Adventures in a Peruvian Hopsital, Arequipa

3 February

The Bones of Arequipa
(a town built of white volcanic rock called sillar)

as if the rock has no memory
as if a city built of volcanic leftovers can ever behave in a
civilized way
the natives got it right
they adorn the mama
bejewel her with her own gems
carefully tattooing her with her own fluids
rocks, water, grass, shifted and used, left to their creator
not rupturing her backbone to build monuments to themselves
but taking her gifts and offering them back
altered in context but not in shape size or essence
their memory stronger by a few 1000 years

later –
life takes on the yellow glow of peaceful conversation
arequipa basks white in her volcanic memories
city pushes close again, crowding, comforting
it’s confinement forcing good relations

We are still in Arequipa and I am still recovering. The bus ride back from Cabanaconde was long but not as miserable as I had expected. With no energy and no appetite, curled up in a window seat wasn’t a bad place to be for 9 hours.

I almost lost it when I got back to Arequipa. The bus driver was speaking so fast, trying to help me get my bag, asking me a question over and over again that I couldn’t understand. I was dehydrated and weak, brain not functioning, and feeling so alone and sick. Tears came to my eyes and I couldn’t speak standing outside the bus with taxi drivers and latino men standing everywhere watching the gringa fumble – I could only grab my bags and find the closest taxi.

The bus ride was beautiful actually. Coming out of Cabanaconde, slowly climbing to Chivay, we followed the canyon the whole way. The landscape was terraced as far as I could see, beautifully altered – jewels of Pachamama. Patches of bright green agriculture defined by these delicate rock walls that didn’t attempt to create geometric shapes, but followed the form and flow of the land. Patches of dry desert and paths stretching out of sight were also defined by the same walls. The walls were more a result of making the rest of the earth walkable than anything else it seems.

Steep mountains shot up on the other side of the canyon. It’s amazing how soft rock can look from a distance. Small villages tucked into canyons and valleys, visible but so remote. Paths lead to cliffs and then around them – walked into the mountainsides by uncountable hooves, feet in rubber sandals and bare. Always here following the river that is the source of the Amazon.

The bus ride from Chivay was desolate. Some packs of llama, alpaca, vicuna, sheep spread out around the wetter areas, which was the only place grass grew at that altitude. Much of this part of the trip was desert-like with some cactus and a type of moss growing that I found out later can be burned as fuel. The highest point on the road is 4800 meters above sea level. This is higher than I have ever been which, in retrospect explains the sickness and passing out on the bus ride in.

The one really memorable thing about the bus ride (besides the Will Smith/Martin Lawrence movie . . .) was that at one of the highest points on the road was a field of rock cairns. As far as I could see, people had made stacks of rocks in all shapes and sizes. There was no other sign of human presence at this altitude except this amazing testament to people’s strength and their ability to create meaning and beauty in the midst of desolation.

Back in Arequipa, I went to the tourist police who sent a female officer who spoke a little English to the emergencia with me. The hospital was dingy, dark and understaffed. My friend told me that you have to be almost dying before they will see you in this hospital. She had taken me to the cheap one as I had requested. It cost 5 soles ($1.40) for the visit plus 10 soles ($3.00) for my medicine. She told me to act as sick as I could so I would be treated right away. I told her that wouldn’t be difficult because I was still miserable.

After we finally found the lady who was taking the money and paid, we went to wait for the doctor. I had to tell the doctor in Spanish how I felt. They did not take a stool sample, though by this time I could pretty much shit on command, but instead just prescribed me some medicine. They never even told me what I had although they mentioned dysentery.

The pills seem to be helping. I still have little appetite and a funny stomach but I’m finally beginning to feel re-hydrated and more energetic. Jacob came back today and we walked around the city a bit. It was a happy reunion. He told me about his adventures hiking (the town we saw from the lookout point where I turned back ended up being more than a day’s hike – he had to stay with a family who took him in and fed him) and his first long conversation in Spanish with the guy on the bus. I told him of the dark hospital and all the gory details of my sickness and the difficulty of making the decision to finally leave Cabanaconde alone.

Later we ran into each other by accident in the central plaza where we saw a military parade around the Plaza de Armas followed by a half-assed Communist march and even more half-assed attempt at stopping the march by the riot police. Even later, on the sunny balcony of the hostal we had a great conversation about changing the world – education and revolution, ideals and ideas.

A Mind/Body War: Puking and Shitting my way Through the Colca Canyon

31 January

Since the boiling brains we have come via airplane from Tumbes to Lima and finally to Arequipa. Flying in and out, Lima appeared incomprehensibly huge in the middle of this desert – stretching out forever as everything seems to do here in Peru. Tumbes and Lima are both located at sea level in the coastal rain-shadow desert created by the Andes Mountains to their east. Arequipa is at 2300-2600 meters above sea level in the Andes Mountains.

At my urging we took a bus from Arequipa to Cabanaconde and the Colca Canyon after only a day and a half in Arequipa. This trip knocked me out for a few days. We left Arequipa at 2:00 a.m. The bus ride was 7 hours en todo. I threw up the first time at about 5:30 a.m. – in my hat because I wasn’t prepared for this reaction to the altitude – soroche, the locals call it.

I also fainted earlier in the ride. I just lost consciousness in the dark, I don’t know for how long. I woke up clammy and cold with my head pressed against the window and found myself staring out onto a silvery wet desert-scape. This landscape combined with my foggy head gave me the feeling of floating through a dream. I was so alone, the only person on the bus awake and totally unprepared for the effects of 4800 meters above sea level. I puked again at 7:30 a.m., about 30 minutes before we arrived in Cabanaconde. Then again at noon at the hostal Don Pietro.

Then I slept for 20 hours. Aching feet, ankles, legs, back, arms, head, everything. I was also feeling confused, slow, uncoordinated and weak. My aching head and body convinced me I had caught one of the dreaded coastal diseases like malaria, dengue fever or typhoid. Every list of symptoms in my guide book seemed to describe exactly what I was feeling, but I was too exhausted and sick to panic. I was not so exhausted and sick that I was able to laugh off Jacob’s skepticism over my hypochondrimaniacal self-diagnosis. He was right of course, which I figured out pretty quickly once I made it back down to Arequipa.

The hostal owners in Cabanaconde were friendly and concerned for my well-being. (I mean I was really, really sick). They gave me mate de coca, and when that didn’t help, they gave me a pill to dissolve under my tongue called Caramena - glucosa for “improved circulation”. Jacob is on his second hike while I’ve spent all my time in the hostal in bed except for a short attempt at a hike on which I almost passed out. I have to give up the Colca Canyon and seeing the condors that own these high mountains.

