Cuenca to Montequillas

Cuenca (~7500 ft, ~400,000 ppl) is reported to be the arts and cultural capital of Ecuador, renown for its local crafts and markets.  We wouldn’t really know because we spent 3 days and 2 nights there in self-enforced rehab from our outburst in Baños.  We actually sat in the hostel and watched a movie.  In the daytime.

Stunning architecture, lovely cobblestone streets…blah blah blah…you’re not reading my blog for that kind of shit.  Look it up on the Internets.

We did meet some very nice people (Canadian, Irish) in our hostel/rehab center who had been staying in Cuenca for several months teaching English, ostensibly paid work, but it sounded a lot more like volunteering to me.  Rice + agua + a $4/night hostel doesn’t seem worth the time to me.  I guess I have higher needs.

We also roomed with a guy from Montana who has been touring by motorcycle for several months.  Lots of these types down here, but I’m always amazed at how difficult it is to get a across the Canal Zone.  Every one of these guys talk about spending a week and $1000+ to get a bike through.  Where the fuck is Capitalismo when you need it??  Chad seemed permanently traumatized by the 8 days he spent in Panama City only to end up with a drunk German and a sketchy yacht that nearly capsized.  (After transporting his bike via canoe with a 10 hp motor from the mainland to a small island to meet the “yacht.”)  I told him it would be worth it for the story later.  He did not think I was funny.

(As an aside, I cannot stop listening to the Broken Bells.  It’s become like coffee and smokes to me at this point.  I know, mom, just what I need – another addiction.  HOWEVER, as I write this, I have no idea who won the Stanley Cup, so I guess these addictions can come and go.)

Another brutal bus ride took us to the Ecuadoran border town of Montequillas.  Ecuadoran busses stop for everyone and everything.  The good news is that they are cheap (about $1 per hour travelled).  The bad news is that if you have a seat, you can be sure that someone will be setting their babies or their boxes on top of you.  When we put our packs in the cargo hold, it was empty.  When we took them out, they had to move 50 chickens out of the way first.

The madness of the Ecuador/Peru frontier is really beyond description.  I will simplify by saying that The Sweet Little Sister absolutely snapped at one point and screamed “FUCK OFF!!!” at two hombres who pestered us all the way across the bridge for a taxi ride.  (She did this much to the delight and laughter of everyone within 100 meters of us.)  In her defense, she did attempt “no, thank you,” “go in peace,” and “go away now!” in Espanolish before the Ugly American outburst.

Cash exchange, booze exchange (pisco for tequila), passport stamp, and we are officially in Peru.  The collectivo ride left us bruised, but far from broken once we saw the wide open beaches of Mancora.

Baños

We got in into the little tourist town of Baños (~5000 people, ~6000 feet) wasted from the bus ride down and physically drained from the altitude in Quilatoa.  We wandered around a bit looking for the right hostel and were twice offered the Matrimonial Suite. (Um…if that means a heart-shaped bed or the Magic Fingers attachment, the answer is “fuck yes.”)  But the obvious solution to our ails is a big steak, wine, and tequila.  Some Xanax from the Pharmacia also couldn’t hurt.

Okay, so it turns out that Xanax and tequila CAN hurt.  Who knew??  There is about 3 hours of lost time in there, but I know I paid for 7 tequila shots, 3 shots of pisco, and we emptied out the karaoke bar when I tried to sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”  

 We spent the majority of the evening drinking at a bar with stools right on the main street so we could keep an eye on the action.  Edmundo, the bar owner, talked politics with us for hours and I didn’t complain about the $46 bar tab until much later.  I do remember that he had Korean dramas playing on his TV in the corner…very bizarre.  We both slept until Noon the next day, including sleeping through an evacuation of the entire city…more on that later.

One of my favorite new pastimes is to cuddle up with Holly and dispense The Knowledge of how she should live her life.  She really loves it too.  “What the fuck was up with that hour-long speech you gave me this morning??”  We’re going to try that again tomorrow morning for sure.

