Baños de Agua Santa

So, getting to Baños proved to be more difficult than expected, and took much longer than it should have. (I think that you will find this to be a recurrent theme in my life here, actually.) Firstly, the friend who met me in Quito to help me carry all of my crap had business to take care of during the afternoon, so we set out later than planned. We then proceeded to miss the bus by just a few minutes and so had to wait for the next one. It came shortly thereafter (at about 4:30 pm), and I thought, Great, I will be checked into my hostel and at the hot springs by 8:30 or so. I was also really looking forward to the low(er) altitude, and to not hearing my heart beating like a drum in my ears anymore. But, about 2 hours into the trip, we screeched to a halt in the middle of nowhere on the Pan-American. At least we were in the valley at that point, and not at 10,000 feet. Man-o-man, was I glad about that.

Nobody paid much attention to being stopped, despite the fact that we were all almost thrown from out seats in the process (these things happen sometimes), but after about 20 minutes, people start wandering out of the bus to see what was going on. Somebody tells me it’s an accident, and that the vehicles involved are blocking the road. By this time, it’s completely dark, so I put my knitting away and set out to do some leg-stretching/rubbernecking. The accident itself, which was just a block or two ahead of us, was shocking. Truly. Imagine the damage incurred in an accident involving a bus full of people, a semi-truck, and a pickup truck. The undercarriage of the bus was completely gone, and its back axle had been propelled onto the opposite side of the road by the force of the impact. The pickup truck (or that’s what I heard that it was, anyway) looked like a crumpled up piece of tinfoil. The semi had spilled most of its contents onto the road. There was blood, glass and broccoli everywhere. No ambulances yet, so random people were trying to get the survivors out of the vehicles. By that point, dozens of people from all of the stopped traffic had come out to help, or look, or whatever. People were running all over the place. I was trying to figure out what to do, as if my swiss army knife was going to be of any help… Total chaos, anyway. Finally, about 10 ambulances show up, and then the police. Everybody is really shaken up, especially us idiots that went to look at the crash.

I have no idea how many people died in total, or whether the bus responsible for the accident was the one that I accidentally missed in Quito.

Anyhow, 3 hours later, we are back on the road, and the bus conductor is trying to make up for the lost time by driving like a complete asshole (this is probably how the other accident happened in the first place). This possibility is not lost on the other passengers, either, who all start screaming at him to slow the hell down, or else we’re going to end up like the people in the other bus. The old women all start making the sign of the cross. He finally slows down, and stops passing other vehicles on blind curves. By that point, I am doing my cross, too.

It’s late by the time we finally pull into Baños, and as usual, it's misty and smells like springtime. No hot springs for me. Cable tv and a hot shower seemed just as good, though. When I wake up in the morning, I am treated to this outside my hostel window. It's the same room I always stay in, but the view never gets old.

Not so bad, eh? Think it was worth the trip?

Fleeing from Quito, or "¡Eso no sabía!"

I am way behind in posting, I realize. It's been a hectic couple of weeks, though, with trying to get settled and everything else.

Anyhow, hellooo from Ecuador! Finally!

The best part of the flight down was the fact that I had _3 seats_ all to myself! Hopefully this is a harbinger of good things to come.

Quito was everything it usually is: crowded, expensive, and semi-frustrating, but with great food* and amazing views. Normally, I would hightail it outta there directly from the airport, but I had (what was ostensibly) important business to attend to. Namely, I had to register my fancy new visa the next morning. *All* I had to do was take my paperwork and passport into the offices of foreign relations. No problem, right? Well, not exactly.

First off, Quito is enormous, and I’m fairly unfamiliar with it. Also, not being a planned city, let’s say it’s “unintuitive” in that it’s built spreading upwards from the valley (the bottom of which is at an elevation of about 10,500 ft.), with the houses spreading all the way up to elevations that you’d never expect people to live at. Many of the neighborhoods, especially those on the outskirts, are comprised of cobbled together houses with tin roofs. Also also, when one comes from sea-level to 11,000 or so feet, one feels ready to pass out, even from just walking a few blocks at a granny’s pace. This can be especially intense when “one” has not yet managed to quit smoking.

