversation from the night before! I felt angry, defeated, and left the club in a huff.
The computer back at the hotel was naturally abandoned at 3am, and in a drunk tizzy, I began to write this post. Meanwhile Artie messaged me on Facebook. His ex had left him for the night, and he once again wanted me to come over and keep him warm. I knew then it was time to leave Quito. Bryce Walker had had enough. Bryce is fake, a ghost, a shadow, and he has already made too much an impression on Quito gay politics. I may not speak the language, but it's no different here than anywhere else. I found my comfort zone, and I wish I never had.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Nothing But Night
Forgive me if this post comes out looking like gibberish. From now on, I'm on foreign keyboards, designed to remind me that I'm completely out of my element. Whoever designed these keyboards really doesn't have their priorities straight; I need to hit an awkwardly-placed alt key combo to get an @, but there´s a button devoted specifically to making a º symbol, in case you can't say the word 'degree'.
There's also keys to make a shifty-eyed face, like this: ¬_¬ This is how everyone looks at me, the foreigner.
Anyway, I bet you wanna what I've been up to. Well, prepare to be shocked: I have done nothing. Nothing distinctly Ecuadorian or South American. No sightseeing. No trip planning. I haven't eaten anything more exotic than hamburgers or pizza. I haven´t even seen the sun.
I have slept alot. 3am to 7pm. A week at home staying up till sunrise watching cheesy horror movies and procrastinating grad school apps will do that to you. I did however have two nights here in the bar and nightlife district of the Mariscal. I have done nothing more exciting than going to bars, something I did regularly in St. Louis or while traipising around the country on my roadtrips.
Except, back in America, people spoke English.
Finding an English-speaker here in Ecuador is like finding a gay person in America. The odds are about 1 in 20, it's hard to tell just by looking, and often people are in the closet about it. It's strangely uncommon, considering all transactions here are in American currency.
I can squeak by here by pointing, gesturing, and speaking very broken Spanish, but you really can't get a sense of how frustrating and mentally draining it is until you've experienced. It's like being deaf; try walking around for a day blaring really loud music through headphones so you can't hear what anyone is saying. You'll get a sense, but you'll still take for granted that all the signs are in English too.
I have however, met a few English speakers. Sunniva and Vilde are two Norwegian girls teaching English in Quito. I met them because I sat next to Michael in a bar. Michael is a native Cubano, and his English is as good as my ASL, which is to say crappy and mostly centered around profanity. He wanted to go over and meet them, and hoped my English would make me a useful wingman. Turns out he has no game. He didn't talk much over food, and upon moving on to a Discoteca, his main strategy was to rub up against them, talk in their faces, and otherwise scare them.
He eventually won Vilde over.
But, the girls had work in the morning, so they left early. We all exchanged numbers, and I promised to take them hiking up the local volcano, despite not knowing if that is safe or legal. Michael and I continued to walk around, and he taught me an interesting fact about Ecuadorian culture: Men are pigs.
Every time an even remotely attractive woman passed, he would stop, whistle, yell "Hey baby!", gesture crudely, and say things in Spanish I hesitate to imagine. Unsurprisingly, the only women to respond favorably to him were the occasional prostitutes cruising the street. Hanging out with him became an embarassment and a chore. He was even barred entry to a club, because apparently he 'looked dangerous'. Michael claimed it was racism against Cubans. Both seemed plausible to me. Eventually I'd had enough, and asked if he could take me back to the hostel.
Having lived in the area for the past 6 months, he promptly got us lost. Asking around proved little help, as people gave opposing directions. We stopped to get chorizo, and they charged us a dollar more than the locals, taking advantage of my naivety, being racist toward him, or both. We tried chatting, but counldn't speak each other's langauge. I wasn't having fun. Eventually we did make it back, and he insistently demanded I call him the next day, assuring me we were 'amigos'. I haven't called him since.
While with Michael, I briefly ran into Artie, a couchsurfer, and the only Ecuadorian I talked to [online, cs.org] before arriving in Ecuador. Turns out Artie is both an experienced speaker of English and highly gay, a combo that has to be rarer in this city than blonde hair. He seemed chill enough in person, but when I talked to him online later, he admitted he felt uncomfortable since he thought Michael, the annoying straight guy I'd met an hour or two previously on my first night in Ecuador, was my date. He wanted to hang out with me more. He wanted me to call him tomorrow. He wanted me to come over tonight (via taxi, no less). I signed offline.
