Friday, November 28, 2008

Booming tourism industry in Puerto de Cayo. BUY NOW!!


Caption: ¨PCH of Ecuador.¨


Caption: ¨The often stinky and unsightly roads. Sign says do not throw your trash.¨
Caption, ¨Beach pueblo.¨

All things considered I should be hating biking in Ecuador, especially after Colombia. In Ecuador the unpaved roads cover me in dust clouds leaving me with a dirt face mask at the end of each day, dogs are chasing my ass in every goddamn pueblito, on shore wind in my face, long stretches without restaurants, dirty food that has made me very very afraid to fart and left me with a feeling of an invisible hand squeezing my intestines every 15 min while biking (maybe I should get that checked), filthy roadsides covered in plastic bags of garbage, and a horrible stench of rotting fish and cow carcases decorating the roadsides. Despite those differences with Colombia I am having a better time than ever in Ecuador. The people are delightful.

Caption, ¨Tim Burton trees.¨

Caption, ¨Fellow companions in idiocy.¨

I was biking down the coast yesterday dancing in my saddle listening to some awesome Egyptian pop (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD9xXRm3Jpw, Amr Diab is one of my personal favorites). 30km (about an hour and a half) had gone by without seeing a person or a place to eat and I was famished. If you don't eat every 2 or 3 hours your body does dead like a cell phone. The amazing thing is all you need to do is eat, wait 15 minutes and you are charged up again and can go another few hours. Biking has given me a new love for fruits and veggies. I have a nearly sexual attraction to them now. Looking at a good bunch of bananas is much the feeling I get when a woman walks down the street and she passes you and you turn your head to admire. Freaking love those bananas.

I came across a cabana with a man watering a lawn of rocks and pebbles with a few sad weeds. He was a family man of 30 years and had a cute frazzle haired kid hanging on each leg. We chatted for a bit about how far it was to the next town and the weather. Being a hot day of 80km I was ready to set up camp, find some food and take a dip in the baby blue sea. "How much to camp here?" I asked him.
Caption, ¨Not Puerto de Cayo.¨
Caption, ¨Definitely not Puerto de Cayo.¨

"Free and safe. No one will bother you here," he reassures me. Ok, sounds like a deal. As with all things nothing is free. After my swim he offers me a home cooked meal with his family and then to take me into "town" to show me around Puerto de Cayo. His plan, as I found out, was to show me everything this wonderful pueblo has to offer in order for me to tell all my fellow tourist friends with pockets full of disposable income to come here, and not to places set up with tourist services such as internet and restaurants (both of which this town lacks).

Although relaxing on the beach and reading sounds appetizing I of course go with him because of the hospitality he is showing me. Now I am about to embark on the red carpet tour of his pueblo he is so full of pride about. It's only a 10 min walk in the blazing sun into the dusty center of town lacking trees big enough to give a dog shade. First stop, we get to watch a dump truck unload dirt on their un-paved road in the center of town. While squinting into the broiling heat to watch the truck unload its payload an SUV pulls up and a man hops out of the car with three other guys all holding camcorders. It's the mayor from Jipijapa coming to check on the road construction. I love saying the word Jipijapa. Anyway, he is a typical slimeball politician small talking up 'his amigos' in the streets and pressing flesh. He has a nice fake smile behind twitchy eyes that tell all his lies.
Caption: ¨The jackass mayor soaking up and loving the limelight. He smelled of a scandal.¨

He grabs an old lady and holds her over the shoulder and starts talking into the camera, "Here we are in beautiful Puerto de Cayo with this wonderful senora. As promised we are improving the roads for you, and to bring tourist and money to your town and improving your quality of life..." Just then the old lady interrupts him, he gets annoyed and grabs a more docile old lady. The mayor tells the camera man, "Ok, lets start over again," and he continues with his political campaigning. While he is talking the other two camera men are filming me talking to my new friend, Oscar. The mayor, after getting his sound bites, comes over to me, shakes my hand and wants to know how long I have been here (2 hours), how much I love it (so much) and more small talk. I think I am the first tourist in this town.

The mayor takes off as fast as he showed up and Oscar and I head down to the local free clinic. In Ecuador they provide free condoms for the people because for the average guy they are very expensive. "Oscar, why don't you get the pill instead?" I asked him.
"Oh, they do not have the pill for men here in Ecuador."
"No, No, not for you, for your wife," obviously being a language misunderstanding due to my shitty Spanish.

"My wife was not always fat," he says. Oscar is a fit and handsome Ecuadorian stud. I saw his wife and I thought, wow, she lucked out. She was fully equipped with the standard "muffin tops" that you see on nearly all Ecuadorians. "There are hormones in the pill and she will get even bigger than after the two kids." and he puffs up his cheeks and puts his arms out to his sides and starts waddling around. Haha, Oscar is awesome and men are the same all around the world.

I bought a 20 liter jug of water and a chicken for the family's dinner. We were walking back to his place on the beach and he decides to take me to the "famosos chongos". The what? Ah, the whorehouse. Gotcha.