Isn't it beautiful, though?

Anyhow, after some blundering around the city on the bus line (which is fabulous, and costs about $.25), and with the some local help, I did find the office of foreign relations, and was immediately accosted by a gaggle of lawyers in front of the iron gates that surround the edifice, all of whom were offering their help navigating the process. But I already did my “process” back in California, over the course of several weeks and one very very long day at the Consulate. Or so I thought. After running the lawyer gamut, I got to meet Mr. Machinegun guy, and tell him my business before being allowed in the gate. Seeing that: a) I have a funny accent, and b) I couldn’t really breathe after walking up the hill to get to the office, it was probably fairly obvious to him from the outset why I was there, even before I pulled out all of my stamped photos and documents to show him, “No, really, I’m not from here! See?”.

The waiting room of this office was pretty standard looking. There was, of course, a television mounted to the wall, as is the case in most public places in Ecuador. But the truly unbelievable aspect of this waiting room involved the huge bank of about 70 chairs, each row having about 10 (connected) chairs. Once I get into the room, I have to again go through my “why I’m here” shpiel to Mr. Machinegun guy #2, and he instructs me to sit in the very last empty seat in this bank of chairs. He is very specific about this. As I’m sitting there wondering how they’ll know whom to call next, a person in the very first chair in the room gets called for her turn. And, here is where it gets fun: what ensues is a 60-odd-person, musical-chairs-like shift. Everybody gets up, and advances one seat towards the front of the line. When the line is really moving, you’re getting up like 3 or 4 times a minute, in consort with 60 other people. Everyone is laughing and plopping themselves into their new position in the line, each time moving their coats, bags and folders with them. It is great fun, and actually, the 2-hour wait passes by in a flash. Even though I’m the only ferner in the room (which seems weird, considering the office I’m in), and even though I’m sure everybody but me has done this before, it adds a certain joviality to an otherwise un-fun situation. It’s little things like this that make me love this place.

So, when I get into the back office to present my documents to the appropriate person, she tells me, “Great! You have almost everything you need!”. What could possibly be missing? Well, aside from the $10 payment to the government that has to be deposited directly into the Banco Internacional, via their checking account (which they give you the actual account number for!), and notorized, I was also missing the special file folder, with special clamps for my special documents. This is apparently a nation-wide protocol. Duh. Ok, then! ¡Eso no sabía!

So, I’m off to find the bank, which the government official assures me is “Just right across the street”, which in Quito, translates to “Somewhere in the vicinity, on any number of the 6 intersecting avenues in that part of town, maybe up a huge frigging hill, maybe not”. So, I figure this is going to take some searching, and buy a bottle of water on the way and ask for directions from the tiny (tiny, as in half my height) indigenous grandma working in the kiosk. She literally walks me almost all the way to the bank, which it turns out, is not terribly far. Not that I would’ve ever found it otherwise, though. At the bank, I wait in another line, make my payment, get my official receipt, and head out to find one of these special folders with a special clamp for my special documents. You can’t just go to a Walgreens here, either. You have to go to a special paper store. I figure that the chances of finding one of these quickly are low, and so I buy another bottle of water. At this point, I’m getting light-headed, and my legs are feeling wobbly. Loving the altitude. Just loving it. Much to my surprise (again!), there is a paper store as soon as I turn the corner. Hey! So, I fumble through some idiotically long-winded explanation of what it is that I specifically need, and the employee patiently listens to me, and says, “Oh, a document folder, then!” Right. So, $.32 later, I am on my way, really this time, to register my fancy new visa.

Except, when I get back (up the hill, again, I might add) to the government offices, Mr. Machine gun guy (#1) won’t let me back in the building. “We don’t work after noon”, he tells me. It would have been nice to know this before hand, but fine. ¡Otra chucha cosa que no sabía! I decide to get the hell out of Quito, as soon as is humanly possible, and to register my visa at a later date, when my head and chest don’t feel like they are about to implode.