Insomnia made way for sleep, and sleep lasted. I woke up in time for dinner, and hit the town to find it. I'd been told there was a cheap supermarket nearby. I was lost within minutes. People gave me opposing directions. I gave up and went to the first small restaurant I could find. Ordering was easy enough - point at the thing you want to eat - but I ended up sitting for 10 minutes at the end because they couldn't understand what I wanted when I asked for a check.
I'd reached my limit. I was going to hang out with the needy Artie, because atleast he spoke English. I called him, he had to work all night. Shit. Still, the idea was planted in my head to see what a local gay bar was like. Turns out the tourist district is also the closest Quito has to a gay district. Makes sense. Ecuador is deeply Catholic and hardly gay friendly; bleed the gay tourists dry and keep it out of the eyes of the rest of the city.
Never made it inside. One was closed, one was frighteningly sketch, and one had a 10 buck cover, more than the cost of a night's stay in the hostel. I made friends with the people outside the third one, and tried to press the excess ink of their hand stamp onto my hand and go inside. I was promptly caught and kicked outside. Surprisingly, my new friends, Fabian and Some Drunk Chick, left with me. Fabian bucked the odds again, he spoke great English, having spent time abroad in America. He actually still keeps his boyfriend he made in Boston, and believes they'll be married someday.
We met up with some more of their friends at a 24-hour burger joint, and I had the distinct pleasure of listening in on an entire multi-person conversation in Spanish. Before arriving here, I'd hoped to learn through immersion, but the reality is that it doesn't help. People don't have subtitles. Instead, I just tried to laugh and nod at the appropriate times, doing my best to hide just how lonely I felt in a crowd.
By now it was 3, and I was ready to head back. Fabian looked disappointed, claiming he was hoping we'd get to hang out longer, that I'd come back to his place. I raised an eyebrow. He'd been making subtle passes all night, but desperation brings directness. He took out a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote down his number, along with a note, "Call me if u wanna have fun". I felt sorry for Boston, and homesick for St. Louis.
An email from Artie was awaiting me back at the hostel. Yes, finding an English speaker in Ecuador is like finding a gay in America: Your odds are slim, and when you do find one, they just want to get in your pants.
There's also keys to make a shifty-eyed face, like this: ¬_¬ This is how everyone looks at me, the foreigner.
Anyway, I bet you wanna what I've been up to. Well, prepare to be shocked: I have done nothing. Nothing distinctly Ecuadorian or South American. No sightseeing. No trip planning. I haven't eaten anything more exotic than hamburgers or pizza. I haven´t even seen the sun.
I have slept alot. 3am to 7pm. A week at home staying up till sunrise watching cheesy horror movies and procrastinating grad school apps will do that to you. I did however have two nights here in the bar and nightlife district of the Mariscal. I have done nothing more exciting than going to bars, something I did regularly in St. Louis or while traipising around the country on my roadtrips.
Except, back in America, people spoke English.
Finding an English-speaker here in Ecuador is like finding a gay person in America. The odds are about 1 in 20, it's hard to tell just by looking, and often people are in the closet about it. It's strangely uncommon, considering all transactions here are in American currency.
I can squeak by here by pointing, gesturing, and speaking very broken Spanish, but you really can't get a sense of how frustrating and mentally draining it is until you've experienced. It's like being deaf; try walking around for a day blaring really loud music through headphones so you can't hear what anyone is saying. You'll get a sense, but you'll still take for granted that all the signs are in English too.
I have however, met a few English speakers. Sunniva and Vilde are two Norwegian girls teaching English in Quito. I met them because I sat next to Michael in a bar. Michael is a native Cubano, and his English is as good as my ASL, which is to say crappy and mostly centered around profanity. He wanted to go over and meet them, and hoped my English would make me a useful wingman. Turns out he has no game. He didn't talk much over food, and upon moving on to a Discoteca, his main strategy was to rub up against them, talk in their faces, and otherwise scare them.
He eventually won Vilde over.
But, the girls had work in the morning, so they left early. We all exchanged numbers, and I promised to take them hiking up the local volcano, despite not knowing if that is safe or legal. Michael and I continued to walk around, and he taught me an interesting fact about Ecuadorian culture: Men are pigs.
