3

Baeza

August 20- 21

I stopped to pee at the start of a mile walk up the hill into town. Corey sat down to drink some water. We sat on a roadside rockpile. The street cut and traversed a steep hill. A cow munched grass above our heads. Before us the jungle stretched lively and green. We rested and took in the world around us. After a few minutes of introspection, a motorcycle went by and we started walking again.

The pack was heavy. The pads resting against my back were soaked with sweat. The air was tepid, but a cool breeze came intermittently.

We were definitely farther into jungle territory. Mountains stacked up in distinct layers in the distance, all covered with thick foliage. The air here was denser than that of Quito. The road to the small village of Baeza continued up the hill. Sunshine came and went with the passage of pure white clouds.

We found a nice hostel. The restaurant and the lady who worked in it were very respectable. The furniture upstairs was made of jungle hardwood. I think we paid six dollars each to stay the night. I put my huge, outdated backpack with its external frame at the foot of the bed. It was an amazing relief to get the weight off my back.

Corey checked the Book, which told us there were plenty of hiking trails out of the village. Before finding out specifically where they were, we set out. And we went across the street, where we found a little hut and a squiggly map of the trail. There was a waterfall somewhere ahead, as well as trees, birds, and a lookout point. It was all described on the sign in picture form.

The sun was approaching the horizon when we started. The jungle formed a tunnel over the trail. I was wearing my same gray t-shirt and my brown pants.

"Good thing we didn't use bug spray," I said, worrying about mosquitoes.

"Yeah. Well, one of us needs to get malaria sooner or later. Either that or a knife wound. I'm not leaving this country without a knife wound."

I laughed. "Speaking of which, do you have the Savage Knife on you?"

"Claro." He patted the pocket of his black jeans. His knife was serrated and cruel with a long blade. I made sure he always carried it in case the always-imminent attack ever occurred while we were walking the streets as two vulnerable gringos. Mine was the Domesticated Knife, a small swiss army model, complete with tweezers and toothpick.

The trail was muddy and slippery. We went over a little bridge and came across a man kissing his girlfriend, who didn't notice us until we had passed. They blushed, smiled, and walked away.

I heard a thousand sounds with every step. There was the cry of birds. Rustling. And always the chirp of crickets and cicadas. It was hard to focus on any one thing when everything around me crackled with life.

There was a wooden sign, Sangre de Drago, indicating an inconspicuous jungle tree. Dragon blood… I poked the bark with the point of my knife. Eerily enough, a thick drop of red sap oozed from the wound. "Oi, look. It's supposed to be good for medicinal uses."We marveled and resumed a quick walk along this unknown path. I guess we missed the waterfall turnoff. We ended up atop a hill, where I promptly sat down on a tuft of grass to gawk at the scene. We sat in silence.

When we proceeded, we had to jump a low fence to follow the trail. There was a zoo of sorts, with weird jungle animals. Capybara, geese, tapir. They lived in small enclosures.

The trail took us in a loop, and we emerged on the far end of the village. I hadn't been able to see it when we came into town because it was over a gentle hill. Here there was a glowing church and a lit up soccer field. The sun fell in flames from the sky, casting orange light over the quiet village. There were only a few cars in motion. It was a still evening. I heard a voice coming from a set of speakers. It was from the church. The man's voice invited us and anyone listening to join the festivities of some event. We walked back to the hostel in the dark.

We dined downstairs, mushroom soup and a cold Pílsener. When I looked up from my bowl, I saw a man in red sweat pants enter. A wife and young child tailed him. His dark face and long hair were strangely familiar. I remembered. He had been on the bus from Quito. I wondered if his family was on some sort of backpacking trip. Either that or they live in hostels, a more permanent instance of our own circumstance. He paid for a room.

I went to my own room. I had finished reading El Principito on the plane and was bored without literature. I had already read my travel book, too. I turned on the TV and watched part of a Zorro series, which held my attention only for a short while. I turned off the TV and went to sleep.

I was not sure if I was awake or not, but a motion by the door caught my eye. Then I fell asleep. In the morning Corey said he closed the door for me; I left it open. I thanked him. "You saved my life, 'migo. Someone would have surely shanked my sleeping body."

We were both awake at a pretty decent time. Before breakfast or anything, we put on our shoes and went back to the trail. We found the waterfall that we had previously skipped. Finding it involved turning at the Waterfall sign and crossing a bridge.

"Dude, this bridge is so clichéd. Look at it. It's one of those swaying suspension bridges over a river in the jungle." Corey did not approve, apparently. Then he started singing the theme from Indiana Jones. I backed him up.

The waterfall was not tall, but there was power. The torrent of cold, white river spouted from the top of a wall of black rock. We stood at the bottom, craning our necks. Birds flashed as streaks of orange in the trees above. My face was wet. It was cold at the bottom of this hole in the jungle. The waterfall was blasting its own breeze- the plant life around me swayed in the vapory current.

The most remarkable aspect of the scene before me was the palm tree. It emerged from the canopy on the opposite bank. I had seen innumerate palms in my days. This one was elegant. The thinness of the trunk surprised me. There was an elegance in the fragility and graceful curve of the plant. Its color matched the rest of the surrounding world- a fertile green.

I do not know how long we stood or sat watching the water fall. When we knew it was time to go, we marched back to breakfast and reminded each other that this journey was epic. We crossed the Indiana Jones bridge again, singing with fervor.

In less than an hour, I found myself sitting on the curb wearing my old sunglasses. Corey was on the left, playing with a toothpick. We waited for the bus. A few thundered by before we flagged down one headed for Coca. We threw our bags in the underdeck storage and scrambled aboard.