February 25, 2008
Two very exciting things happened recently, but I’m not exactly sure you’ll share my enthusiasm. The first cause of jubilance was the receival of a used manual can opener. Oh joy of joys!! I can now open cans with out carrying my can over to the neighbors 5 minutes away and borrowing theirs. An added bonus is the bottle opener. I nearly stabbed myself with the knife the last bottle I tried to open that way. And yes, I did try opening it with my teeth and smashing it against the counter, and no, neither of those tricks worked. You wouldn’t think the lack of a little gadget like that could cause so much grief. Believe it or not I searched 3 towns in a fifty mile radius and nary a can opener did I see. I had to go all the way to Quito to find one.
The second gleeful occasion was the induction of my new housekeeper Victoria. For two dollars an hour she’ll dust, mop, sweep, scrape, and wash anything in her path. She was even hanging out the second story window on top of the sink getting at the cobwebs on the outsides of the windows. Today was the first day in her fifty something year old life that she has ever used a vacuum cleaner. I got to show her how. I showed her how to plug it into the wall outlet. I showed her how to flip the switch to turn it on, and then I showed her how to flip the switch to turn it off. She was suitably impressed. She told me “I will drive it”. I asked her what she thought after. She looked at her assorted brooms, dust pans, and rags and nodded, ”Yes, it is much faster”.
Went on my first run tonight in just about seven weeks. Went past a cat eating a small green snake and saw the sun set on the murky white slopes of Volcan Sangay and Volcan El Altar. As the day sank behind the horizon and the last light was cast across the canopy of the Amazon and the smoking volcanoes, I thought to myself that I certainly wasn’t in California anymore.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
La boda
February 20, 2008
The little chapel named Bet-el was full of the fragrance of flowers. Red and white streamers hung from a little chandelier in the front of the church and trailed over to the rusty bars covering the paneless windows. Balloons of the same color hung above the windows and caused everyone to jump when one of them popped. Streamers flowed down the center isle and tiny bunches of white flowers were taped to the side of each pew. The chapel had a beautifuly ornate painting of a verdant valley full with streams, waterfalls, and lakes, and Jesus leading a young girl down a quiet mountain path. Bold blues, greens and yellows splashed across the wall in vibrant colors. In the corners vivid pinks, sunset orange, and majestic purples blended in a large overflowing vase of flowers painted in such esquisite detail you could almost not tell the real flowers from the painted ones. This was the church where the young equadorian teenagers, just 19 and 21 would be married.
I had been invited to the wedding by Manuel, the gardner/chaplain I had accompanied into the community to see patients with on Friday. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I dragged Florence, a missionary at the hospital for about 20 years with me, and she narrated the event for me. We were picked up at 6:30pm from the Church of the Nazarene in Shell and taken with the rest of the wedding guests by a chartered bus to the small but quaint town of Madretierra, about 4 miles outside Shell.
We selected a white bench against one wall and waited for the celebration to begin. The grooms family were Quichua Indians and many of the family had traveled many hours for the wedding and wore the traditional clothes of their region. Women clustered in brightly colored shawels with felt hats on, gold beads around their necks, and babies sleeping soundly slung around their backs. Once the guests had all sat down, the service began.
Four pink brides maids proceeded down the center isle to a wedding march and then stopped in the aisle so as to line the passage. The grooms men were opposite them and they raised their arms to join the bridesmaids and create an arched passageway for the bride. The bride appeared in a simple white gown, carrying white flowers and proceeded down the aisle to joing her groom at the front. She was a beautiful young girl with ebony black hair and a soft ringlet to the side of her face. She had her mothers features and a delicate bone structure. The groom was tall and thin and looked a bit awkward and uncomfortable to be the center of attention and have so many eyes headed his way.
Songs were sung, verses were read, a sermon was given, and two hours later they still had not exchanged vows. It was about this time as I was getting antsy on my hard wooded bench that groups of women began to come up to the front of the church to sing. “Oh good”, I thought, how nice it will be to hear the women sing. I wondered why there were no music CD’s of the Indian women’s singing when the mens songs and familiar wooden flutes were so prevalent and well recognized.