I do not like whore houses. Maybe if I slept with whores I would like them. Never say never, I could lose a leg on this trip and it could be my new favorite hang out on Earth but until then I tend to shy away from them and it has kept me out of trouble for the most part. So Oscar and I go in and I immediately know this is a bad idea. This hut is located on the outskirts of town tucked into a hill covered with dead weeds. Under the palm frond roof there are a dozen wasted guys with piles of beers in front of them and two rollipoli looking whores that are dressed in a Borat bathing suit made out of spare fishing nets. Oh, yes. 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack came to mind. What a treat for the eyeballs.

Oscar looks at me and I give a cracked smile and a head nod that tells him I am not digging this place. We took a seat. I wanted to get him a beer for his hospitality and for being a great guy, but I did not want to stay long enough to finish that beer. Sitting their awkwardly, all drunk eyes are on the white boy wearing a cowboy hat. Lets go, lets go, lets go...nope, we are getting waved over by the two biggest slime buckets in the place and we have to go over and say hi. Both of them have the sweaty red bloated drinker face look going on. One guy is large and looks and talks just like Jabba the Hut so I can hardly understand his pueblo talk. On his right is sitting this little guy that has his two, possibly four, front teeth missing, a MASSIVE cold sore and is laughing away like an idiot, coincidentally just like Jabba the Hut's sidekick in the movie. What a duo.

They hit me with a barrage of questions in ghetto coastal pueblo talk. The sidekick hands me a small glass of beer that he has been filling and passing to each person in the group. It arrives to me, "No, no, I do not drink beer." Ya, that set tone. A look of horror and confusion came over their faces. "Ok, well, how about a nice muchacha for your little fishing boat?" was Jabba's question. "What?" What the hell is this guy talking about? I found out later that fishing boat means cock here in this particular pueblo. He tried to bring one of the girls over and I say, "No no, it's ok we were just going to see the rest of Puerto de Cayo. We are on a tour." The guy is trying to get me to go on his fishing boat for a discounted rate the next day, but I am explaining to him I leave at 6am. I am walking a fine line of offending Jabba and at the same time my face is giving me away that I am not enjoying his company. My face is pained in a crunched laugh with darting eyes to Oscar in hopes that he will get us out of this situation. The guys are getting more and more worked up because I have declined their generous offers of herpetic beers and even more herpetic laced lovely ladies. Ok, time to go.

Oscar finally reads my uncomfortableness and got us out of there. Jabba is noticeably annoyed and gives me this bitter sad limp handshake because he was offended, rightfully so. I was being a jackass due to my annoying sense of self preservation. I guess I should have slammed the glass of beer covered in scabs and then slammed one of the girls in one of the rooms that is set up with a mattress on the floor right off the main room where everyone is drinking and next to the shitter.

It is one thing to be in an awkward situation in English but throw in the the misunderstanding x factor and your are on uneven footing. Yes, I can communicate with the people but I cannot express myself, and that is a giant leap away. I spend days talking to pueblo folk, but at the end of the day I do not relate to these people. We run out of things to talk about because our cultures are so different. We have to talk about weathers and their, what usually ends up being, traumatic family history. We cannot talk light and fluffy with pop culture references. And I cannot stand their salsa music. Can you name your favorite 3 Raggaton and Vallanata artists please? Any music that uses a fog horn for an instrument is complete garbage. You can put on my tombstone.

Oscar and his family were a treat, but even with them we hit conversation dry spots. I played with his kids making Lego houses and guns after a warm Ecuadorian dinner of soup, lentils, rice and chicken. My tent was pitched facing the crashing waves and I passed out thinking about what a wonderfully strange life I am living.
Caption: ¨Cuidad de Manta.¨
Caption, ¨I love this photo. A giant monument in the middle of a glorieta in Manta of a tuna fish and then a can of tuna with a bar code underneith. The tuna is bigger than Shamu. The police were waving at me to move cause I stopped to take this picture in the traffic circle.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

An afternoon beer with Ted

After spending a few uneventful but relaxing days camping in a sleepy tourist beach town called Canoa I decided to head southward. I woke up late because the place I love to eat whole wheat pancakes served with mantequilla de maracuyá and homemade cane syrup does not serve until 9am. On ride days I usually get up at 5am but these pancakes were worth the delay, not to mention they are served with a great bowl of fresh fruit.

Lazily I set off for Bahia because I really wanted to see this gigantic tortoise that made the cruise from the Galapagos to the coast. The sailors would take these defenseless creatures and chuck them in the boat for long sea passages. They could live on their backs for months and would provide sailors with fresh meat later in their journey. Luckily this guy was not eaten and ended up in an ¨Eco-School¨ in a Bahia.

It was a short ride from Canoa to Bahia, 22 km, with a free boat ride over a river estuary. I checked into a 5 dollar hotel, showered up, and then ate lunch at a place filled with locals. After eating I heard a couple speaking English at a table across the way, which is strange because Bahia is not a major tourist destination. People usually go to Canoa or Montañita.