From what I’ve seen, it’s beautiful here. It’s dry and sun-baked until the afternoon rains which come daily in the rainy season. All water here rushes straight down into the canyon, very little actually soaking into the soil that nestles in pockets between rocks. There are rock walls and terraces everywhere. Some peaks are so steep that dirt can’t even attempt to cling to the sides – only rock and the occasional cactus.

When I tried to hike today, we came to a lookout point where the canyon stretched to the left and right and the mountains pushed up ahead of us across the deep valley of the Colca Canyon. The town we were going to looked so close on the other side of the valley – a small village nestled in at the root of the mountain, along a cascading stream. The canyon floor invisible from where we stood. As the sun beat hard against the dry earth with no trees or shade in sight my body screamed “no you idiot – you can’t do this!” I’m not used to my body telling me no but this time I had no choice but to listen.

Huge, vast, empty spaces of land loomed forever in every direction. The path we would take was clearly visible from where we stood except where it disappeared into the narrow canyon far, far below. My legs were already shaking with dehydration, the sun beating me with sense, my lungs protesting the pack after only 20 minutes of walking. Every cell of my body telling me it’s a bad idea to even think about continuing. Thinking about completing this walk was almost as exhausting as the 30 minutes of walking.

After my body won the war between it and my brain, I returned to the hostal and slept some more. Finally, I returned to Arequipa alone to face whatever monster was rampant in my body.

Cabanaconde

Sun pours down
rain shines on
in the land of dualism
opposites attract and repel
they complement

the heights of cabanaconde make me ill
and I feel alone
lonely to the core
mountains so vast
valley so deep
me so small and weak
my traveling companion
far away physically and literally
emotionally and intellectually
my love of solitude
no match for his love of people
of fitting in by being a freak

Boiling Brains: Welcome to Peru

27 January

Tumbes, Peru

Peru stretches out, huge in scale, next to Ecuador’s tightly packed geography. At the border, the arbitrary political border, the Andes swing to the east, easing their persistent crush on the coast. The coast stretches and flexes here, like a lazy cat, spreading itself out over the landscape in the Pacific coastal haze that is ever-present here. “Garua” the locals call it.

Crossing the border at Huaquillas was a nightmare. Our newfound friend Freddy took us off guard, “helping” us in the right direction for a tip. He did pretty good on me since I had nothing smaller than a $5 bill. We spent $10 a piece for a stupid cab ride we did not want. It’s so hot here I can barely think. Humidity and heat and Tumbenos are all fighting to make me feel constrained.

Despite the bureaucratic nightmare that is crossing the border at Huaquillas, Tumbes, about 20 minutes from the border, is a nice town. It’s kind of grimy and sweaty, gritty and the people are a little more aggressive than they are in the mountains but still friendly. The men are much more “friendly” -- sst sst te amo senorita . . .

We found ourselves in the Plaza de Armas at 8:30 p.m. on a Sunday listening to a concert – big band kind of music with congos. The band was playing in an amphitheater that dominated the far end of this large rectangular park. Earlier in the day we got to see the amphitheater up close. It is an amazing three dimensional sculpture that depicts the clash of the Inca and the conquistadors. At the very top of the huge semi-circular structure was a large sun godhead watching over the violent scene below. Tumbes is the place where Pizarro first landed in Peru. Here, he found the Inca in turmoil – engaged in a bitter civil war – a battle between two brothers who both wanted to claim power of the empire. The prominence of the sun in the amphitheater is a testament to the syncretization of Incan and Spanish culture – the blending of civilizations.

There were people everywhere that Sunday, circling the plaza in a kind of promenade, sitting on benches and enjoying the coolness of evening and the music. We found out that every Sunday there’s a concert in the park. It’s summer here. Kids are out of school. People are hanging out, trying to find relief from the heat.

Later – Frank Sinatra is blaring on the stereo outside the hostal window. This is definitely better than Bon Jovi or Phil Collins, which they favor in Ecuador. I talked to some Mormons in the park while Jacob talked to some kid in a Misfits T-shirt and his much shorter friend. They talked about guns and animals and drugs and other strange things. My friends in the park wanted to know how much money I saved to travel and how long it took me to save it. They wanted to know if there were lots of jobs in America, is life easy there? It’s so hard to explain to people that my choices do not reflect the mainstream of American culture. That saving 1000 dollars was only possible for me because I shop at thrift stores, have no car and buy as little as possible. I mean even my ability to have those choices illustrates a level of privilege that does not exist here. I work a 10 dollar an hour job for nine months and save 1000 dollars to travel. It’s so much to them.

Boiling brains in witches broth of Humboldt current – a stew of heat and water.

The end of Ecuador or Skipping naked in the streets

26 January

Memories already begin to fade.

Skipping naked in the streets
in my dreams
end of time cuts close
slicing up the streets
into slivers like silver
piecing together
the hands of fate
like great puzzles
leaping into puddles
and over rivers
drooling over myself
in some great mystery
of revelation
yellowing stands of truth
grow ancient in the shadows
becoming more than free
in the inadequacy of language
moving slowly between
the doubts and certainties
finding a path
to lead me in
inside my dreams
I am always skipping
naked in the streets

They run with smiles on their faces

On the state of student protests, Ecuador 2002

They run with smiles on their faces
dodging tanks and tear gas
they run like children
playing hide and seek
they throw stones at police
in a game with no end
they take classes on the side
studying engineering in any form
optometry, general high school
anything so they can forget
anything to earn money and get ahead
send their children to the US
they run with smiles on their faces
because they get a day off school
they scatter unorganized
while they taunt la policia
they break windows and rip up streets
angry about what
they run with smiles on their faces
playing hooky from school
while the revolution stands cold
they pick their fights carefully
so they can sleep easy
so they can drive cars and wear nike
and then one of them is dead
killed in “battle”
carrying a fake gun and wearing rock wounds on his head
and now there’s a real reason to fight
but everyone’s confused
and they still run with smiles on their faces

Protecting the watershed

24 January

We have spent the last few days in the mountains at Stuart White’s hacienda. Stuart is an American geographer who is married to an Ecuadorian woman. He has lived in Ecuador for 30 years. I met him when I came here with the university two years ago. It is a four hour drive to the east from Cuenca. We made the trip with Steve, a British ex-pat who is friends with Stuart. Stuart followed in his own truck. We stopped in a small village along the bumpy road and bought some bread and cheese and beers. We sat on a stone wall across from the tienda and drank beers and talked about the work Stuart is doing.