Then they opened their mouths and I had no doubt it was the worst sound I had ever heard. Four women with a bewildered toddler at their feet screeched a glass shattering tune off key at a pitch certain to take down the walls of Jericho. I was astounded. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or run screaming from the church. I looked around at the faces of the guests sure to see shock and pain registered there. There was none. Instead I saw only blank faces looking to far off places, as if this was a place they had been before and knew well. They did not seem to be enjoying it, but rather endured it quietly. After four different groups of women offered the same inharmonious chant, they were done, and my ears were left ringing with the memory.
After the womens groups the vows were exchanged, rings given, and the unity declared. The obligatory smooch sealed the pact and the new couple shuffled shyly out into the night amidst a shower of rice.
Outside a canopy had been erected and the guests were quickly ushered to new seats and food was laid out. The plates were heaped with six potatoes, corn, and about half a chicken. There was no champagne, but plenty of fizzy drinks around. After the carb load there was cake to be had and then my first Ecuadorian wedding was complete.
The little chapel named Bet-el was full of the fragrance of flowers. Red and white streamers hung from a little chandelier in the front of the church and trailed over to the rusty bars covering the paneless windows. Balloons of the same color hung above the windows and caused everyone to jump when one of them popped. Streamers flowed down the center isle and tiny bunches of white flowers were taped to the side of each pew. The chapel had a beautifuly ornate painting of a verdant valley full with streams, waterfalls, and lakes, and Jesus leading a young girl down a quiet mountain path. Bold blues, greens and yellows splashed across the wall in vibrant colors. In the corners vivid pinks, sunset orange, and majestic purples blended in a large overflowing vase of flowers painted in such esquisite detail you could almost not tell the real flowers from the painted ones. This was the church where the young equadorian teenagers, just 19 and 21 would be married.
I had been invited to the wedding by Manuel, the gardner/chaplain I had accompanied into the community to see patients with on Friday. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I dragged Florence, a missionary at the hospital for about 20 years with me, and she narrated the event for me. We were picked up at 6:30pm from the Church of the Nazarene in Shell and taken with the rest of the wedding guests by a chartered bus to the small but quaint town of Madretierra, about 4 miles outside Shell.
We selected a white bench against one wall and waited for the celebration to begin. The grooms family were Quichua Indians and many of the family had traveled many hours for the wedding and wore the traditional clothes of their region. Women clustered in brightly colored shawels with felt hats on, gold beads around their necks, and babies sleeping soundly slung around their backs. Once the guests had all sat down, the service began.
Four pink brides maids proceeded down the center isle to a wedding march and then stopped in the aisle so as to line the passage. The grooms men were opposite them and they raised their arms to join the bridesmaids and create an arched passageway for the bride. The bride appeared in a simple white gown, carrying white flowers and proceeded down the aisle to joing her groom at the front. She was a beautiful young girl with ebony black hair and a soft ringlet to the side of her face. She had her mothers features and a delicate bone structure. The groom was tall and thin and looked a bit awkward and uncomfortable to be the center of attention and have so many eyes headed his way.
Songs were sung, verses were read, a sermon was given, and two hours later they still had not exchanged vows. It was about this time as I was getting antsy on my hard wooded bench that groups of women began to come up to the front of the church to sing. “Oh good”, I thought, how nice it will be to hear the women sing. I wondered why there were no music CD’s of the Indian women’s singing when the mens songs and familiar wooden flutes were so prevalent and well recognized.
Then they opened their mouths and I had no doubt it was the worst sound I had ever heard. Four women with a bewildered toddler at their feet screeched a glass shattering tune off key at a pitch certain to take down the walls of Jericho. I was astounded. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or run screaming from the church. I looked around at the faces of the guests sure to see shock and pain registered there. There was none. Instead I saw only blank faces looking to far off places, as if this was a place they had been before and knew well. They did not seem to be enjoying it, but rather endured it quietly. After four different groups of women offered the same inharmonious chant, they were done, and my ears were left ringing with the memory.
After the womens groups the vows were exchanged, rings given, and the unity declared. The obligatory smooch sealed the pact and the new couple shuffled shyly out into the night amidst a shower of rice.
