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"Mister"
August 19 and 20
The station had been more like a dungeon, a rift in the streets of Quito riddled with concrete caverns and teeming with the huge vehicles. We had left mass at the cathedral a while ago already. It was almost noon, but little sunlight made it to the terminal floor. I carried my two-dollar ticket to the rotating door to our bus. It felt good to leave the commotion of ticket salespeople shouting city names over and over. The Ecuadorian vendors were fierce.
Corey sat on the left side, and I on the right. I had wanted to sit apart to mingle with the local commuters. That opportunity hardly came on this first bus trip. At least we could admire the countryside for a couple hours. As the bus shuddered and backed out, food vendors tried to board to earn a pittance selling bottles of Coke and prepared meals of seco de pollo in little plastic buckets.
"No, gracias," I said to each of them as they passed my seat, continuing to offer their products half-heartedly. I turned my back to Corey and lost myself in the world past the window. Still winding through the hills of the city, we passed bleak grey statues and walls adorned with graffiti, all of which bashed the political leaders of the country. The day before we had encountered a likeness of our own president with crossbones and"asesino" as a label. Others were harder to interpret.
TLC = OXY. High-level arithmetic equations were a popular technique for criticizing the government.
Noboa =Leones + Muerte. Theses decorated walls were cold and menacing. Many were topped with shards of glass to deter wayward neighbors.
They were the backdrop for hordes of people- men, women, children, and their livestock- all choking on the exhaust from buses. My bus was no exception. Caustic clouds spewed from the pipes. People milled around on the sidelines. Most waited complacently for just the right bus. Others sat dejected. Their dress was often bright, but a covering of thick dust complemented the dreary cement surroundings. The Ecuadorians were wearing all sorts of strange indigenous sombreros, sarapes, ponchos, shoes, and bowler hats. I had to wonder when the custom of black bowler hats for Otavalan women came about. My travel book had a few bright pictures of these people and their abundance of hats.
The outskirts of the city were composed mainly of trash. Much of it was burnt. We were leaving the city behind and entering the open lands that we had seen a few days before, from the summit of Rucu Pichincha. That hike still seemed surreal. It was our first contact with the ethereal mountains that held sway over the valley of Quito. I wanted to see more. More fertile land stretching into the distance, where patchwork rectangles of farmland shone as bright panes of stained glass under the equatorial sun. I backed away from the window a bit. I heard a snatch of a familiar song on the radio, but I couldn't tell what it was with the roar of the engine as we climbed out of the valley.
My red-haired friend across the aisle caught my eye. "It's Cat Stevens." I listened again and smiled. It was Father and Son, and the sound of it was entirely out of place on that bus. I moved to the aisle seat to hear it better. "Gato Stevens," declared Corey. The two of us were so far from our land, but we were not remote. I came expecting that every detail would be different, every foundation of culture and every niche of day-to-day life. Separating myself from our ways was one thing I had to do.I was surprised again by the ubiquity of American influence on other cultures. Ecuador even used our dollars. People in the streets either wore business suits, traditional Indian dress, or Kurt Cobain and Metallica t-shirts. It was an exiting mix of culture to explore.
There we were, two little gringos on a bus to Papallacta, trying to further absorb the culture by talking to folks on the bus. There was hardly anyone in the bus. The seat at my side was occupied only by my red water bottle.
I went back to the window. "Oi, 'migo. Look. Cotopaxi." I told my friend as soon as I saw it. The cone of the volcano rose far above the horizon. It was sheathed in snow, looming like a ghost in the distance.
"Cotopaxi!" he replied in a loud whisper. No mountain I had ever seen could compare. It was a leviathan wedge of earth and snow miles and miles away. From here I could get no sense of the immensity and power, yet from here it was mysterious, intangible. We had decided against climbing it by that time. "Well, if we're going to do a big expedition, we might as well just do Chimborazo. It's the tallest one in the country, and we don't want to settle for second best." I had laughed at his caprice and impeccable lightness of attitude in any situation. Soon we lost the view of the active volcano. Clouds swarmed over its summit.