Stuart’s property contains cloud forest, paramo and lots of wooded land he is trying to protect from destruction. He is working toward an eco-tourist project sometime in the future. His main goal is to protect the watershed and the highland forests. There are plenty of opportunities for work here but you have to pay quite a lot to volunteer.

There are several other volunteers working and living at Stuart’s – two British girls who are hilarious – Kate and Sally. Allyson from Ohio University (who later became my friend and housemate), Tyler from Canada, Jessie from somewhere down south, Dan and Carrie from the Boston area. They are living in the clouds here, almost. A steady stream of clouds cuts the immediate view in half. There are alpaca everywhere, with their curious little noses and funny faces – like intelligent sheep.

We have camped for the past three days, which was great since we had a very effective rain fly and it rained a lot. Our time here has been peaceful – or tranquilo as they in Spanish. We hiked up to the paramo today where Allyson showed me what Stuart thinks is a Canari (pre-Inca) trail about one foot wide running along the top of a ridge. She also showed me what is thought to be a Canari ceremonial site, a wooded hill jutting up sharply and flattened off at the top. Lots of archaeology could be done here, though these projects would probably be hindered by lack of access and lack of money. Regardless, I feel drawn in a different, unknown and as yet unarticulated direction.

It is safe in this syrupy stew, Cuenca Ecuador

To F. Scott Fitzgerald

Upside down images
of a sky turned black
the inside of a skeleton
lost in shadows
blood pulsing inside my tubes
the sunshine drips
drips and covers me
like sweet molasses
it is safe in this syrupy stew
swimming in circles
inside circles
inside squares
leaning toward remembering
and then back the other way
I am left on the right side of life
the road leading away is
clear
the road leading here
cluttered and heavy
with boxes,
great secret trunks
full of memories
memories that slide around
inside circles
inside squares
life is funny
the way it follows lines and curves
to certain spots of light
to images of beauty
like strands of connective tissue

I visited my old host family in Cuenca tonight. They were so nice even after my two-year absence. They told me their house is still my house – to come back anytime. Cristian, the oldest son, tells me that the 16-year old protester who was shot and killed by the military 2 weeks ago was a friend of his. Cristian tells me the boy had a fake gun or a gun with no bullets in it and he pulled it out during a protest. The cops, thinking he had a gun and was going to shoot at them shot him instead. This seems like a strange story. I wonder how much I miss in the translation and how much Cristian is just making up. It seems so meaningless and such a silly way to die. Supposedly there was also evidence of several blows to his head adding more confusion and mystery to the story.

The tanks were shooting las bombas lacrimogenas (tear gas) at protesting students from tanks late into the afternoon. They moved from the Parque Calderon (the center of Cuenca) to one block away at the market, scattering kids everywhere. Business people and passersby pull out their handkerchiefs or hats and cover their mouths, speeding up their gait in order to leave the tear gas behind more quickly. They are accustomed to these disturbances, just as they were two years ago when I was living in this city.

The students seem to have no vision. They just want to be pissed off, throw rocks and run from gas. It’s the same routine as when I was here two years ago. Protest, gas, run, protest, gas, run. It doesn’t seem there is much forward movement or even a clear idea of what they hope to achieve. They seem stuck in some impotent cycle that is perpetuated year after year.

This is in sharp contrast to the organized indigenous groups who have been known to effectively shut down the entire country with strategically placed road blockades. They were the ones who led the protest on the capital that forced Mahuad to resign his presidency two years ago. The indigenous make up 60% or so of the population here and are a force to be reckoned with.

There are two kinds of bombs in Cuenca: las bombas lacrimogenas y las bombas aguas. One makes you cry and one makes you furious. Water balloons are thrown at pedestrians by squealing, hiding children on every street here. Buckets of water are dumped from balconies. Water guns are aimed from car windows. All are prolific in these mountain towns – I am told that it is the preparation for some holiday I still can’t quite understand. These water bandits have no mercy and are especially pleased when you yell at them and get angry. They seem to enjoy targeting tourists. Can’t say that I blame them. I imagine them keeping score as they giggle in the safety of their balconies or cars. Tourists are 50 points, locals 25 points and men in suits and women in high heels at least 75.

Claude Levi-Strauss (Tristes Tropiques)
“A journey occurs simultaneously in space, in time and in the social hierarchy.”

21 January, 2002: Anniversary

21 January

2 year anniversary of the last government coup in Ecuador. The overthrow of Mahuad who now teaches at Harvard and the installation, after several attempts at other presidents, of his vice president Naboa.

Today the tanks are rolling
smelling tear gas in our hotel
while speaking of revolution
students teachers protesting
death of a student protester
mysterious
fires in the street
people on the move
protesting – angry about prices
going up
prices rise, salaries fall
sit stagnant
and people rise, unorganized
but impressive in their fight
organized sector declares a month of protest
fighting
struggle
change starting today

People are crying all over the world.

I am at a loss for words, trying too hard to be brilliant, too hard to have an “experience”, too hard to force pieces of the puzzle so I can make sense of the bigger picture.

There’s something about traveling that is utterly exhausting. It breeds some kind of laziness as if traveling itself were the hardest job you ever had. It is so present, so immediate, so vivid; whereas daily grind is stuck in thoughts of the future. Where will this day’s money go and is there enough food in the house? And memories -- associations of sense make the mind’s eye forever aware of what has come before. But traveling brings new stimulants, it opens the present wide, not knowing what to expect we live in this moment. Carpe Diem. It sets memories aside in order to make space for new sensory perceptions, new memories of this vivid moment and this and this. This is especially true traveling in a place where a different language is spoken. The mind is split open like a coconut, the juices stirred and mixed with new . . . everything and then resealed but with a slight hole, a crack that will grow wider the longer the immersion lasts.

El Universo newspaper reports 56,000 people dead in Afghanistan. Victims of my government’s war on terror. And I am a jobless tourist. I’m here to spend my US dollars so I can do my part to make the world go round. It’s sick. Disgusting. How can I make my stand? How can I show the world or at least myself that I have something to give back besides money? I feel like I need to prove that I am not just what my country represents but a person who cares about those 56,000 people, each of them and their families too and all the other people who have been killed around the world in the name of my flag. My freedom. People die, starve and suffer so that I can hear George Bush assuring me that my freedom will not be compromised. I don’t want his bloody, evil freedom. 56,000 is so many people. 3000 people killed in the September 11 bombing. 3000: 56000. Even if Universo is exaggerating and this is very likely true, still one quarter this many (14,000) is too many. One is too many.

