I arrived in Chachapoyas planning on doing a day-trip to Kuelap (a pre-Incan site recently opened to tourists) and wound up signing up for a three-day jungle trek. I think that my family's Target disability has impacted my travel habits (we once went to Target to buy a blender and left with a full set of patio furniture). Big Box Syndrome aside, I do not regret my decision. How could I let myself be chauffeured to Kuelap after receiving the opportunity to hike through jungle for three days, stumbling upon obscure, vine-covered ruins, before falling at the feet of Kuelap's majestic, white walls?
Dear reader, I am going to torture you. I am not going to share most of the details of my trek with you. On Sunday, I will return to the States, at which point you will be able to pump me with questions. Until then, you will have to be satiated by a mere anecdote.
On the second day of the trek, my guide announced that I was going to ride a mule through the Andes for five hours. After eating breakfast, our host (we had spent the night on a coffee farm in an obscure Andean village, three hours away from the nearest road) led me to the front of his house and introduced me to Mula, my beast of burden. When I tried to pet my new furry friend, my host protested. He told me that Mula liked to kick. Then, he told me to mount the animal. I climbed atop Mula, making every effort to avoid his angry hoofs, and began my journey.
As I rode along, I discovered the Mula was no middle-of-the-road mule. No, he preferred to stick to the right edge of the path. This practice proved to be extremely hazardous for my face. I constantly had to duck under Peruvian tree branches, which was difficult because my hair was entangled in the jungle vines. Whenever the mule took my on a scratch adventure, his minder yelled at him in pitchy, ungrammatical Spanish mixed with indigenous colloquialisms that sounded like the language in the computer game "The Sims."
The anecdote ends here, my friends. Will Antigone survive her treacherous mule ride through the Andes, or will she come home severely disfigured? Find out at Newark Airport on Sunday!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Adventures in Transport
On Tuesday, I left dear Ecuador for the unknown territory of northern Perú. I am not kidding about northern Perú being a bit clandestine. Only one percent of all tourists who fly into Lima go north instead of south.
Before I arrived, I expected Ecuador and Perú to be similar. They are neighbors and, were both inhabited by the Inca. I was shocked when I walked across the bridge at the border and discovered a completely different accent, idiomatic vocabulary, and pace of life. Total culture shock!
After I crossed the bridge, I was allowed to reboard the bus (for the record, I was on a bus from Loja, Ecuador to Piura, Perú). We had only been on the road for twenty minutes when we were stopped at a police checkpoint (one of three that we would encounter while leaving the border). At one checkpoint, the officer interrogated me for five minutes because he thought that I was an Ecuadorian travelling on a fake U.S. passport. He tried very hard to trick me into admitting my ''true'' nationality.
I finally arrived in Piura at 4:30 PM (the bus ride lasted ten hours). However, I did not get to enjoy the town because I had to transfer to a 6:00 PM bus to Chiclayo. I finally got to go to bed at 10:00 PM.
When I woke up the next morning, I discovered one sign of northern Perú's underdeveloped tourism industry: convoluted public transportation. Basically, the entire city of Chiclayo gets around in combinas, cars that are as small as mini vans or as large as VW busses. When a Chiclayoan wants to go somewhere, they flag down a combina with a sign for their destination or they go to the correct station (for the record, all of the stations are located in different corners of the city and have no infrastructure). You wind up with vans packed like clown cars travelling to neighboring towns.
I used the combinas to go to archaeological sites for two days. Then, it was time to move on. Last night, I boarded a 7:00 PM bus to Chachapoyas. What was supposed to be an eight-hour ride morphed into a fifteen-hour test of road block endurance. At midnight, we rolled to the stop on a windy road in the middle of the Andes. A group of local workers had shut down the highway to protest their meager wages. They only earned five soles per day (in other words, they had to clothe, shelter, and feed their entire families with fewer than two dollars every day). They threatened to keep us immobile for twenty four hours, but finally let us move on at 3:30 AM. As the bus sped up, I finally fell asleep. I had had trouble earlier because all of the men sitting around me had been snoring. Three hours later, we neared Chachapoyas and discovered another paro. The highway was closed until 7:00 PM for road repairs. A group of Spanish exchange students could not stand the wait. They staged a riot in front of the road blockade. Finally, the police agreed to let us pass. I arrived in Chachapoyas at 10:00 AM, feeling exhausted.