Outside a canopy had been erected and the guests were quickly ushered to new seats and food was laid out. The plates were heaped with six potatoes, corn, and about half a chicken. There was no champagne, but plenty of fizzy drinks around. After the carb load there was cake to be had and then my first Ecuadorian wedding was complete.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Delubia deluge
February 16, 2008
“La lluvia”, he whispered, in a bit of a frantic tone. I was standing in the sun with a banana in my hand and wondered why he was worried about rain. That’s when I realized that what I thought was the sound of wind was actually a wall of rain advancing very quickly toward’s us. Nature lives by extremes in the jungle. There is no half way about it. Rain here is actually called a “delubia”, a deluge of falling water rockets. There is no gentle sprinkle or hours of fine mist before full on rain is worked up to. No, you can be sweltering in the sun and then completely drenched in a delubia in 5 seconds flat. So then began the dash for the nearest shelter. I had my umbrella, but that didn’t really matter because a delubia goes right through the umbrealla. It does give you a little window though and I had about 5 minutes before I was soaking wet. So there I was running in the rain, completely drenched, with an umbrella in one hand and a banana in the other. I couldn’t remember ever running in the rain with a banana before and I felt just a little bit silly.
The banana had been given to me by the last patient I had seen with the Chaplain Manuel. I had spent half the morning traveling by bus and taxi with Manuel as I attended to the physical needs of recently discharged patients and Manuel attended to the spiritual. It took me a couple hours before I realized that Manuel was the same man I had helped push his tractor out of the mud a few weeks past. Apparently Manuel has two jobs. Monday through Thursday he is a gardner, and on Fridays he is a Chaplain.
Delubia. It just rolls off the tongue. Delubia, delubia, delubia. I think it is my new favorite word
“La lluvia”, he whispered, in a bit of a frantic tone. I was standing in the sun with a banana in my hand and wondered why he was worried about rain. That’s when I realized that what I thought was the sound of wind was actually a wall of rain advancing very quickly toward’s us. Nature lives by extremes in the jungle. There is no half way about it. Rain here is actually called a “delubia”, a deluge of falling water rockets. There is no gentle sprinkle or hours of fine mist before full on rain is worked up to. No, you can be sweltering in the sun and then completely drenched in a delubia in 5 seconds flat. So then began the dash for the nearest shelter. I had my umbrella, but that didn’t really matter because a delubia goes right through the umbrealla. It does give you a little window though and I had about 5 minutes before I was soaking wet. So there I was running in the rain, completely drenched, with an umbrella in one hand and a banana in the other. I couldn’t remember ever running in the rain with a banana before and I felt just a little bit silly.
The banana had been given to me by the last patient I had seen with the Chaplain Manuel. I had spent half the morning traveling by bus and taxi with Manuel as I attended to the physical needs of recently discharged patients and Manuel attended to the spiritual. It took me a couple hours before I realized that Manuel was the same man I had helped push his tractor out of the mud a few weeks past. Apparently Manuel has two jobs. Monday through Thursday he is a gardner, and on Fridays he is a Chaplain.
Delubia. It just rolls off the tongue. Delubia, delubia, delubia. I think it is my new favorite word
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Mangoes and cabbage
February 12, 2008
Two mangoes and three dirty cabbages. That’s it for the fruit and vegetable section. It’s Tuesday night at the military store and food delivery in Shell comes on Wednesdays. I won’t be having salad tonight. The military store does have the best selection of items in Shell though. Besides food they also carry housewares, clothes, blenders, and motorbike parts. In no particular order. You might have dairy and a five pound bag of salt on one isle and then hair dye by the deli meat.
Luckily I was spared tonight because Ron and Margie asked me to accompany them to the Mexican restaurant in Puyo. For $3.00 you can get three tostadas, a drink, and listen to really big trucks roar by.
Two mangoes and three dirty cabbages. That’s it for the fruit and vegetable section. It’s Tuesday night at the military store and food delivery in Shell comes on Wednesdays. I won’t be having salad tonight. The military store does have the best selection of items in Shell though. Besides food they also carry housewares, clothes, blenders, and motorbike parts. In no particular order. You might have dairy and a five pound bag of salt on one isle and then hair dye by the deli meat.