No wonder people want me to say something about this war. When Ecuadorians ask me about it, they can probably see their own vulnerability as a nation. They can probably see how easily their little country could be (and already is) colonized by our government. It’s different but no less scary. Afghanistan is not so much colonized as demonized, pulverized.

And I’m here telling people that I have no job and no reason to go home. But I do have money to spend and a passport that can get me anywhere. Not everywhere safely but almost anywhere. Money to spend. Money to burn. Money to choose. My choice. Money.

I feel a need to mourn these people and others. I feel a need to mourn them actively by doing something, by being more than a tourist with money to spend. I’m out of practice. Or was I ever in practice? Life seems so full now, so necessary – pregnant with possibilities and ready to burst. I feel a need to realize my SELF in a fucked up world. To honor my desire to be part of something different, something not of selfish capitalistic gain as in its essence tourism is. “Travel” seems to offer a different possibility. Time to re-evaluate. Re-instigate.

When I return to the US I will fight to change US foreign policy. I will fight so that I do not feel so implicated – so guilty. I will fight so that my life can represent my beliefs. I will fight because I am selfish in my desire for meaning. And I am tired of passive choice. I am tired of being so god damn ironic.

People are still crying all over the world.

A Moment of Silence: Riobamba, Ecuador

16 January

Belonging

I feel alone
a lone star breathing
breath of the universe
universe-ity of life
life’s filled with desire
desire must be lonely
lyghts flicker quietly
quiet as the end of time
time raises questions
questions of belonging
belonging

I have decided to try a moment of silence – once a month on this day or two before I start bleeding. Before the physical pain and ovarian release begins. I will use this 24 hours of silence to center and find my peace. I can’t seem to find it outside myself. More often than not the things I do say on this day before my period are self-pitying and alienating. I am blank and confused. I see no need not to treat it as a day of fast and quiet – a day only for me.

[Months later, I remember this day. Jacob and I were at each other’s throats. Unable to see past our defenses. It’s interesting that I carry all the blame on myself. That I blame our inability to communicate on my period, which didn’t start for another week anyway. Why did I do that? Why did I let him make me feel so bad that day?]

17 January

Today we left Banos and arrived in Riobamba. Banos was beginning to feel like a big vortex sucking us in. We stayed too long (4 days?). My favorite thing there was our hostal, with it’s beautiful view, the whole top floor to ourselves, kitchen, clean bathroom and toilet paper included in the price, as well as the sweet old guy who has run the place for 30 years. I also liked the hot volcanic pools and cold waterfalls though for some reason we only went once, the last day we were there.

Riobamba is alive with people, not only tourists and those who serve tourists, but People. There were no angry signs in Banos, no graffiti, no call to action or armed protest, no demands for a government of and for the people. In Riobamba it is everywhere – people wanting and suffering, maybe even feeling revolution. Jacob seems equally happy about this change of scenery.

I ask “Why did we stay there so long?”

“We got sucked in”, he says.

The vortex. We agree.

At the Chifa (Chinese restaurant) tonight, we see a news story of student protests in Quito at the Universidad Central. It seems that many people were injured from the pictures on the news. There was tear gas, shooting, a burning bus, road blockades. We begin to get looks in the Chifa as we watch the news, not understanding as the news anchors speak quickly of the breaking story. I can only understand that students protested, that they were upset about a $.10 raise in the price of gas and prices rising for other things in the stores. I also picked out that the reporter focused on one injured student who was hurt very badly. We will have to wait until tomorrow for more.

I am reminded of Vipka saying that she can feel discontent bubbling just below the surface all over Ecuador. She predicted that it is inevitable or at least very likely that things will start to happen soon. I remember her story of Banos on New Year’s Eve. She told me that during the big New Year’s Eve celebration the people burned a large effigy of the World Trade Center towers and maybe one of George Bush. Everyone cheered and celebrated around these burning images in the center of town. I suppose my image of Banos was incomplete.

18 January
(only one day later and such a change of heart)

Riobamba is loud and unfriendly. It’s the first place I have seen people actually laugh openly at Jacob’s appearance – his blue dreds and loose free-box clothes. It’s too close. The hostal is dirty. We go to Cuenca early tomorrow. There’s not much to do in this city. It seems there are few places to hang out and little escape from the push of humans everywhere. I think I would have appreciated Banos more if more time had passed between our arrival in Quito and our visit there.

20 January

random related thoughts:

1. like small stars we head south part of the ever-changing constellation

2. the return to Cuenca filled with memories and a feeling of loss

3. dodging water balloons and buckets I pick my way through central Cuenca. (then): drenched by a child oblivious to my mask in honor of some strange holiday only the children seem to understand

4. (then again): soft children with eyes of the ancient quietly begging for money for food for
life

5. (sometimes) I think it’s easier to respect things I am not than to accept things that I am

6. to Dan: I think the best thing that can happen to your faith is a loss of trust in the person who represents that faith

7. people are crying all over the world.

The Devil's Throat: Banos, Ecuador

14 January

I am finally and forcefully a part of my dreams. Banos is quiet tonight. Even the dogs seem to have found some peace, except that small one outside our room who is thankfully playing with a piece of plastic – thankfully because last night he cried and whimpered us to sleep in the rain. It’s Monday – the end of Monday in Tungurahua Province, town of Banos, Ecuador to be exact.

On Sunday we got here at 10:30 a.m., dopey, fresh off the bus, we trudged under the weight of too much stuff in the general direction of the hostal recommended by Hanis and Vipka. I trudge and shuffle, thinking of the absurdity of the amount of stuff I have carried with me to this distant continent. And then I smile at the absurdity of getting rid of it after carrying it this far.

Jacob and I had a great day. We hiked up from the valley Banos is nestled in and up and up and up once more. We were accompanied on the first and hardest part of the trip by a young boy with deformed hands, a sweet smile and a dachsund puppy which he clutched to his chest at all times. I helped him for a bit by carrying the puppy while he carried the sack he would fill with potatoes at his grandmother’s house. He says he walks that hill 5 times a week. I know better than to let this shock me.