Before I arrived, I expected Ecuador and Perú to be similar. They are neighbors and, were both inhabited by the Inca. I was shocked when I walked across the bridge at the border and discovered a completely different accent, idiomatic vocabulary, and pace of life. Total culture shock!
After I crossed the bridge, I was allowed to reboard the bus (for the record, I was on a bus from Loja, Ecuador to Piura, Perú). We had only been on the road for twenty minutes when we were stopped at a police checkpoint (one of three that we would encounter while leaving the border). At one checkpoint, the officer interrogated me for five minutes because he thought that I was an Ecuadorian travelling on a fake U.S. passport. He tried very hard to trick me into admitting my ''true'' nationality.
I finally arrived in Piura at 4:30 PM (the bus ride lasted ten hours). However, I did not get to enjoy the town because I had to transfer to a 6:00 PM bus to Chiclayo. I finally got to go to bed at 10:00 PM.
When I woke up the next morning, I discovered one sign of northern Perú's underdeveloped tourism industry: convoluted public transportation. Basically, the entire city of Chiclayo gets around in combinas, cars that are as small as mini vans or as large as VW busses. When a Chiclayoan wants to go somewhere, they flag down a combina with a sign for their destination or they go to the correct station (for the record, all of the stations are located in different corners of the city and have no infrastructure). You wind up with vans packed like clown cars travelling to neighboring towns.
I used the combinas to go to archaeological sites for two days. Then, it was time to move on. Last night, I boarded a 7:00 PM bus to Chachapoyas. What was supposed to be an eight-hour ride morphed into a fifteen-hour test of road block endurance. At midnight, we rolled to the stop on a windy road in the middle of the Andes. A group of local workers had shut down the highway to protest their meager wages. They only earned five soles per day (in other words, they had to clothe, shelter, and feed their entire families with fewer than two dollars every day). They threatened to keep us immobile for twenty four hours, but finally let us move on at 3:30 AM. As the bus sped up, I finally fell asleep. I had had trouble earlier because all of the men sitting around me had been snoring. Three hours later, we neared Chachapoyas and discovered another paro. The highway was closed until 7:00 PM for road repairs. A group of Spanish exchange students could not stand the wait. They staged a riot in front of the road blockade. Finally, the police agreed to let us pass. I arrived in Chachapoyas at 10:00 AM, feeling exhausted.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Antigone Goes to Jail
On Saturday, I decided to spend my afternoon visiting a women's prison in Quito. At two o'clock, I hopped on a public bus, laden down with a bag of toiletries for the inmates and my passport. I took the bus to the northernmost stop. Then, I hailed a taxi. When I asked the driver to take me to El Inca, he became noticeably silent. Eager to make the situation less awkward, I unsuccessfully tried to chat him up. When we finally reached the street with the entrance to El Inca, the cabbie asked me if I wanted to be dropped off at the corner or the gate. I requested door-to-door service.
When I entered the prison, I had to give my passport to a receptionist. She proceeded to place two large, appropriately tattoo-like stamps on my arm. Then, she sent me to another woman. The second lady searched my bag of drug store goodies and placed her hand in between my breasts. I was about to shout in shock when I realized that she merely needed to frisk me. After I passed inspection, I was led inside.
When someone says the word prison, I think of monolithic, gray walls, ascetic accommodations, and orange jumpsuits. I was very surprised when I discovered a yellow alley lined with inmate-run tiendas and cafés. There were hundreds of women wearing street clothes. They were surrounded by friends and family who had come to celebrate Mother's Day. The prison employee left me with an inmate selling candy bars. I gave the vendor the name of a South African prisoner that I had received at my travel club, Leona. The vendor began to buzz about like a bee. ''¿Dónde está Leona? La gringa quiere hablar con ella.'' We eventually found Leona in the courtyard. She was participating in a Mother's Day dance party. As I walked up to my host, I began to ask myself why I had come. Why would this woman want to speak with me?
Leona ended up being very eager to talk. She shares a top bunk with he mother so that she can save on rent (yes, you have to pay for your berth in an Ecuadorian prison), so my new face was welcome. She showed me around the prison, told me about the schedule, and introduced me to her friends.