So, thus began the odyssey towards Baños, where I planned to do some altitude acclimatization, and some hot springs-oriented activities.

More soon!

¡Un fuerte abrazo!


*Who knew that there was a huge Eastern Indian population there? Not me!

Stratovolcanoes and You

So, one interesting thing about the area I work in is that there is a very large, very active stratovolcano nearby. We're talking lots of ash plumes, magma, and the occasional incandescent rock or two. Oh yeah, and then there's also a pyroclastic flow once in a while. Here's what an ash plume looks like from a satellite. They are much lovelier in person, as it turns out.

Her name is Tungurahua (III). Tungurahua II collapsed roughly 3,000 years ago, and that's what current Tungurahua (III's) "volcanic edifice" is built around. The original Tungurahua (I) collapsed during the late Pleistocene. But, the Andes are relatively "new", so there is still a lot of activity going on there. Geologists and vulcanologists can explain this much better than I can, obviously.

Anyhow, the village that I'll be spending the bulk of my time in (aka Salasaka) has a beautiful view of said volcano, which stands about 16,000 ft at its summit. I sure think it's pretty, anyway. The picture below was taken the last time I was there, in an unusually wet early spring. The greenhouses that you see in the valley below the volcano are mostly roses and other ornamentals, mostly. This is also the primary valley in Ecuador where avocados are grown. Really, really good avocados. (This also reminds me of the unfortunate time I was inadvertently stranded in "avocado town", called Patate, due to the Carnaval festivities (no buses out, due to the parades!). But, that is another story, for another time...)
So, in Salasaka, even at an altitude of 8,000 feet or so, when Mama Tungurahua erupts, we mostly "only" get ash fallout. Not that this isn't sometimes catastrophic; most people are subsistence farmers to some degree, and when ash covers your small crop, that crop usually dies. No food. For you, or for your animals (which you also rely on for food, in addition to other things, like wool). Also, the water all gets tainted by the volcanic ash, too. Boiling it doesn't help, either, because you still will end up ingesting all kinds of particulates. So, things get tricky, in other words. Why don't they just move, you might ask? Well, land rights (and people's relationship to the land, more generally) are something for an entirely different post.

The OTHER place I am going to be spending my time (when I'm not up in the village) is Baños. There is internet access there, and Argentine beef, and falafel, among other things that I am fond of, including orchids. The interesting thing about Baños is that it is actually right at the foot of the mountain that is Tungurahua (III). This makes for lots of really amazing hot springs and mineral baths (as the name of the town suggests).*

Thanks to David for the illustration. For perspective, Salasaka is about half-way between Ambato (where this photo was taken from) and Baños.

Honestly, though, there is nothing like getting up before sunrise, and going up to the springs, and soaking and watching the sun come up over the Andes, under the spray of a huge waterfall. It's also luscious and green and, for whatever reason,(knock on wood) has not lately had serious problems with Mama T, due to the side of the mountain it's on. Yet, as I'm sure you've noted, it is quite close. Sure, the town's been evacuated before (in 1999). But, there are great evacuation routes now (and I plan to stay on one of them)!

David and I once took the "chiva"** up the side of the volcano, to try to see some of this much-talked-about magma. It was too cloudy to see even our own shoes at 11,000 feet, and we were instead served some local sugar cane liquor mixed with hot guayusa tea, as a consolation prize, I suppose. It was still a great night, even without the magma (although as I'm writing this, yes, I realize it's not such a great "story"). Tell me that one again about how you didn't see any magma! Oh, well. Maybe next time there will be a more noteworthy tale.

So, anyway, I have stratovolcanoes on the brain. I'm not worried, though, and you shouldn't be either. Really.





*To dispel any misconceptions, Baños does not literally mean "toilets", although it is commonly used euphemistically to refer to them. It actually means "baths". I am not living in "toilet-town", in other words. (Although, wouldn't that be something?!)