He turned off and we kept going up, alternately catching the road and footpaths. The paths were deep shaded canyons, cool, moist, tropical, windy, dark and seductive, surrounded by growth on all sides. When we came onto the road we also came into the sun where warmth and brightness awakened senses with light, dry sweetness. We were really hiking very aimlessly.

I was drawn towards the volcano Tungurahua (Devil’s Throat) so we walked in the general direction of the peak. We pushed forward both physically and mentally today (speaking of politics, sex, food, love, alcoholism, etc.) We got to a certain point where the path overgrew and we had no choice but to turn around. After a short search for a new path to the road we returned along the same path.

I thought it might be difficult for me to be on vacation for such a long time, especially with the history of workaholics in my family. Instead, I find it totally invigorating. It’s like an experiment in the other life. I think I can only return to work if it is for the reason of saving money for another trip

Last night I woke up to the whole bed shaking rather intensely. In my waking thoughts, I believe it is related to the volcano, an earthquake, a minor stretch or clearing of the throat. In my sleeping mind, I believe it to be the exuberant dreams of the man I shared the bed with.

We are staying at the Residencial Timara, 3^rd floor for $2.50 per night. Jacob and I are sharing a bed here even though every other room in the place is empty. For some reason, it seems to be cheaper if we share a bed (matrimonio) rather than having our own (doble). Our room looks out on beautiful purple and red bougainvillea with a backdrop of the (not so insignificant) mound of earth that is supposed to protect Banos if Tungurahua erupts again – spilling her hot juices all over the land. This little mound of earth would laugh as she was gobbled by hot lava and sigh herself into hibernation as the smoke cleared.

Banos is a strange town, especially after Chugchilan and Quilotoa. There are tourists everywhere. The selling of culture is rampant – both foreign and Ecuadorian culture. The hostal we are in is a nice oasis. We have the whole third floor to ourselves and access to a kitchen. It is a bit of protection from the hordes of gringos with their fanny packs and sandals, their cameras and money, their entitlement.

Thought #1

It’s raining quietly
a dog has been unsettled – barking at its real or imagined invader
somewhere a tv or stereo is turned up way too loud
somewhere a baby cries
(though I can’t hear this)
I find myself alone
on the tiled transition between bathroom floor
and curtainless shower
unable to sleep
despite the exhaustion of the day
several other dogs join in the chorus
of rain and dog and sitting
I am aware of everything
and I know nothing
life is absurd
I can only stay awake
hear the laughter of dogs
and understand the intricacies of absurdity

Thought #2

Rain falling lightly
but not on my skin
my other senses
imagining for my skin

ears hearing smooth
drops of water playing tag
nose smelling
as earth drinks deeply
and plants behave as if drunk
eyes seeing life
through the tears of another
mouth staying shut
(so as to facilitate the rest)
skin is alive with anticipation
that will remain in the imagination
as the skin is also chilled
by this deep Andean night

life is good and I’m alive
I’m alive and life is good

15 January

Later – like moths to a flame, ants to a picnic, cows to a salt lick, we are drawn in droves, herds to this America/Europe/could-be-anywhere in the central Ecuadorian Andes. This bright shining spot of western revelry. Our culture is laid out here mockingly. You will buy and we will sell. And sell. And sell. I hate it but I stay. I am locked in, submerged in a broth I thought I’d thrown out with the trash – or at least set aside for future’s hunger. Even the people here have taken on the greedy, unfriendly, capitalist shine. They are numb to foreigners and unyielding.

A Rushing River of Dreams

11 January 2002

I am so fucking ironic about my country and all the implications of my citizenship. But really it just makes me want to cry. I am inseparable from its baggage and its actions. My irony is a weapon. I am grateful for the privilege of irony and I resent it at the same time. I know it protects me from ignorance. But it also makes me complacent, aware but numb. The sadness also protects me from ignorance and is much more likely to make me do something, anything to make this world a better place. I am so lucky.

[Later I recognize this as the beginning of a major shift in my consciousness – the pivotal point at which I began to articulate my need and desire to begin to act on my beliefs rather than just acknowledge and store them away somewhere to fester in my dusty subconscious. It’s an interesting moment when a person goes from being passive to active. In retrospect it is accompanied by a feeling of taking your finger out of a hole in the dam and watching in horror and wonder as the finger-sized hole becomes a rushing river of dreams, desires and possibilities.]

To Hanis and Vipka

we climb these high andes
huffing and panting like lowlanders
one foot in front and above the other
how many steps to the top

speaking of life experiences
we share the same air
some sense of self
rediscovered
life is lived one step at a time

being full to the brim leaves no room for experience
all experience bought and paid for in advance
empty we begin to feel
to understand the breath and feel
the pulse of the world

to catch one ray of sun or drop of rain
one smiling face or tear stained cheek
to find that one boundary never crossed
and then to erase it
brushing the pieces slowly
examining their broken power
their impermanence
then scattering to the wind

the earth and its movement
the only illogical logic
its inhabitants living within and against its beauty

Trash and chickens

An Ocean of Clouds: One Year Ago Today (a poem)

An Ocean of Clouds: One Year Ago Today

(upon remembering, standing on the western edge of the Andes, staring at a sea of clouds which is the only thing between us and the Pacific Ocean far, far below)

an ocean of clouds hovers in front of me
thick and light like balls of cotton
it pushes up slightly and breaks over the ground where I stand
I am nothing
I am flat on my back with the weight of clouds and memories
bearing down
my body shivers as much from cold as from
the absolute ecstasy of finding myself on the inside of a cloud
the ground loses meaning
I might as well be dreaming or flying or dead
the parts of my body too lose meaning
disconnected
atoms of my brain scatter, lost in salty cloud breath
I can smell the pacific
hear and feel the waves crashing over me
I am lost and found
I am nothing
thoughts occur in pieces
mixed with brine, hydrogen, oxygen, cotton and the secret parts of clouds
each one carried in a different direction I can not even conceive of
as I am cycled back to the beginning of time
in an infinity of pieces and
a shattering of essence
into salty ocean womb
and the warming of the sun
I am nothing

Looking for a Forest of Clouds: Chugchilan, Ecuador

10 January

We are in Chugchilan at the Casa Mama Hilda Hostal on the other side of a huge and forbidding valley. The crater lake of Quilotoa is only a bump on the far horizon. We came down from Quilotoa at 4000 meters to 3150 meters above sea level. It is beautiful here with the clouds once again above us and the sun shining brightly on a clean courtyard surrounded by a dining hall, two guest houses and a bath house. The yellowing warmth and lush green growth of this place and the solid, immediate songs of birds are a sharp contrast to the empty wet chill of the highlands, where sound seems to be sucked away as quickly as it is created. Somehow absorbed into the fast, wispy clouds.