We passed through a few cities, each of which proved to be very similar to Quito. The bus was traversing a wide plain. Passengers came and went. A girl even sat by me, but she was impudent enough to get off at her stop after a few minutes. The bus started to climb. The road wrapped around buttressed valley walls, taking us over ten thousand feet in elevation and dropping us on the other side, where grass of the plains was usurped by forest. Cloud forest surrounded the town of Papallacta. Roadside billboards advertised fishing and swimming. There were huge pipes running over the road. Papallacta supplied much of the water for Quito.
The bus continued on its way to Coca after we got off. Corey refused the taxi driver and we walked instead up the dirt road to the Termas de Papallacta. The air was cool, a humid sigh from the mountains. "No way. They have a fish hatchery here. It's like back home, on the fish farm."
"Yeah, just like it. In the middle of the jungle and all," I said, keeping up our tradition of constant sarcasm in conversation. Termas de Papallacta was past the hatchery, in the back corner of the fertile valley. When we learned that a room at said establishment was upwards of fifty dollars a night, we retreated.
"I think we can get a good cheap hostel back down in the village."
"Probably, but I think they let you camp here at the gringo resort place." I had carried the tent all the way to South America, and I had every intention of using it at least once to justify its added weight on my back.
"I don't think I want to camp though. Not yet; I'm sure we'll camp later." I couldn't be so sure. I felt that if we didn't get it over soon, we'd never take the initiative to set up the confounded thing. "So we should just stay at a hostal. I'll check the Book. It rates places from one to eight. Eight is classy, and one is the cheapest accommodation in the universe. I trust this book, man."
"Fine, we won't camp. But we should use this tent sooner or later."
The allure of Papallacta was not only the cloud forest setting, but also the abundance of geothermal activity. The Termas resort had pools, but so did the local place on the same dirt road, which cost two dollars instead of fifteen. "Sí, the resort charges muchísimo dinero. We charge two dollars here. And it's the same water!" chimed the old man outside when he admitted us.
I took of my backpack and changed. I put in my contact lenses without a mirror or countertop. That was awkward. I put my money belt in my pants, wrapped them up, and shoved it all in my bag. The bag sat at the poolside under my vigilance. I trusted the other poolgoers, but I was not willing to part with everything I possessed in that country. We spent hours lolling in the hot water. I floated thinking that the clouds could not possibly be more dynamic and captivating than they already were. The entire scene surrounding the pool was serene. We were high in a small valley carpeted with thick forest. Any gap in the trees was inhabited by grass and cows, even high up on steep hills. The cows were expert mountaineers here.
I wanted to swim for exercise, but lethargy presided. I watched the man from Quito swim. "Do you guys know how to swim?" I told him yes and left him to his business of splashing around in the water.
"You know what? It would be better if you kept your head down, like this," I suggested to him.
"And keep your a****** higher in the water," added Corey in a vulgar slip of Spanish.
I grinned. "No no no, not a******. Say hips instead, or buns." Corey had previously demanded that I teach him Spanish. I will be no teacher in any sense of the word, I thought. But I'll give him some words. He turned out to be a serious student. He even assigned himself homework.
When we walked back on the dirt road, we told stories in Spanish. They were mini-cuentos fashioned after the ridiculous classroom stories we used to act out for high school Spanish, with Señora Selters. "Un dia, Corey y Nick caminaron por la calle…" Pickup truck taxies drove by us with passengers.
The village consisted of a few streets in the middle of the bigger valley. Mountains and cool air surrounded us. "There's a hostel. Looks alright." We paid seven fifty each to share a room in the basement. There was a hole in the door instead of a handle.
"I'm starving. Let's go search the streets for food. And lift this bed up for me; we should put our packs underneath." Corey turned off the light and we emerged into the dusky village. It was still Sunday, the selfsame day we attended mass in a cathedral we would not return to see for weeks. Nothing was open. We got a few bananas from a general store and kept looking.
"Check this out. It looks like they'd have food there." We approached a tiny wooden hut with two people behind the counter. Corey asked them if they were still open. He ordered a plate of trout with rice and potatoes. The man welcomed us inside, to the table. It sat in a room the size of a closet. The table itself wasn't wide enough for our four legs to fit under. I decided I didn't have much of a desire to eat trout. Corey refused. "Go on, order something. Get the same thing, 'cause it'll be awesome. And I'll pay for it." I went out to the kitchen and asked for another plate.