We spent a lot of time with Penny Lane, a Brazilian dancer who had been convicted of nacotrafficking. Penny was larger than life. Like a four-year-old, she participated in all activities with vigor until she became bored. Then, she flitted away. We would talk for ten minutes, then dance for ten minutes, then talk, then dance, and on and on. In between salsa lessons and techno dance-offs, Penny told me about some of the inmates' more gruesome crimes. She pointed to one woman and said, ''She filled an infant's corpse with cocaine and tried to carry it across the border, as if it were alive. We still don't know where the baby came from.'' She also told me that the majority of prisoners were Colombian, not Ecuadorian.
The saddest moment came when a severely mentally retarded, twenty-five-year-old woman, Lennie, joined our group. Leona explaind that Lennie was not a convict. When Lennie was a girl, her mother had been arrested. No one in her family or community had wanted to deal with her handicap, so she went to prison, where her mother could care for her. She had spent most of her life inside of El Inca's walls.
As the day wore on, Penny, Leona, and I talked a little more. I learned that the true source of injustice in the Ecuadorian penal system as the corrupt judiciary. Some women had been waiting three years for a trial. Then, we danced to Leona's favorite song, ''Love Generation.'' At 4:30, I had to leave. I bought one of Leona's hand-made cards. Then, she and Penny walked me to the gates. They invited me to come back, promising to make a huge Brazilian lunch. I said goodbye to the most hospitable hosts that I ever met and walked out into the free world.
When I entered the prison, I had to give my passport to a receptionist. She proceeded to place two large, appropriately tattoo-like stamps on my arm. Then, she sent me to another woman. The second lady searched my bag of drug store goodies and placed her hand in between my breasts. I was about to shout in shock when I realized that she merely needed to frisk me. After I passed inspection, I was led inside.
When someone says the word prison, I think of monolithic, gray walls, ascetic accommodations, and orange jumpsuits. I was very surprised when I discovered a yellow alley lined with inmate-run tiendas and cafés. There were hundreds of women wearing street clothes. They were surrounded by friends and family who had come to celebrate Mother's Day. The prison employee left me with an inmate selling candy bars. I gave the vendor the name of a South African prisoner that I had received at my travel club, Leona. The vendor began to buzz about like a bee. ''¿Dónde está Leona? La gringa quiere hablar con ella.'' We eventually found Leona in the courtyard. She was participating in a Mother's Day dance party. As I walked up to my host, I began to ask myself why I had come. Why would this woman want to speak with me?
Leona ended up being very eager to talk. She shares a top bunk with he mother so that she can save on rent (yes, you have to pay for your berth in an Ecuadorian prison), so my new face was welcome. She showed me around the prison, told me about the schedule, and introduced me to her friends.
We spent a lot of time with Penny Lane, a Brazilian dancer who had been convicted of nacotrafficking. Penny was larger than life. Like a four-year-old, she participated in all activities with vigor until she became bored. Then, she flitted away. We would talk for ten minutes, then dance for ten minutes, then talk, then dance, and on and on. In between salsa lessons and techno dance-offs, Penny told me about some of the inmates' more gruesome crimes. She pointed to one woman and said, ''She filled an infant's corpse with cocaine and tried to carry it across the border, as if it were alive. We still don't know where the baby came from.'' She also told me that the majority of prisoners were Colombian, not Ecuadorian.
The saddest moment came when a severely mentally retarded, twenty-five-year-old woman, Lennie, joined our group. Leona explaind that Lennie was not a convict. When Lennie was a girl, her mother had been arrested. No one in her family or community had wanted to deal with her handicap, so she went to prison, where her mother could care for her. She had spent most of her life inside of El Inca's walls.
As the day wore on, Penny, Leona, and I talked a little more. I learned that the true source of injustice in the Ecuadorian penal system as the corrupt judiciary. Some women had been waiting three years for a trial. Then, we danced to Leona's favorite song, ''Love Generation.'' At 4:30, I had to leave. I bought one of Leona's hand-made cards. Then, she and Penny walked me to the gates. They invited me to come back, promising to make a huge Brazilian lunch. I said goodbye to the most hospitable hosts that I ever met and walked out into the free world.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Airport
Having grown up in a post 9/11 world within site of Ground Zero, I am accustomed to hour-long security lines, multiple ID checks, and the like. Thus, I was very surprised when it only took me five minutes to check-in and clear security for a domestic Ecuadorian flight. I did not even have to show photo ID or take off my shoes!