The walk from Manuel’s house to here was crazy beautiful amazing unending breathtaking awesome. I look back at the mountain and valley that we traveled and I feel proud and humble and full of life. Life is full of me. It staggers me to think that Manuel is going to run the whole way back to his home to arrive before sunset, which is what he tells us nonchalantly as we near our destination. Still he takes his time, visits quietly with the caretaker at the Casa Mama Hilda.

Chugchilan is quiet and very small but there are several hostals and a scattering of small houses around the empty, dusty central plaza. The only person in the plaza when we arrive, red-faced, smiling and sweaty is a woman sitting in the shade of a doorway watching the grill where she is cooking and selling some sort of meat.

We have seen tourists but not that many. I met some really great Germans named Hanis and Vipka. They started in Mexico City last May. Now, in January they are here. The contrast between the 2 sisters and these 2 new German friends make me think that many people come to travel this land with blinders. People like the sisters see certain things and may have great experiences but they do not leave behind their judgments, preconceived ideas or cultural baggage. Hanis and Vipka seem open; honest, observant, interested and interesting, respectful but quietly radical in their ability to cut through the bullshit and say what really matters. They speak quietly and respectfully in Spanish to the owner of the hostal for a long time after a delicious dinner. They seem to have internalized the slow, quiet and deliberate manner of the mountain people. I recognize parts of myself in them and they in me I think. We speak easily to each other almost instantly.

We leave behind a long line of stinky rooms: sweat, socks, food, shoes, wet towels, traveling funk.

11 January

As the bus to Zumbahua/Quilotoa filled up on Monday with boxes and animals and bags and people I almost lost it. I was in the back over the wheel thinking of the 3-4 hour ride they say it is to Quilotoa. I had to pee again and was totally blocked in. Claustrophobia. Panic receded as we drove out of Latacunga -- the air on my face, sun on my skin, chicha music bopping in my ears -- and bumped our way up through beautiful vivid countryside into the high country. People everywhere even in these mountains.

Later – up and up and up again today. We ascended from Chugchilan probably 500 meters up the side of the mountain behind Casa Mama Hilda. We seemed to be hiking straight up looking for the cloud forest Juan had told us about. We stopped along the way to save a huge spider from certain death by drowning in a well. We were not successful. At a certain height we were way above the clouds in a wide, grassy field looking toward where the Pacific ocean should be. It was an ocean of clouds far below us. The forest rolling down the slopes like water and eventually disappearing into a sea of white. We hiked with Hanis and Vipka. They are beautiful and I feel so comfortable with them.

Our friendship was cemented by a conversation sparked by the Adbusters Magazine I was traveling with. It was the first post-September 11^th issue and the front and back cover showed the American flag. On the front were the words “You’re either with us” written over the flag , and on the back was an upside down flag with the corner on fire and the words “Or against us.” We talked of politics, traveling, culture, books, moving easily from one subject to the next. I am interested to know everything about their vast experience and knowledge and humbleness and sensibility after spending the past 9 months traveling the spine of two continents. I wish I could remember specifics of our conversation, but it is always like this with the best conversations – they are so fluid and dynamic that any attempt to recreate them is met with failure.

The hostal dog came with us for the whole walk – wanting to play fetch the entire time. He protected us from other dogs (who are everywhere in the rural areas – scraggly, mean, territorial, fought off only with rocks and sticks at times). The first strange rumblings are happening in my bowels. I had diarrhea on top of the mountain and felt pukey on and off all day. Hanis tells me that raw garlic in boiled water with lemon for flavor is a good remedy for stomach ills. I will try this – on an empty stomach in the morning. [I realize later that this was the first time I felt altitude sickness but at the time I thought it was something I ate.]

After three days of crazy heavy intense hiking I am physically beaten. Legs sore, muscles, joints, every part of my body is aching. But it feels great and I have seen so much and have broken my own limits – testing my strength again. Now I am ready for rest.

Living in the Clouds, Quilotoa, Ecuador

7 January

We left Quito today to head south to the city of Latacunga. The bus ride was all that I remembered – barreling down the Pan-American “highway” swerving potholes, animals, other cars and buses and the occasional small child. Quito seemed never-ending as we drove out of it. People and trash everywhere – the leftovers of too much human presence and too little urban infrastructure to deal with the overflow. An indigenous family loaded a whole bed frame onto the top of the bus and then got off with us at Latacunga. The sweet smile of the wife coaxed out by a “Hola, como esta?” from me. I realize now she probably speaks Quechua first and then Spanish.

I finally regain a sense of direction outside the city. Now that I know which way is south I can picture myself in the world. We walked through the market today. Surrounded by fruits and vegetables, bread and cheese, all stacked and ready to be eaten. We bought vegetables, bread and aji and ate the first of many vegetable sandwiches – a staple food during our travels. We are staying at the Residencial Santiago in a nice 3^rd floor room with a view to the west and to the tops of roofs all over the city (3 dollars per night). Tomorrow we go to Zumbahua and a hike into the mountains.

I feel so at peace.

8 January

To the First Moment Alone

early morning
no distractions
rolling metal on metal of opening storefronts
just south of the equator
the cathedral that once dominated this town
of latacunga
sitting silent and dark
closed and proud
bright crystal blue in the sky
7:30 a.m.
everything so vivid
people honkingyellingmoving
standingsitting
action everywhere

a man sweeping the parque vicente leon with a palm branch
a small boy wants to shine my shoes
a man sitting across from me just watching as I am
a woman walking quickly on stiletto heels
2 very small boys cross the street holding hands
a couple indigena touching fingers, sitting very close

9 January

We are high in the mountains at the crater lake of Quilotoa after a three hour bus trip from Latacunga with our new German friends, 2 sisters named Uzla and Doerte. They are a geologist who wants to be a film producer and a pharmacist respectively. We are staying with Manuel and his family in a “typical Quechua house”. Manuel’s oldest son Javier recruited us straight off the bus with promises of a typical Quechua house, meals included, guided hikes to the mountains, etc. The bus had stopped at a large colorful archway over a dusty road that led to a rather unassuming gathering of about 10 buildings, which is the town of Quilotoa. Javier and several others representing other hostals in the town were waiting patiently at the colorful archway for our bus – the only one to pass that day – to unload its daily ration of tourists (there were 6 of us that day) and the few locals who had come from Latacunga and points between.