I stood talking to the man and woman in Spanish. Corey joined too. We learned that the man worked there on the weekends, to help his sister. He lived in Quito. We talked about currency and salary. "It is very hard to earn good money in Ecuador. That's why people try to get work in the United States or other countries. But it is very hard to get a Visa also. So most of us work every day to earn a few dollars."
"Yeah… it must be tough. Hm. Why is it that Ecuador switched to the dolar? It used to be the Sucre, right?"
"Yes," he said. "Ecuador decided to go ahead with the dolarización because the Sucre was becoming inflated. It got to the point where you had to bring huge amounts of money to buy anything. It was a big problem."
We raised our eyebrows. I guess that's what you do when to emphasize your understanding without revealing that you don't know what to say. "Well," said Corey, "it's really convenient for us that you use the dollar. Everything is pretty cheap."
The sister was standing by the stove cutting our potatoes and frying up the trout. "Did you guys catch these fish?" I asked.
"No, mister. We bought them. They come from the hatchery."
"I grew up on a fish hatchery." It was strange to think of Corey's house at that moment. It was up in the mountains, in my home that was so far away. "My dad was a fish farmer." He smiled.
"Oh, then you know all about real fish. Well, ours comes frozen from the hatchery. Where have you been in Ecuador, mister?" She was addressing both of us. Mister was the only word of English she spoke, and she used it as much as possible. It was charming to stand there in the doorway of the kitchen, listening to the short lady talk and call us mister. She emphasized the first syllable, and with her accent it came out childish and benevolent.
"We spent four days in Quito, and today we came out here by bus."
"And we'll be in Ecuador for five weeks. We're going to do a big circuit through the country," I said, remembering to use circuito instead of círculo to describe our trajectory through the small Republic.
"Five weeks is pretty long, mister." Then she asked, "Do you like it?"
"Of course! The countryside is amazing. The people are so nice, and it's cool being in such a different environment." People in Ecuador often propend to ask travelers if they enjoy the place. I thought it would be hard to find a way to disagree with the benevolence and beauty of the country.
"And what exactly will you two be doing for over a month here? Are you teachers or anything, so you will be working?" inquired the brother, standing with his arms crossed.
"No, not working, just passing through different places. Exploring the jungle and the mountains," I said.
"Yeah, we want to climb some of these Andean peaks. Perhaps Chimborazo, with a guide." Corey pronounced the mountain with a certain reverence. I thought about the price of a guide. He kept telling people we were going to do it. I kept thinking about how exhausting, physically and financially, it would turn out to be. But I had to contradict myself; perhaps it would be worth it. To stand on the top of a snowy peak, twenty thousand feet above sea level. I nodded.
"Ah, Chimborazo. That would be a tough trip. You have to acclimatize, and rent all the gear. Ice picks and spikes for the shoes." He went on to say that "Ecuador is known as El Ombligo del Mundo (belly button of the world). People used to think that Chimborazo was the highest mountain. Then I guess someone went to Tibet and realized Everest is taller. But the world has a bulge around the equator- Chimborazo is farther from the core of the Earth than Everest. But Everest is higher above sea level." Corey and I nodded in acknowledgement. We had learned something new.
"The food is ready, mister. Go take a seat." The two plates were delicious. Corey swallowed his in gaping mouthfuls, and he used most of the bowl of salsa.
"Oi, save some for me."
"Well you'll have to learn to grab it. I love this salsa; it's amazing. The sister came into the dining room and offered to change the light bulb for some reason. "No, that's fine. This one is bright. And the food is incredible!" She smiled and left us to eat at the tiny wooden table in the back room.
We paid two fifty each for that dinner and told our friends we might come back tomorrow. In our room at the hostel, we sat on the beds and made remarks about just how inconceivably agreeable the meal had been. And for a mere two and a half dollars, we feasted with two kind people and learned a bit about the world.
I took off my boots and my socks. I put on my wool hat, the one from Estela. From my backpack I pulled my books wrapped in plastic bags, a carton of chocolate milk, and a carton of wine. We had gone shopping at a supermarket the day before. I described the day's events in my journal. Then I tried the wine.
"Oh God! It's awful," I said with a grimace.
"It's really that bad?" I passed him the carton. He smelled it and took a gulp. "Maybe you shouldn't buy cheap wine that comes in cardboard boxes! Dick! This is horrible. You're gonna have to drink it, too."