At first, the lack of security made me nervous. Bush had gotten to my head. I wanted air marshalls and liquid bans, and to be told what color of danger I was living under. Then, I realized that no reasonable, publicity-minded terrorist was going to blow-up a flight going to Cuenca, Ecuador. Living in an obscure, developing country certainly has its benefits.
At first, the lack of security made me nervous. Bush had gotten to my head. I wanted air marshalls and liquid bans, and to be told what color of danger I was living under. Then, I realized that no reasonable, publicity-minded terrorist was going to blow-up a flight going to Cuenca, Ecuador. Living in an obscure, developing country certainly has its benefits.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday
Some people suffer from a case of the Mondays. Yesterday, I was inflicted with the Thursdays.
It all started when I had to take my students on a field trip. We went to the Ecuadorian equivalent of Discovery Zone. The kids jumped in a ball pit, climbed up and down twisty tube slides, and traversed the monkey bars. Of course, the wild games had to be accompanied by general chaos. Here are the highlights:
-One of the two-story twisty tube slides was hemorrhaging bolts and screws. We had to close it, sparking juvenile rebellion.
-I met the cheekiest male that I have ever interacted with in my entire life (and, living in Ecuador, that is saying something). He was ten-years-old and repeatedly tried to feel me up.
-One of my four-year-olds ran away. He decided that he wanted to cross a bunch of busy streets and go to his house to get ice cream. It took us twenty minutes to find him. I have seldom been so frightened.
My afternoon was relatively tranquil. I went to a Spanish class and checked my e-mail. In the evening, I went to a friend's presentation about hiking and climbing in Ecuador. There were four other audience members: a Ukrainian, a German, a cantankerous old Scot, and a man with a machete. Mr. Machete was attending the presentation for the third time. At the end, he pulled me aside and told me that my friend was very famous, that it was an honor to be in his presence. I left the room, only to hear him have a conversation with the crazed Scot. They discussed climbing, hiking, and criminal records. Then, they left together. As Mr. Machete walked out the door, he whipped out his weapon and announced that he would have no problems with muggers on public transportation. I ran to a corner and laughed so hard that tears spilled from my eyes.
It all started when I had to take my students on a field trip. We went to the Ecuadorian equivalent of Discovery Zone. The kids jumped in a ball pit, climbed up and down twisty tube slides, and traversed the monkey bars. Of course, the wild games had to be accompanied by general chaos. Here are the highlights:
-One of the two-story twisty tube slides was hemorrhaging bolts and screws. We had to close it, sparking juvenile rebellion.
-I met the cheekiest male that I have ever interacted with in my entire life (and, living in Ecuador, that is saying something). He was ten-years-old and repeatedly tried to feel me up.
-One of my four-year-olds ran away. He decided that he wanted to cross a bunch of busy streets and go to his house to get ice cream. It took us twenty minutes to find him. I have seldom been so frightened.
My afternoon was relatively tranquil. I went to a Spanish class and checked my e-mail. In the evening, I went to a friend's presentation about hiking and climbing in Ecuador. There were four other audience members: a Ukrainian, a German, a cantankerous old Scot, and a man with a machete. Mr. Machete was attending the presentation for the third time. At the end, he pulled me aside and told me that my friend was very famous, that it was an honor to be in his presence. I left the room, only to hear him have a conversation with the crazed Scot. They discussed climbing, hiking, and criminal records. Then, they left together. As Mr. Machete walked out the door, he whipped out his weapon and announced that he would have no problems with muggers on public transportation. I ran to a corner and laughed so hard that tears spilled from my eyes.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Coastal Saga Continues
If you thought that the fun ended in Jipi Japa (I still love that name), you were wrong.