Every time an even remotely attractive woman passed, he would stop, whistle, yell "Hey baby!", gesture crudely, and say things in Spanish I hesitate to imagine. Unsurprisingly, the only women to respond favorably to him were the occasional prostitutes cruising the street. Hanging out with him became an embarassment and a chore. He was even barred entry to a club, because apparently he 'looked dangerous'. Michael claimed it was racism against Cubans. Both seemed plausible to me. Eventually I'd had enough, and asked if he could take me back to the hostel.
Having lived in the area for the past 6 months, he promptly got us lost. Asking around proved little help, as people gave opposing directions. We stopped to get chorizo, and they charged us a dollar more than the locals, taking advantage of my naivety, being racist toward him, or both. We tried chatting, but counldn't speak each other's langauge. I wasn't having fun. Eventually we did make it back, and he insistently demanded I call him the next day, assuring me we were 'amigos'. I haven't called him since.
While with Michael, I briefly ran into Artie, a couchsurfer, and the only Ecuadorian I talked to [online, cs.org] before arriving in Ecuador. Turns out Artie is both an experienced speaker of English and highly gay, a combo that has to be rarer in this city than blonde hair. He seemed chill enough in person, but when I talked to him online later, he admitted he felt uncomfortable since he thought Michael, the annoying straight guy I'd met an hour or two previously on my first night in Ecuador, was my date. He wanted to hang out with me more. He wanted me to call him tomorrow. He wanted me to come over tonight (via taxi, no less). I signed offline.
Insomnia made way for sleep, and sleep lasted. I woke up in time for dinner, and hit the town to find it. I'd been told there was a cheap supermarket nearby. I was lost within minutes. People gave me opposing directions. I gave up and went to the first small restaurant I could find. Ordering was easy enough - point at the thing you want to eat - but I ended up sitting for 10 minutes at the end because they couldn't understand what I wanted when I asked for a check.
I'd reached my limit. I was going to hang out with the needy Artie, because atleast he spoke English. I called him, he had to work all night. Shit. Still, the idea was planted in my head to see what a local gay bar was like. Turns out the tourist district is also the closest Quito has to a gay district. Makes sense. Ecuador is deeply Catholic and hardly gay friendly; bleed the gay tourists dry and keep it out of the eyes of the rest of the city.
Never made it inside. One was closed, one was frighteningly sketch, and one had a 10 buck cover, more than the cost of a night's stay in the hostel. I made friends with the people outside the third one, and tried to press the excess ink of their hand stamp onto my hand and go inside. I was promptly caught and kicked outside. Surprisingly, my new friends, Fabian and Some Drunk Chick, left with me. Fabian bucked the odds again, he spoke great English, having spent time abroad in America. He actually still keeps his boyfriend he made in Boston, and believes they'll be married someday.
We met up with some more of their friends at a 24-hour burger joint, and I had the distinct pleasure of listening in on an entire multi-person conversation in Spanish. Before arriving here, I'd hoped to learn through immersion, but the reality is that it doesn't help. People don't have subtitles. Instead, I just tried to laugh and nod at the appropriate times, doing my best to hide just how lonely I felt in a crowd.
By now it was 3, and I was ready to head back. Fabian looked disappointed, claiming he was hoping we'd get to hang out longer, that I'd come back to his place. I raised an eyebrow. He'd been making subtle passes all night, but desperation brings directness. He took out a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote down his number, along with a note, "Call me if u wanna have fun". I felt sorry for Boston, and homesick for St. Louis.
An email from Artie was awaiting me back at the hostel. Yes, finding an English speaker in Ecuador is like finding a gay in America: Your odds are slim, and when you do find one, they just want to get in your pants.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Pills
Now, don't let me deceive you. Just because I don't have a plan doesn't mean I'm not prepared. No, just the opposite, I'm the goddamn Batman. I'm crazy prepared.
Any visit abroad begins with a trip to the school nurse. Her (or his) job is to tell you all the ways you're going to suffer horribly. First and foremost is malaria. Fever, chills, blood poisoning, and the personal disdain of Bill Gates are only a few of the symptoms that await you, all from little prick of a mosquito. There is treatment, but you're better off with a preemptive strike.
The nurse gave me a vial of thick green horse pills, an antibiotic/antimalarial known as Doxycycline. Side effects include nausea, diarrhea, and increased sun sensitivity. On the upside, the antibiotic acts to fight acne, so my charred flaking red skin would be blemish-free.