In order to clean some of the crap out of our systems (including two packs of Tropicales cigarettes…how can they be bad if they’re only $1.50 a pack?), we headed just south of town for El Refujio, a spa and sauna facility.  The forced march (shoeless) through their “Sacred Refuge” was forgettable, but the sauna boxes filled with Eucalyptus leaves certainly were worth the trip.  We also sprung for a massage, but they put us in the same room because they also thought we were married…awkward.

After the sauna and massage, it was back to town for dinner.  They had on the national news and the top story was “La Evacuaccion de Baños.”   Hundreds and hundreds of people rolling up their shops and literally running down the hill and out of town.  The entire restaurant staff came out of the kitchen to crowd around and see the news.  I was laughing hysterically because we had ignored the 30 minutes of emergency siren and stayed in bed.  Nobody else thought it was as funny as I did.  Strange.

This is our hostal hostess, Bierme (as in "Beer Me):

The volcano that is just outside of the city has been pretty active for the past couple of weeks and the tourist traffic is down significantly.  During our stay, you could hear a huge “boom” from the mountain every hour or two – pretty dramatic stuff.  Even though the weather was cloudy, we decided to take a taxi up to the top of the hill and try to get a look.  And this is what we saw:

Okay, so we didn’t really SEE shit, but being that close to the thing was a pretty righteous experience.  Different from being in the town below, from the viewpoint just across from the volcano, you could literally feel the damn thing breathing.  It sounded like a dragon snoring that would occasionally cough and spit a little fire.  At one point, there was a pretty sizeable explosion, at which point I grabbed my chest and staggered back a few steps.  The Ecuadoran family sitting on top of the hill watching thought that was pretty funny.  Stupid gringo. 

It did clear briefly so we could see just how close we were to the mountain.  Well worth our $15 ride up. 

They also had a swing at the viewpoint that went out over the cliff’s edge.  If the proximity of a live volcano didn’t take your breath away, this certainly will.

We had gone to the public hot springs (the main attraction in Baños) earlier in the day and met a couple of girls from Colorado and they joined us for dinner at a kickass French place we had found.  Then the four of us went out and made another run at the beer/pisco/tequila combo that had served Holly and I so well a couple of nights before.  Holly (wisely) bailed out after the second bar, but Lauren, Darcie and I continued on to the karaoke bar, and then to the dance club where I showed off my sweet sweet moves.  By 3 am, they headed for home and I headed back to the streetside bar for one last drink before bed…

Next thing I know I have two new best friends (one of whom looks suspiciously like Hugo Chavez) who are dragging me to the after hours club down the street (at 4 am, the cops pulled up and told us to get the hell off the street…effective).  There seemed to be some serious reservation at the door about letting a gringo in, but (as I recall), cash solved the issue.  Two packs of smokes and 12 tall beers later, I was hustled out the door again when I was attacked by a crazy Russian cougar named Tatiana.  I thought we were just dancing, but Señor Chavez was sure she was trying to steal my money.  Out we go into the (now light) street with our last beer poured into a 32 oz plastic cup.  After many hugs and kisses goodbye, and promises to stay in touch (I can’t even read their damn email addresses in my notebook, let alone remember their names), they escorted me home down the empty streets.

I tried to crawl into bed with Holly and dispense The Knowledge, but she told me to go fuck myself.  Rude.  Two hours later, it’s time to get on the bus and make the 8 hour ride to Cuenca.  I’m sure that’s going to turn out great, considering my condition.  Do we have any of that Xanax left?

Quilatoa

We jumped a bus south and pulled out of Quito for the last time.  The sister was quite jubilant.  We were heading for Quilatoa, a tiny town on the edge of a volcano crater at about 12,000 feet.  The first bus was on the main highway, but when we transferred in Latacunga, the scene took a decidedly native turn.  A blind guy jumped on the bus and played some sweet tunes for us on his guitar…also clearly worth a quarter.

Our second bus went up and over a mountain range through indigenous lands.  We were only about half full when we left the terminal, but people can get on and off these busses anywhere along the ride and soon we were packed to overflowing with indigenous folks carrying babies, boxes, and bags.  At seemingly blank spots on the highway, the bus would stop and a group of them would get off and wander down the hillside.  (Sister says, “Where do they go??”)  It is amazing the ability these people have to scratch out a home on the edge of a 45 degree slope – concrete home, thatch outbuilding, animals, farm plot, all on land that we would consider uninhabitable.  Even more amazing is the infectious smiles on their faces.