** Aaah, the chiva. It's basically a brightly-painted open-air truck with benches for seats, the driver of which blares horrible reggaetón music to attract potential customers. The "pleasure" of the whole experience will set you back about $2.

Procrastination Station

So, I am sitting at my little cafe, doing some work and some people watching. In other circles, this may be known as "eavesdropping".

But anyway... Today, we have a "normal" mix of Friday morning coffee-drinkers:

There are several older men playing guitars on the patio and producing some nice harmonies. It reminds me of Neil Young, only without the warbling*.

Two stoney California surferdoods, who are hawking their new hemp (of course) clothing line from the back of a brand new Subaru, are jumping around and taking their clothes off. They are "on the road", going to (surprise, surprise) Santa Monica. Their rooftop Yakima pod-rack-thing is full of hemp fiber yoga pants and t-shirts. They are "the people's people", they say, as they snap off photos with their digital SLR. Also, why do people like this always have stickers to hand out? I am now the proud owner of a big blue bumper sticker, saying "Jungymaven" or something, which I will promptly put nowhere. Like most English words that begin with the letter "j", I also have no idea how to pronouce their brand's name. (Hungymaven? Yoongymaven?) I avoid having to say the word out loud while listening to the "story of hemp" (for the 237th time in my life). Did I know that the Constitution was written on hemp paper, for example? (Well, actually, it was the Declaration of Independence, but I play along and act amazed, as if I'd never heard this shpiel before.) I wait for a reference to 4:20. Thankfully, it doesn't come. They seem like nice enough kids. Good handshakes, anyway. They bounce back to their car and head towards the 101.

Some scantily clad Cali hipster girls are sitting closeby, "inspiring each other" (their words, not mine!). They look to be freezing their bazongas off, since it's only 57 degrees today and foggy, and they are in semi-transparent tubetops. For whatever reason, they also have their over-sized Paris Hilton sunglasses on. In the spirit of a truly converted-to-Californian-wussy, I am in a wool sweater, scarf and gloves, and still trying to absorb the heat from my coffee to try to warm up.

The owner of the cafe pulls up with her son, who is about 5 and has dreadlocks. They are white. She almost hits another car as she pulls in, since she is (wait for it....) on the phone. Lots of honking ensues. The other (also white) dreadlocked barefoot patrons shake their heads at her, and say "Damn hippies".

The bearded man who is living in a (not so) "mobile" home next to the cafe (with his two 140 lb. dogs) pulls out a Razor phone and laments his one dog's food and skin allergies. I think that he just hangs out there all day. He talks loudly and constantly and seems to know everyone, including the bicycle-riding man with the prosthetic metal leg, who keeps coming and going. I can see the metal leg clearly, only because he is wearing pink capri pants. Mobilehomeguy keeps talking about "Back East"**, to anyone who will listen. This is certainly a better place to live in a trailer than "Back East", I'm sure.

Stereotypical Italian Man (fashionably dressed, and in a fisherman's cap) sits brooding in the corner, rolling one cigarette after another. The artist of the month is hanging his art inside. It features a lot of text, apparently in Spanish, but randomly has French words thrown in. There are grammatical errors everywhere, no gender or number agreement to be found. The Spanish-teaching semi-French speaker in me wants to get the red pen out. I say nothing. Maybe I just don't "get" the art.

Various German-car driving wealthy people come in and out, stepping around the growing pack of dogs hanging out at the door. Aside from them, I think I am the only one to have left her dog at home. Very pierced barista guy comes out to fill up the dog water bowls. Some guy appears out of nowhere and asks me to "borrow" 50 cents for dog food. I tell him, don't worry, he doesn't have to pay me pack. He looks at me strangely, not getting the fact that I was trying to be funny, and not trying to be an asshole. Aah, well...

Tourist families walk by, rolling their suitcases clumsily and staring at this microcosm of California. I don't blame them. I'm staring too, and I live here.

It's like being at the circus, only without the elephants.

I am definitely coming back tomorrow.


* I like the warbling. Really!
**In California, "Back East" means anything east of Nevada. South Dakota? "Back East". Chicago? Also "Back East".