They are a beautiful family – Manuel, his shy wife and their 6 children, of whom Javier is the oldest at 13 – all of them rosy-cheeked and brown. The house is made of cinder blocks with a wood frame roof covered in grass thatch. Reed mattresses are our beds below the sleeping bags we brought with us. A chimenea where we can build a fire at night provides warmth and a gathering place for the four of us. They installed the light bulb in the bathroom last night when we arrived after a cold bumpy ride that took us up and up and up.

The bus went through some canyon country and high paramo landscape(1). There are many small thatched shelters squatting on the landscape like old women. We passed through a parade that blocked the roads for a short time with music and tons of people colorfully dressed, playing eclectic big brass band type music as they spilled over the mountainside in a river of color and sound. I have no idea what they were celebrating on this cloudy day high in these mountains.

1) paramo is a high grassland landscape where little grows but grass, cactus and stunted flowers. Some people believe these areas used to be heavily forested and are only grassland because of human use. This seems a plausible theory since these mountains have been inhabited for over 10,000 years and have been densely populated for much of that time. Also plausible because federally protected areas surrounded by paramo are covered in beautiful ancient quinoal forests. The paramo is one of my favorite landscapes. It’s misty, cold and magical.

The whole Manuel family sleeps and lives out of a room that is one quarter the size of the building they have built for tourists like us. The Hostal Chocita as it is called, is the newest addition to this town of Quilotoa which is becoming more and more popular as a tourist destination and which seems to consist of 4 hostals, 6 homes and one school. I, feeling an attachment to the thatch roof (after having spent the past year building one), had to work really hard to convince the German sisters to stay there. It was definitely more rustic than any of the other accomodations.

Yesterday afternoon the four of us walked halfway into the crater with it’s highly alkaline bright blue-green lake. The lake fills the bottom of the crater, whose sides sweep upward steeply to form a giant, narrow bowl. The Hostal Chocita and the whole town of Quilotoa sit on the rim of this bowl. The ancient volcano is silent now, the wild, dramatic sweep and curve of this basin the only testament to its more active history. The lake sits silent and deathly still, detached from the rest of the world. There are no streams flowing in or out of this body of water. Its root is deep in the mountain. They say that there are creatures swimming in the depths that are so strange as to be unbelievable. But when you see the unnaturally blue/green cloudy color of the water and its solitary stillness, you can easily believe that anything is possible.

That night, Manuel’s wife made a simple and delicious hot dinner of soup (served separately) and rice, french fries, a fried egg and a salad all served in the same bowl. I am again enchanted with these mountains and the people who navigate them. I find myself the translator here. It’s nice, forcing me to remember these words, language of my heart.

We are now resting during our afternoon hike at a cumbia (or peak) watching clouds roll in from the coast. If it weren’t so cloudy, Manuel says we could see the Pacific coast from here. We are far into the western cordillera. He took us to a cueva de los inca or an Incan cave stuck into the side of a hill. The Inca are constantly in my mind. In the presence of this landscape I find myself thinking that it is no wonder they thought of themselves as chosen – from the Sun.

Descanso

the clouds brush our faces
we see many things
sun beating close
lungs pulsing overtime
the flute leads us on
like Pan
to the source
el ombligo del mundo
up and down
across these mountains
following Manuel
our angel in rubber boots

Manuel tells us we have climbed to 5000 meters above sea level today. I find this difficult to believe despite my exhaustion. Regardless. We walked for 6 hours with some breaks for the gringos adjusting to the altitude, while Manuel played his flute to accompany our footsteps and heavy breath. At the end I was feeling very sick. Maybe dehydrated. Maybe just tired to the core. My muscles seem fine. It is my lungs and back that are difficult.

Jacob is a horse. He keeps going and going like he runs on batteries. It’s amazing. Yesterday he left the sisters and I to walk all the way to the bottom of the deep crater where the lake is and today he pushes hard almost effortlessly. The 2 German girls seem as exhausted as me and I wonder to my dismay if it is a gender thing.

Later, sitting by the hot, smoky fire in the town of Quilotoa, Ecuador, in the Hostal Chocita. It is freezing outside, cold, windy and damp. I realize this is what it feels like to live in the clouds.

El Ombligo del Mundo

--- Original Message ---

From: sara
Sent: January 27, 2002 3:45 pm
To: ------------
Subject: el ombligo del mundo (i.e., the bellybutton of the world)

Time is strange when traveling for extended periods. We base our days around finding food and coffee, resting when necessary and the occasional caiparina (my favorite Ecuadorian drink) or Pilsener (the locally made beer which usually comes in a large bottle, is served warm as often as cold and which you can get for about $.80 a bottle.) We walk around a lot, seeing the city or town we are in. More often than not we gravitate toward the central plaza where we sit with hundreds of other people who are just sitting and watching life go by. This is city life.

The country traveling life is much different, usually with lots of time spent hiking and seeing the countryside and also finding food and coffee – the real constants anywhere we find ourselves. We finally left Quito after five days, during which time we began the acclimatization process of altitude and attitude adjustment. The next part of the trip took us to Laguna Quilotoa – a volcanic crater lake high in the Andes. This is an achingly beautiful bright blue alkaline lake surrounded by the steep cliffs of an ancient volcano.

We traveled to this spot via a city called Latacunga. The most exciting thing in Latacunga was the huge market in the center of town where you could find any fruit, vegetable, herb, type of bread you could imagine as well as many strange and seemingly useless plastic things that are sold everywhere here.

We traveled to Quilotoa with two German sisters who were training to climb Cotapaxi (one of the highest mountains in Ecuador). The elevation at Quilotoa was about 3900 meters or about 12,000 feet. The family we stayed with was great, 5 young kids running all over the place and llamas, pigs, chickens and dogs everywhere. Their house sat right on the edge of the cliff at the top of the crater. Manuel – the father and our guide – took us on several hikes. Any time he walked with us he played a flute – an amazing accompaniment to hiking these high Andes. As we hiked our lungs felt as full as they could feel, we breathed hard and he played beautiful, off-key tunes on his flute without so much as a hint of breathlessness.

After two days at Quilotoa, Manuel guided us on an amazingly brutal and beautiful hike to another town at a slightly lower elevation called Chugchilan. It was four hours one way – three of those hours straight down (or so it felt) and one hour back up. We carried all our stuff on this hike. I have definitely pushed my body to its outer limits here.