Mosquitoes also carry parasites that can cause, among other things, Dengue Fever, River Blindness and Elephantiasis (massive rubbery scrotum). Things so scary you'll shit yourself, and there's no prevention or cure besides swimming in bug spray.
Speaking of shitting oneself, she also gave me a prescription for Cipro, a strong broad-spectrum antibiotic. The conversation went something like this:
Nurse: "This is for when you get horrible, stomach cramping, mind-bending diarrhea for at least 3 days straight. Not that wussy normal diarrhea you'll have most of the time."
Me: "... wait, you just said 'when', not 'if'."
Nurse: "That is correct. I'm giving you enough for 3 doses. Call when you need more."
There seemed to be a recurring theme. See, I'm no stranger to stomach issues. I've been tested for everything from gluten sensitivity to iron deficiency to irritable bowel syndrome. Just the other day, I had a hot date with a 20-foot camera cable; thankfully, the colonoscopist slipped me a roofie.
Given the circumstances, it's no surprise I didn't want the Doxycycline. So, I saw a different nurse, who gave me a few options. I decided to take Mefloquin, the drug they give soldiers. A small pill, once a week, with no stomach issues or skin sensitivity. In fact, the only major side effects are short-term psychosis and horrifying deep vivid nightmares you have trouble waking up from. And we issue it to our soldiers. With guns.
Now, just add some ibuprofen, pepto-bismol, cough pills, benadryl, water purification pills, Purell, multivitamins that make suppositories look petite, and enough band-aids to patch up our shattered economy, and you have Crazy Prepared.
Oh, and they gave me a vaccine against Yellow Fever, which I think turns you Asian or something.
Any visit abroad begins with a trip to the school nurse. Her (or his) job is to tell you all the ways you're going to suffer horribly. First and foremost is malaria. Fever, chills, blood poisoning, and the personal disdain of Bill Gates are only a few of the symptoms that await you, all from little prick of a mosquito. There is treatment, but you're better off with a preemptive strike.
The nurse gave me a vial of thick green horse pills, an antibiotic/antimalarial known as Doxycycline. Side effects include nausea, diarrhea, and increased sun sensitivity. On the upside, the antibiotic acts to fight acne, so my charred flaking red skin would be blemish-free.
Mosquitoes also carry parasites that can cause, among other things, Dengue Fever, River Blindness and Elephantiasis (massive rubbery scrotum). Things so scary you'll shit yourself, and there's no prevention or cure besides swimming in bug spray.
Speaking of shitting oneself, she also gave me a prescription for Cipro, a strong broad-spectrum antibiotic. The conversation went something like this:
Nurse: "This is for when you get horrible, stomach cramping, mind-bending diarrhea for at least 3 days straight. Not that wussy normal diarrhea you'll have most of the time."
Me: "... wait, you just said 'when', not 'if'."
Nurse: "That is correct. I'm giving you enough for 3 doses. Call when you need more."
There seemed to be a recurring theme. See, I'm no stranger to stomach issues. I've been tested for everything from gluten sensitivity to iron deficiency to irritable bowel syndrome. Just the other day, I had a hot date with a 20-foot camera cable; thankfully, the colonoscopist slipped me a roofie.
Given the circumstances, it's no surprise I didn't want the Doxycycline. So, I saw a different nurse, who gave me a few options. I decided to take Mefloquin, the drug they give soldiers. A small pill, once a week, with no stomach issues or skin sensitivity. In fact, the only major side effects are short-term psychosis and horrifying deep vivid nightmares you have trouble waking up from. And we issue it to our soldiers. With guns.
Now, just add some ibuprofen, pepto-bismol, cough pills, benadryl, water purification pills, Purell, multivitamins that make suppositories look petite, and enough band-aids to patch up our shattered economy, and you have Crazy Prepared.
Oh, and they gave me a vaccine against Yellow Fever, which I think turns you Asian or something.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Plan, of sorts
My name, among others, is Scott. You might remember me from such ridiculous adventures as Australia, New Zealand, Israel, Western Europe, and multiple trans-America roadtrips. I have a funny predilection for writing about these adventures. These writings have a funny predilection for falling into the wrong hands. My boss knows I found hallucinogenic cacti during field work. My mother knows a sizable chunk of the people I've slept with.