Lorelai and I arrived in Puerto Lopez around 11:00 AM. The air was full of salt and the beach was in sight, but we still could not go swimming. Since arriving in Ecuador, Lorelai had developed an allergic reaction. I will spare you most of the medical details. It suffices to say that she could not poop without feeling excruciating pain. As a result, our first priority in Puerto Lopez was finding a doctor. I had spent the past day calling the International Association for Medical Assistance to Travellers and assorted American consulates. When we were on the bus, the American Consulate in Guayaquil finally called with the name of a doctor down the street from our hostel in Puerto Lopez.
After checking in, Lorelai and I shuffled down the street to the doctor (apparently, walking fast was also very painful). We climbed up two flights of stairs and were greeted by Doctor Developing Country, decked out in scrubs and flip-flops. Dr. DC did not speak any English and Lorelai did not speak any Spanish, so I got to translate. After sitting down in a dark office with blood stains and a used syringe on the floor, Lorelai began to describe her symptoms.
After asking Lorelai to diagnose her ailment (I thought he was supposed to be the doctor), Dr. DC began asking about the affected area. I translated the questions and responses and, I admit, elicited my fair share of nervous giggles. In the end, Dr. DC sent me to buy urine and stool sample cups at the pharmacy down the street. He told Lorelai that she had an hour to poop because he wanted to be out of the office by 1:00. Lorelai and I went out to lunch and made our best effort to order stool-friendly food.
1:00 PM rolled around. Lorelai could not do number two. We returned to the office. I explain to Dr. DC that Lorelai had not met the poop deadline.
Antigone: Would you please look at her condition and make a diagnosis based on what you see?
Dr. DC: No. I am too embarassed. However, I will give her a prescription. Tell her to take these four medicines and stop using her anti-malarials.
Antigone: Why should she stop taking anti-malarials?
Dr. DC: Because they're the root of her problem.
Antigone: But she's only been on anti-malarials for two days. Her condition started two weeks ago!
Dr. DC: Oh, well, she should still stop taking them.
Lorelai and I left the office, confounded by Third World medicine, but finally free to go to the beach. We bought daquiris from a nearby stand and plopped down on the shore. The next two days were very relaxing. We swam, stared at fishing boats, ate fresh fish, and visited Isla de la Plata, ''the Poor Man's Galapagos.''
On Wednesday, we decided to move onto Montañita, the surfing capital of Ecuador. When we first arrived, Montañita was a cute, little beach town filled with chiseled men in board shorts. Lorelai and I read on the beach, played in massive waves, and made friends with surfer dudes. When the weekend came, our mundo was turned up-side-down. President Correa had declared Thursday, May 1 a national holiday. By Friday, the beach was filled with umbrellas, and downtown Montañita seemed more like a partying theme park than a village. At night, music spilled from all of the clubs and bars, and dance parties spontaneously generated in the streets. Most people gave up sleeping. Clubs blasted music until 6:00 and construction projects began at 8:00. I celebrated my youth for practically 45 hours straight (granted, I managed to squeeze in a 2-hour long nap). Then, I boarded a bus to Guayaquil at 5:00 AM on Sunday morning, the beginning of a thirteen-hour trek back to Quito.
My journey home was an exhaustion-induced mind trip. I crashed as soon as I sat down on the quiet bus, only to be shaken awake by the driver.
Driver: Two gringos are trying to run onto the bus. They say that you have their tickets.
I had originally planned to travel home with Chad and Whiny, two Americans studying abroad in Quito. Lorelai wanted to stay in Montañita to take Spanish classes. After buying tickets for the bus to Guayaquil (the first leg of the trip), Chad and Whiny had met a random girl on the beach who offered to let them go directly to Quito in her car when she overheard them mention their destination. I had elected to stick with the bus. Hitchhiking in Ecuador sounded like a bad idea, even if it would save me four hours. At 5:00, Chad and Whiny realized that they could not find their ride. Thus, they decided to chase after the bus. When they finally boarded, I was very tired and confused. I started talking loudly at them in a Spanish and English. Then, we all crashed in our seats after I gave the driver our shared ticket.
We arrived in Guayaquil at 8:00, spent an hour in the terminal going to the bathroom and eating breakfast. Then, we hopped on a nine-hour bus to Quito. When I finally got home at 6:30, I was smelly and spent.