We spent 2 more days in Chugchilan with 2 other German people we met. Beautiful people. Beautiful hostal. We hiked more outside of Chugchilan and then took the milk truck – the only transportation out of town – back to the closest bus stop. This entailed about two hours standing in the back of a small pickup truck that picks up milk in this outer region to take to town for pasteurization (maybe). Dirty milk. Dirty hands in the milk.

We returned to Latacunga and spent one more day with our German friends. Then they went on to Cuenca and we went to Banos, a tourist town at the base of the volcano Tungurahua. Tungurahua means Devil’s Throat. When I was here two years ago with the study abroad program, I saw hot lava flowing down the mountainside and felt the ground rumble as the mountain spoke. The volcano is quiet now, but we heard through the grapevine that there was an eruption right after we left. The earth moves as she pleases here. We are in an area of the world known as Volcano Alley, in the midst of one of the youngest mountain ranges in the world. I guess this freedom of movement is to be expected.

Banos was kind of surreal in its tourism. It’s a beautiful little town but a little numbing. Kind of like Bar Harbor, Maine in July, with more tourists than locals. We spent four days there. We cooked a lot and hiked around in the countryside surrounding the town. We finally came out of the fog of tourist heaven and straight into Riobamba, which was just the opposite. It was beautiful, surrounded by gigantic mountains – the huge cone of the volcano Chimborazo visible from every part of the city -- but closed, provincial, conservative. We left Riobamba for Cuenca after several long days of wandering the city in search of something to do and trying to avoid touching anything in the bathroom at the hostal. We did find a sweet little park on our last day in town with large mosaic statues of animals and people. The park’s brick streetlight poles were built to curve around each other like candy canes.

We arrived in Cuenca, Ecuador one week ago today. This is the town where I lived for 8 weeks almost two years ago. We went out dancing that Saturday and saw some of my old friends who actually remembered me from when I lived here before. We have met lots of foreigners who are living here, teaching English, traveling, studying.

We are leaving for Peru tomorrow, so my next message will find me with yet another stamp on my passport. There is so much to see in Peru. It is a huge country compared to Ecuador, which you can cross by bus in about 24 hours. I hope everyone is doing well out there. I will try to write more frequently so I don’t have to fit a whole country into one message.

Peace

sara d

Ecuador for Ecuador (and a kiss)

6 January

We came back from Rumicocho and had lunch and coffee not a moment too soon. I spent the rest of the day reading and feeling like shit due to the altitude. Since it was Saturday night, we decided to go to a bar I had been to before called Arribar. The bar was quiet at first and then got crowded very fast. As we were getting close to leaving, a Quiteno named Helgi sat next to me. He told me he was a DJ – a real one with turntables even. He was very drunk.

Jacob went to smoke weed with some Colombians, a German and an American while I stayed with my new friend whose birthday was 22 September 1975, exactly one day before mine. We talked and walked and sat on a corner and made out.

“You are cold. You kiss like you don’t like it”, he tells me as we sit, arms around each other on a busy street full of cars and pedestrians.

“In my country, people don’t sit on the street and make out” I tell him. “I am not used to this. I feel like everyone is watching us and I’m just not used to it.”

“No one is watching.” He points around to other people on the street, many of whom are huddled together in pairs just like us and then laughs with teeth showing and kisses me again.

A moment later, the sting of the “you are cold” statement sinks its familiar claws into my heart. “You don’t really think I’m cold do you? What do you mean?” It’s too late. We’ve already started laughing and I’ve already started trying to prove that I am not cold, only culturally unaccustomed to such behavior.

I kiss him this time and smile, “No soy fria.”

Finally, we make our way back to the Hostal Petite, where we had moved the day before, and waited outside for Jacob who showed up minutes later. We talked outside the hostal for an hour or so with Helgi doing most of the talking in broken English that was peppered with more “yo”’s than I ever thought possible. He talked of wanting to come to the US – wanting the freedom that we represent, yo. He says that his country has no culture. People go to school, get married and have kids. I tried to explain to him that I grew up in a town where the majority of people did the same exact thing that he described as culture-less. The US he knows is pop culture. You can see and hear it everywhere here. The music in Quito, the clothes people wear. Harry Potter en espanol.

At the same time as wanting to come to the US, he also wants Ecuador for Ecuador – he wants Ecuador to make her own cars, her own music, her own style. At first I thought these two desires contradicted each other, but I don’t think they do. After talking for a while we went up to bed and he left to go home. We made plans to meet Sunday at 2:00 pm at Arribar.

Thus began the day of debauchery. At 2:00 pm Helgi and Jorge met us. Jorge was just as crazy, funny, friendly and talkative as Helgi. They took us to a mirador (lookout point) that I had visited with the OU study abroad class last time I visited this country. It overlooked a deep, lushly green valley with small adobe houses clinging to the sides, strung out along the dirt footpath like small brown beads.

After the mirador, we went to a tienda so the guys could get beers. We sat in the street on the curb in front of the store drinking and talking and laughing. “Jorge the punk rocker” and “Helgi the hip hopper”, as they called themselves. They talked music with Jacob most of the day. All three knew a lot more about hip hop and punk rock than I could ever pretend to. Then Helgi brought up Muddy Waters who I’ve heard my dad listening to on vinyl since I was a kid. I was impressed.

After the mirador, we went to another tienda around the corner. There I joined them for another beer. We sat in the street again talking. Jorge seemed to understand English sometimes and Helgi speaks very well. I tried out my Spanish and even told a joke in Spanish that made everyone laugh, though I can’t remember it. Jorge and Helgi spent much time singing – Jorge especially. He also talked about the love of his life – a gringa named Cheryl whose father forbid her to see him.

“She break my heart and make me drunk”, or so he said.

Later we went to the hostal so I could pee and then to another tienda for more beer. Jorge accidentally threw his hat onto the roof so the 3 of them managed to get it down with a broom and a human ladder. Then we went to another tienda where we were invited to sit on the stoop and drink more by a friendly old man who was cleaning the place and restocking. It poured down rain as we sat under the overhang of the store and talked and drank. By this time they were all really drunk. (I wasn’t drinking because I was still feeling altitude wierdness). Helgi proposed marriage to me. We kissed a few more times and they walked us back to the hostal.

He tells me so sweetly as we press against the side of a building trying to stay dry, “When I go home last night I am splashing water on my face and I think I kiss that girl. I can’t believe it.”

They also told us as we said goodbye, “Thank you for your trust”.

That was the best. Thank you for your trust.