However, my last trip, 10,000 miles from St. Louis to California to New York, has nary a word written about it. I think I lost my creative spark. I could do something superlative, like hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back in 24 hours in the heat of August, but it doesn't translate into good writing (Also, I don't advise doing it). I could have had soak-to-my-bones glee singing strip karaoke with strangers in some dive bar, but that's dull to read. I went to Burning Man this year, something wholly out of the ordinary, but you'd have to be on heavy drugs to make sense of it enough to write, and even more to comprehend what's been written.
A 10,000 mile solo roadtrip was not enough to reignite my creative juices. We clearly need to try something stupider.
Lets try something new. Lets get off the tourist beaten track. Lets go somewhere where I don't have my own form of transportation. Somewhere where I don't have an itinerary, and really only a faint whisper of a plan. Somewhere I don't even speak the native language. Let's go to South America.
For the next 100 days, starting tomorrow, I'll be backpacking the continent, from Quito, Ecuador to Buenos Aires, Argentina, via the southern tip of Tierra del Fuego. The Equator to nearly the Antarctic Circle, and back again. I have no idea how far that is, and I'm happier that way. Ignorance is bliss when your main form of movement is the Latin American version of Greyhound, the ironically-named slowboat where toilet hygiene is matched only by a deep commitment to passenger safety.
The term 'backpacking' is key here. I was kind of a pussy in Australia with my rolling luggage. Now, my home is my depressingly heavy pack. I live off my back. From now on, I am a turtle, except instead of offering protection, my shell makes me highly vulnerable to mugging and petty theft alike.
I have plans, sure. I plan to go to the Amazon, and the Andes. I plan to go to the Bolivian salt flats and the Chilean desert. I plan to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. I plan to get as far south as possible, chasing the start of summer. I plan to live like a local in the small towns, and party my gringo face off in big cities. And if I survive it all, I plan to drink up the biologist bukkake known as the Galapagos.
Oh, and I plan to use an alias, a fake name, because using my real name would just be too easy and logical. For the next few months, you and the local police authorities will know me as Bryce Walker.
So you see, I have many plans. I just don't know when, where, how, or how I'm going to afford it. And don't even try to ask 'why?'
However, my last trip, 10,000 miles from St. Louis to California to New York, has nary a word written about it. I think I lost my creative spark. I could do something superlative, like hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back in 24 hours in the heat of August, but it doesn't translate into good writing (Also, I don't advise doing it). I could have had soak-to-my-bones glee singing strip karaoke with strangers in some dive bar, but that's dull to read. I went to Burning Man this year, something wholly out of the ordinary, but you'd have to be on heavy drugs to make sense of it enough to write, and even more to comprehend what's been written.
A 10,000 mile solo roadtrip was not enough to reignite my creative juices. We clearly need to try something stupider.
Lets try something new. Lets get off the tourist beaten track. Lets go somewhere where I don't have my own form of transportation. Somewhere where I don't have an itinerary, and really only a faint whisper of a plan. Somewhere I don't even speak the native language. Let's go to South America.
For the next 100 days, starting tomorrow, I'll be backpacking the continent, from Quito, Ecuador to Buenos Aires, Argentina, via the southern tip of Tierra del Fuego. The Equator to nearly the Antarctic Circle, and back again. I have no idea how far that is, and I'm happier that way. Ignorance is bliss when your main form of movement is the Latin American version of Greyhound, the ironically-named slowboat where toilet hygiene is matched only by a deep commitment to passenger safety.
The term 'backpacking' is key here. I was kind of a pussy in Australia with my rolling luggage. Now, my home is my depressingly heavy pack. I live off my back. From now on, I am a turtle, except instead of offering protection, my shell makes me highly vulnerable to mugging and petty theft alike.
I have plans, sure. I plan to go to the Amazon, and the Andes. I plan to go to the Bolivian salt flats and the Chilean desert. I plan to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. I plan to get as far south as possible, chasing the start of summer. I plan to live like a local in the small towns, and party my gringo face off in big cities. And if I survive it all, I plan to drink up the biologist bukkake known as the Galapagos.
Oh, and I plan to use an alias, a fake name, because using my real name would just be too easy and logical. For the next few months, you and the local police authorities will know me as Bryce Walker.
So you see, I have many plans. I just don't know when, where, how, or how I'm going to afford it. And don't even try to ask 'why?'
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