Luckily I was spared tonight because Ron and Margie asked me to accompany them to the Mexican restaurant in Puyo. For $3.00 you can get three tostadas, a drink, and listen to really big trucks roar by.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Back to Shell
February 10, 2008
The jungle mists are rising out of the sun kissed rain, the last light is crowning El Altar’s jagged peaks, the noisy green parrot is cackling into the fading light, and I am returning once again to Shell.
Standing on the Pan American Highway is a very interesting experience. One gets to watch life on the road throttle by from a completely different vantage point. As I waited for a bus to stop and bring me back to Shell I was kept entertained by the goings on of the road. I saw a tethered sheep bleeting from the top of a bus roof rack, a very large cow standing in the back of a very small pickup, and busses passing each other three abreast on a two lane highway. Live chickens on the bus are old news now. Another missionary named Andi added to the bus lore. She had a man sit down in her adjoining seat and plop a newly decapitated cow head right beside her.
The jungle mists are rising out of the sun kissed rain, the last light is crowning El Altar’s jagged peaks, the noisy green parrot is cackling into the fading light, and I am returning once again to Shell.
Standing on the Pan American Highway is a very interesting experience. One gets to watch life on the road throttle by from a completely different vantage point. As I waited for a bus to stop and bring me back to Shell I was kept entertained by the goings on of the road. I saw a tethered sheep bleeting from the top of a bus roof rack, a very large cow standing in the back of a very small pickup, and busses passing each other three abreast on a two lane highway. Live chickens on the bus are old news now. Another missionary named Andi added to the bus lore. She had a man sit down in her adjoining seat and plop a newly decapitated cow head right beside her.
Ruminahui rambling
February 9, 2008
The tour of Ruminahui did not go quite as planned. Instead of the neat little out and back trail that was printed so simply on our map, our trail was more like a square with a few zig zags that seemed to encompass every peak in the area but the ones we were actually trying to climb. Alas we did not reach the summit. But we made it up to about 12,000 ft right up next to the really big rocks. We only encountered two people the whole time. They had made it to the top and said it was all foggy and they couldn’t see a thing. So that made us feel better. Highlights of the day included a lot of bushwacking on cattle tracks, crossing a bog the size of a football field, climbing through scorched grasses and bushes leaving nice little ash marks all over us, finding a bull horn, almost seeing Cotopaxi, getting pulmonary edema from the exertion of the climb, and of course almost, but not quite, reaching one of the peaks in the Ruminahui chain of 3. All in all however we spent 8 hrs climbing in the wilderness surrounded by the big boys, up to 16 craggy peaks most of which are over 14,000ft. Saw wild horses, cows, unusual birds, and deers aleaping in the distance. So I really can’t complain, it was a great day out in creation.
The tour of Ruminahui did not go quite as planned. Instead of the neat little out and back trail that was printed so simply on our map, our trail was more like a square with a few zig zags that seemed to encompass every peak in the area but the ones we were actually trying to climb. Alas we did not reach the summit. But we made it up to about 12,000 ft right up next to the really big rocks. We only encountered two people the whole time. They had made it to the top and said it was all foggy and they couldn’t see a thing. So that made us feel better. Highlights of the day included a lot of bushwacking on cattle tracks, crossing a bog the size of a football field, climbing through scorched grasses and bushes leaving nice little ash marks all over us, finding a bull horn, almost seeing Cotopaxi, getting pulmonary edema from the exertion of the climb, and of course almost, but not quite, reaching one of the peaks in the Ruminahui chain of 3. All in all however we spent 8 hrs climbing in the wilderness surrounded by the big boys, up to 16 craggy peaks most of which are over 14,000ft. Saw wild horses, cows, unusual birds, and deers aleaping in the distance. So I really can’t complain, it was a great day out in creation.