Quilatoa is a tiny town (30 buildings?) that lives right on the edge of a beautiful volcano crater.  We stayed in a large house that served as a hostel.  Oh, and it was really fucking cold.  Seriously.  We had to climb into bed together with all our clothes on to try and stay warm. But I couldn’t sleep anyway because of the altitude.  Neither of us took a shower in the morning because we were too cold to get undressed.

But the view and the hike around the crater the next morning made it all worthwhile.  We had an excellent tour guide who was waiting outside the door for us in the morning and accompanied us the entire way.  Holly wanted to take Perrito with us, but I thought the fleas might get to be a drag.

We only went about ½ mile around the rim (otherwise, my sorry gringo lungs would have burst into flames), but the view was spectacular.  We ran into a couple of kids along the trail who have lived on the edge of the crater for 11 years.  Their job was to take care of the animals - 2 horses, 5 llamas, 22 sheep, and 3 dogs…for now.  (It does seem that birth control isn’t really on the radar down here, for dogs or for humans.) 

Their house and “barn” were cut into the hill on the outside of the crater rim and the llamas were staked out 100 yards down inside the crater.  They were so excited just to talk to us, but their first question was “how much does it cost to buy a horse in the US?”  I guess that explains the priorities.

Even though I don’t really dig kids myself, you couldn’t help but fall in love with the natives here in their velvet skirts, cute round hats, rosy dark-freckled cheeks, and huge smiles.  I put one in my bag so I could check it out later.

The bus ride back was a fucking nightmare.  I had someone’s box of corn under my legs and someone else’s baby (literally) laying on my lap while it sucked for two hours on mom’s quite unattractive breast (can’t help but look when the damn thing is 18 inches away).  I better get used to this bus thing…1000 miles more to go before we pick up the parents in 20 days in Southern Peru.  We’re heading to the pharmacia in Baños to pick up some Xanax.

Quito

In many ways, Quito is like any other big city: an orgy of new faces, sounds, sights, and smells, fascinating and entrancing…for about 8 hours.  Then it’s just crowded, loud, and intolerable.  When the hell are we heading South?

 But by the second day, I was able to get past some of that and get a feel for the energy of the place.  There are still way too many people, endless busses spewing diesel shits, and the constant danger of merely trying to cross the street, but I began to notice that people will look you in the eye on the streets and nod or even smile.  There is an innately positive energy here, not the desperate pain that you can’t help but feel in the streets of New York or Seoul or Tokyo.   Sure, there is poverty, but that's not what people wear on their faces.

There is also such amazing history in Quito.  The old town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, full of hilly cobblestone streets, beautiful buildings of riotous colors, and street vendors selling endless black market goods. (Windows 7 for $5, anyone?) 

The newer part of the central city (The Mariscal) is in many ways designed for gringos – modern, hip restaurants and bars, swanky shops, menus in English, and everywhere the street vendors and local goods.  Kids and adults jump on and off the busses at every stop to make their pitch: empanadas, candy, water…and super glue?  At one point, two young black teens got on, fired up their boom box, and started to rap for us about the earthquake in Chile and the plight of the indigenous Ecuadorans (certainly worth a quarter).  Anything to make a few cents.

The second night, we were on our way home at night in the middle of a downpour and saw three guys, each standing on the others’ shoulders, in the middle of a 10-lane road, all juggling with fire.  Goddamn impressive, if you ask me.  Holly had no idea how they dismounted.  I had no idea how they went about collecting the cash from the cars flying by.

The topography is also quite impressive, even though it was mostly cloudy the two full days I was there.  The city is ringed with mountains and volcanoes, cut all the way up by homes and farms.  The valley itself is at 10,000 feet and I certainly wasn’t up for a hike up Pinchincha after flying in from sea level.  In fact, the first two days, I was numb from my fingers to my elbows and occasionally in the lips and feet because of a lack of oxygen.  Luckily, this was easily cured once we started drinking and smoking.  Go figure.