Lorelai and I arrived in Puerto Lopez around 11:00 AM. The air was full of salt and the beach was in sight, but we still could not go swimming. Since arriving in Ecuador, Lorelai had developed an allergic reaction. I will spare you most of the medical details. It suffices to say that she could not poop without feeling excruciating pain. As a result, our first priority in Puerto Lopez was finding a doctor. I had spent the past day calling the International Association for Medical Assistance to Travellers and assorted American consulates. When we were on the bus, the American Consulate in Guayaquil finally called with the name of a doctor down the street from our hostel in Puerto Lopez.
After checking in, Lorelai and I shuffled down the street to the doctor (apparently, walking fast was also very painful). We climbed up two flights of stairs and were greeted by Doctor Developing Country, decked out in scrubs and flip-flops. Dr. DC did not speak any English and Lorelai did not speak any Spanish, so I got to translate. After sitting down in a dark office with blood stains and a used syringe on the floor, Lorelai began to describe her symptoms.
After asking Lorelai to diagnose her ailment (I thought he was supposed to be the doctor), Dr. DC began asking about the affected area. I translated the questions and responses and, I admit, elicited my fair share of nervous giggles. In the end, Dr. DC sent me to buy urine and stool sample cups at the pharmacy down the street. He told Lorelai that she had an hour to poop because he wanted to be out of the office by 1:00. Lorelai and I went out to lunch and made our best effort to order stool-friendly food.
1:00 PM rolled around. Lorelai could not do number two. We returned to the office. I explain to Dr. DC that Lorelai had not met the poop deadline.
Antigone: Would you please look at her condition and make a diagnosis based on what you see?
Dr. DC: No. I am too embarassed. However, I will give her a prescription. Tell her to take these four medicines and stop using her anti-malarials.
Antigone: Why should she stop taking anti-malarials?
Dr. DC: Because they're the root of her problem.
Antigone: But she's only been on anti-malarials for two days. Her condition started two weeks ago!
Dr. DC: Oh, well, she should still stop taking them.
Lorelai and I left the office, confounded by Third World medicine, but finally free to go to the beach. We bought daquiris from a nearby stand and plopped down on the shore. The next two days were very relaxing. We swam, stared at fishing boats, ate fresh fish, and visited Isla de la Plata, ''the Poor Man's Galapagos.''
On Wednesday, we decided to move onto Montañita, the surfing capital of Ecuador. When we first arrived, Montañita was a cute, little beach town filled with chiseled men in board shorts. Lorelai and I read on the beach, played in massive waves, and made friends with surfer dudes. When the weekend came, our mundo was turned up-side-down. President Correa had declared Thursday, May 1 a national holiday. By Friday, the beach was filled with umbrellas, and downtown Montañita seemed more like a partying theme park than a village. At night, music spilled from all of the clubs and bars, and dance parties spontaneously generated in the streets. Most people gave up sleeping. Clubs blasted music until 6:00 and construction projects began at 8:00. I celebrated my youth for practically 45 hours straight (granted, I managed to squeeze in a 2-hour long nap). Then, I boarded a bus to Guayaquil at 5:00 AM on Sunday morning, the beginning of a thirteen-hour trek back to Quito.
My journey home was an exhaustion-induced mind trip. I crashed as soon as I sat down on the quiet bus, only to be shaken awake by the driver.
Driver: Two gringos are trying to run onto the bus. They say that you have their tickets.
I had originally planned to travel home with Chad and Whiny, two Americans studying abroad in Quito. Lorelai wanted to stay in Montañita to take Spanish classes. After buying tickets for the bus to Guayaquil (the first leg of the trip), Chad and Whiny had met a random girl on the beach who offered to let them go directly to Quito in her car when she overheard them mention their destination. I had elected to stick with the bus. Hitchhiking in Ecuador sounded like a bad idea, even if it would save me four hours. At 5:00, Chad and Whiny realized that they could not find their ride. Thus, they decided to chase after the bus. When they finally boarded, I was very tired and confused. I started talking loudly at them in a Spanish and English. Then, we all crashed in our seats after I gave the driver our shared ticket.
We arrived in Guayaquil at 8:00, spent an hour in the terminal going to the bathroom and eating breakfast. Then, we hopped on a nine-hour bus to Quito. When I finally got home at 6:30, I was smelly and spent.