I sank back on the bed in despair. "We'll have to wash it down with that rum you got, which was a better deal than this bucket of vile liquid." I went to the bathroom to refill my water bottles. A tablet of iodine in each one was supposed to kill any bacteria so I wouldn't die. I took out my journal again and shuddered at the thought of that red wine. I supposed sitting on a hot bus for a few hours couldn't have helped it much.
I started scribbling little box shapes at the bottom of the page. They expanded and stretched back, toward the horizon I added. On the right I put Rucu Pichincha and the other sweeping mountains. Across the valley was Cotopaxi. In the middle of the city I added the two dark towers of the cathedral, with crosses on top. I tried to render a few capricious clouds, but they didn't turn out well. I labeled the whole thing Quito and showed Corey, who was not impressed. I thought it came out pretty good, for someone whose imagination and interest in drawing had died long ago.
We sat for a few hours. The wine never improved its flavor, and the rum burned my throat. After four days in that country, we had a lot to talk about. "It's weird that I haven't really seen you all year, except for Christmas break and Memorial Day weekend. But that was only like fifteen minutes. And now here we are, and I'm going to spend more than a month with you in this stupid country. I hate it. I'm going home to watch the OC and drive my Hummer." Such are the jokes we exchange. Corey was always very sarcastic. I was too. Between the two of us was always a network of weird inside jokes and flippant comments that could only seem lewd and hurtful to anyone who didn't know that every comment of that nature was meant only in good humor.
"Yeah. The OC… I hate to think that I could be missing an episode right now," I lamented the loss.
"What do you think Walluss is doing right now?"
"Walluts? I dunno, he could be doing anything. Maybe he's just down in college land having a good time."
"I think he hates us for real. We did kind of forget him." Corey raised his eyebrows. I shrugged. Maybe.
"Anyway. He's probably talking about what Trevor LeBourde did last weekend with Lindsey's little sister."Walluss was a bigger fan of gossip in recent days. But there we were a thousand miles away talking about Walluss gotsip. The incongruity was interesting. I drank some more wine, and Corey helped me finish it. I breathed a sigh of relief when that godforsaken drink was gone forever.
"Never again will I plague us with wine in a cardboard box." At some point we went to sleep. The beds were small and comfortable, and highly conducive to all manner of strange visions and dream confusion.
We tried to get breakfast at the most hospitable restaurant in the universe, the sister and brother operation on the corner, but it was closed. We retreated to the room to eat crackers and my chocolate milk. It was in a cardboard carton as well.
"Goddamn it, Nick. You suck at buying food." The milk tasted awful, but in a different style than the wine. There were lumps of bitter chocolate in the milk. I gave up trying to ingest the substance. "Hey, you have to finish that. All of it!"
"You know I hate to waste food, but this is terrible. I'm sorry, comrade. I've got to euthanize it." I dumped in the toilet. The result was not appetizing. We packed up our bags and emerged into the street again. There was another pool close to the hostel. This one charged two dollars also. It was warm and shallow. I basked in the water like a hippo, hungry and lazy. It was great to be outside in the partial sun. The clouds swirled across the sky, floating up against the mountain faces and drifting quickly in banks of pure white. They refreshed the forest as the wind dragged their bellies across the treetops.
We played with kids. Two girls from somewhere near Quito challenged me to a race. After a while I got up and went to another pool. This one was shallower and hotter, inhabited mostly by adults who conversed mostly about work and politics. One lady asked me if I liked Ecuador. I talked to her and her pretty daughter for a while. She said everyone liked Papallacta because it was very tranquilo; it was out of the locamiento of the city.
We left in the afternoon after we ate lunch in a roadside restaurant. Again, I paid a pittance for an amazing meal that included juice and the inexorable hospitality of the Ecuadorian people. Buses and semi trucks rumbled past the open door as we ate. "Here's the plan- today we go to Baeza. It' about two hours away. The next day we can move on to Coca. The Book says there's a boat that costs fifteen dollars; it goes out to some village in the Amazon."
"Alright," I said. "What's in Baeza?"
"It's a town two hours away, and it's a lot lower in elevation. It's the beginning of the jungle."
I knew where we were going. I saw it on the map. But I was unsure of what we would actually do. We could always hike around and explore, I thought. Our schedule is pretty flexible. No, wait. We don't have a schedule.
We took the bus to Baeza.
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