My sister Holly has spent the last three months with a host family here and we were invited over on our second-to-last night in Quito for her host mother’s birthday.  “Just come over after work for a cup of coffee.”  Not wanting to show up empty-handed, we stopped by the store and picked up a little food and a couple bottles of vino.  Halfway through preparing our dinner (for the 6 or so that we were expecting), there were nearly 30 people in the house.   Friends and family crowded in to pay their respects to Monica and to bid farewell to Holly.  Gracious, loving (I got a kiss from every female who walked through the door.  Nice.) and a touching scene that became more and more unfamiliar as the night wore on.  We spend so much time in The States complaining about our families and finding ways to avoid them – the crazy aunt, the drunk cousin – that it’s easy to forget to just fucking love each other.  We somehow stretched out the meal for all who were hungry and then moved on to the cake.  Instead of a ritualistic song and a Bronx cheer when the candles went out, the group spent 15 minutes fighting with each other for the chance to say something touching about Monica before we cut the cake.  I almost cried and I didn’t understand a goddamn word.

This morning, I walked down to the corner and bought 4 bananas and 2 croissants for 50 cents and we were on the bus heading South.  Holly has been in Quito for 6 months and was jumping to hit the road, but I found a love for the place and the people that I would never have expected to feel 48 hours before.

Portland

The end of a significant relationship always sparks madness, but not always in the form we expect. This being my (ahem) second divorce in 10 years, I thought some changes may be appropriate. After 3 months of wallowing in my own filth, I opted to jump straight off the cliff.

Like any rational, educated, and street smart person would do, I started by quitting my job of 10+ years in the midst of the biggest financial crisis since the Great Depression.  Solid work. Next step was to divest my interest in both of my houses in a dogshit real estate market, giving away tens of thousands in the process. Sold my car, bike, and sweet orange scooter at fire sale prices and bought a backpack instead. I then announced to my friends and family that I was moving to South America for a year (at least) to travel, write, and find a new path.

For 3 months following this decision, I never once had even a hint of regret, fear, or doubt. I was supremely confident in myself and my actions and knew that all would take shape as I hoped. Until 4 pm on the afternoon before my 6 am flight to Quito.

Panic. I struggled to breathe. I tried to lay down, but my heart kept trying to jump out of my chest. In 10 years of being in the middle of the fire in the live events world, I had never experienced anything like this. Existential goddamn terror.

The two valium helped a little in that I could now walk and talk (counterintuitive, I know). But what really will help, as it has for the last 6 months, is tequila. I met two friends at the dive bar and went through 3 shots and 3 pints. Now my lips and fingers are numb, but I'm not sure the heart rate has slowed one bit. We rolled back to the house to meet some other friends (whee!! riding in a car is fun!!) and I opted to drink until I passed out, which my mom always told me was the best way to face your fears.  In bed just after 1 am.

Set two alarms for 4 am which would give me 30 minutes for final packing before leaving for the airport. I remember both of the alarms. I remember sitting up and rubbing at my eyes. The next thing I remember is turning over and looking at a clock that says 4:55 am. Fucking hell. This is NOT how this thing is supposed to begin.

Eight minutes later we were out of the house, me reeking of cigarettes and booze and wondering what the hell actually made it in the pack...and what didn't.

And then somehow, miraculously, the airport was completely empty. Even though I was arriving 35 minutes before an international flight, I rolled through with time to spare. There were two young teens from The Dalles on their way to Disneyland sitting next to me, and I'm not sure what they thought of the swearing and obviously drunk and unstable creepy dude they had to share 5 hours with, but kids have to grow up sometime, right?

In retrospect, it was not what I was facing that caused me such pain. I am still absolutely confident that I will handle whatever life throws at me with grace and style.  I realize that my fear is in giving up what I had:

Ten years worth of amazing friends in my adopted hometown. The people of Portland are so open and so gracious and they proved that to me every day.

A great career and a group of people that I was proud to go to battle with each day for 10 years.

All of my friends and family in Idaho who already thought I was too far away.

My ex-wife, whom I still love dearly. Neither of us would give back those 8 wonderful years. More importantly to me, we found a graceful way to bring it to a close.

And a really sweet orange scooter.