Bus travels
February 8, 2008
Hold on tightly and don’t let go. Those are my words of advice for those traveling on the Equadorian bus system. Today it came in handy when the bus went from full speed to 0 in 5 seconds. Half the bus was flung half way down the corrider and only kept from falling because the sheer mass of people in the bus squished together like sardines and kept everyone upright. So that was my first bus accident. I didn’t actually know it was an accident at the time as there was no screeching, honking, or grinding of metal. It was only after the bus had stopped for about 10 minutes with cars going around us that we realized that something was up. Then when another bus stopped, let down it’s gangplank and people moved in mass from our bus to the other, we learned that an unfortunate Mercedes had crossed paths with our bus. The owner was on his cell phone and stomping around in what looked like a bit of a fit. So I followed the next exodus and got off the bus in the middle of the intersection and had to be hauled onto the other bus as the loading platform was about 3 feet from street level. Then the new bus continued on it’s way and everything carried on as normal.
The Valhalla Hostel had a very nice ring to it and came highly recommended by many travelers. It was owned by a Swedish couple who used it as a base for climbing tours up to the 18,000 ft summit of Volcan Cotopaxi. Serene and I weren't going to climb Cotopaxi, but we were headed for Volcan Ruminahui in the same area and thought it a good place to kip. We didn't have any specific directions as the road to access the hostel was unmarked, but I’d been given a little map drawn in red from the tour operator. It basically consisted of a line from quito, some slash marks for a toll stop, some squiggley lines for a bridge, and then a cluster of lines to signify an antennae field. Several times the ticket man came back to look at my drawing and converse with other bus patrons on the absurdity of it. There was much shaking of heads and shrugging of shoulders. They had not heard of this hostel before. Then I was signaled to come forward, they thought we might be close, the antennaes rang a bell. But it was too soon, we surely had 30 minutes more, I said. But we had passed Machachi, “Hemos pasado Machachi” they said. “Did we cross the bridge?”, I asked. Nobody knew. “The antennas are close”, they said. I didn’t see any antennas. “We should stop”, they said. “No, not yet”, I said. “Yes, Yes”, they said. “No, no”, I said. Then I saw a yellow sign. It said Hostel Valhalla. “Stop, stop”, I said. The bus screeched to a halt in typical equadorian fashion and after a 20 min walk down an abandoned dirt road we found the hostel.
Hold on tightly and don’t let go. Those are my words of advice for those traveling on the Equadorian bus system. Today it came in handy when the bus went from full speed to 0 in 5 seconds. Half the bus was flung half way down the corrider and only kept from falling because the sheer mass of people in the bus squished together like sardines and kept everyone upright. So that was my first bus accident. I didn’t actually know it was an accident at the time as there was no screeching, honking, or grinding of metal. It was only after the bus had stopped for about 10 minutes with cars going around us that we realized that something was up. Then when another bus stopped, let down it’s gangplank and people moved in mass from our bus to the other, we learned that an unfortunate Mercedes had crossed paths with our bus. The owner was on his cell phone and stomping around in what looked like a bit of a fit. So I followed the next exodus and got off the bus in the middle of the intersection and had to be hauled onto the other bus as the loading platform was about 3 feet from street level. Then the new bus continued on it’s way and everything carried on as normal.
The Valhalla Hostel had a very nice ring to it and came highly recommended by many travelers. It was owned by a Swedish couple who used it as a base for climbing tours up to the 18,000 ft summit of Volcan Cotopaxi. Serene and I weren't going to climb Cotopaxi, but we were headed for Volcan Ruminahui in the same area and thought it a good place to kip. We didn't have any specific directions as the road to access the hostel was unmarked, but I’d been given a little map drawn in red from the tour operator. It basically consisted of a line from quito, some slash marks for a toll stop, some squiggley lines for a bridge, and then a cluster of lines to signify an antennae field. Several times the ticket man came back to look at my drawing and converse with other bus patrons on the absurdity of it. There was much shaking of heads and shrugging of shoulders. They had not heard of this hostel before. Then I was signaled to come forward, they thought we might be close, the antennaes rang a bell. But it was too soon, we surely had 30 minutes more, I said. But we had passed Machachi, “Hemos pasado Machachi” they said. “Did we cross the bridge?”, I asked. Nobody knew. “The antennas are close”, they said. I didn’t see any antennas. “We should stop”, they said. “No, not yet”, I said. “Yes, Yes”, they said. “No, no”, I said. Then I saw a yellow sign. It said Hostel Valhalla. “Stop, stop”, I said. The bus screeched to a halt in typical equadorian fashion and after a 20 min walk down an abandoned dirt road we found the hostel.
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