We chatted it up a bit, and they led me to their hostel while they left to go swim. Lucky for me Ted was sitting out front of the hostel sipping on boxed wine and reading a hardcover book about the history of Latin America before the conquistadors arrived. Upon first glance you know Ted is going to be an interesting guy. At 57 he has a full head of gray hair trimmed into a mullet. A fine specimen: 7.5 on the mullitude scale.

Caption "Ted, the man. And one of those hands of his."

It is just the two of us and we hit it off splendidly because he loves to talk and I love to listen after setting him up with questions that he loves to knock down. Set it up...knock it down.

I started him off slowly talking about boating since he has been on the sea since 13. From there about women, Latin America, America, etc...it goes on, and then he mentioned he had a pension back from his military days. A few minutes later after we had moved onto other topics I brought up his dangling hint again.

¨So, what war did you serve in?¨ I ask knowing full well he is a Vietnam vet.
¨How did you know?¨ he quickly asked with a raised eyebrow and a sideways glance.
¨You mentioned your pension a moment ago,¨ I replied.
He lets out a sigh, his chair squeaks back when he gets up and says, ¨Ah hell. What do you drink?¨
He comes back with a large afternoon beer and more boxed wine. ¨I usually drink rum. Rum is my drink, but today I am drinking wine,¨ as if he has to legitimatize his drink to me. Ok.
¨I served in Vietnam,¨ was his answer from no where.
¨How was that?¨
¨I don`t go there.¨
¨Gotcha.¨ A pregnant pause passes and we sipped our drinks, ¨Being a Vietnam vet do you have a theory of why we were over there?¨
¨It`s obvious, right? To stop the spread of Communism. If Vietnam fell then they would have all fallen to Communism, right?¨ he says with a sarcastic smile.
¨So why do you think it was if it was not that? Personally I think it was money. The USA needs to keep the military industrial complex going or our economy will disappear,¨ I realized I should not have said anything so he could have talked freely without being influenced but I felt I had to add something to the conversation.
¨Ya, that too, but you know 58,000 men died in that war. Now do you think that Bush would be in office today if those 58,000 men were not killed in action? They killed those good men to keep themselves in power, THAT is why we were sent to Vietnam,¨was his adamant response.
I wanted to ask him if Bush won by 58,000 votes or if they checked whether they guys that were killed we registered Democrats or Republicans, but I knew he had lost his mind and I decided to pass on rilling him up.

We changed the topic and he changed his drink to a rum, his favorite. We kept talking, only to be interrupted by him from time to time making loud inappropriate English comments to the trunky Ecuadorian women walking by. They do not understand a word he says but they know enough not to look his way.

Next he goes into a nice piece about a guy that owns an electronics store in town. I will summarize it for you. Basically the very nice man, who is friends with Ted over the past 4 years, would take his shop's earnings every Monday to the bank after work. That, according to Ted, was his first mistake. Two Colombians guys came up to him one Monday evening and demanded the money but the owner would not give it up without a fight. 4 shots to the belly later and the Colombians are off and running with the cash. They end up on a public bus and decide to rob them all as well. In the may-lay that ensued, somehow, the men were unarmed and the police show up and surround the bus. The men are taken into custody in the back of a pick-up truck and driven into the center of town where the mob patiently awaited their arrival. They men are pulled from the truck, doused in gasoline and set on fire. Ted tells this story with the utmost pride and he WISHED he could have been there to throw the match on those guys.

¨How can you be certain that those were they guys? The weapon was never found,¨ was my concerned question.
¨I am certain and I think what they did was 100% right. Those guys, if convicted, would have gotten 8 years and only served 5 years. He was a great great man that they shot,¨ was his passionate reply.
¨Ok, lets say the mob was right this time, but how about a philosophical question,¨ and this I realized was going to fall on deaf ears the moment those words fell out of my mouth, ¨Lets say the mob is right 9 our of 10 times and the 10th time an innocent man gets set on fire. Do you have a problem with that?¨
¨First of all, they had the right men. The guy that poured the gas on the guys saw him pull the trigger, and secondly let me tell you another story... (obviously not answering my question in the least but I am now curious about this new story),¨ Ted makes a long obvious pause staring at the table, he lifts his glass to eye level and says to himself and to the glass, ¨AH, HELL...I told myself I wouldn´t, but the alcohol...¨ and he trails off.

Ted is noticeably restless with himself in the chair, but he takes another sip of rum and starts, ¨35 miles outside Memphis, Tenn was living this sweet blond girl who was a friend of mine. This was in the middle of nowhere. To protect herself I taught her how to shoot a .45. I took her into the woods and got her confident enough to fully unload all the chambers in a crouched position. My instructions to her were to go to a corner and unload.

Well, I got a phone call some time later and I came over to her house. There laying on the floor was a black man filled with bullets and the only thing the girl could say in her shock was, ¨I didn`t know it was going to be so loud!¨ because we had practiced outside and not indoors. Now what do you do in that situation? Call the cops? Hell no. We took him out back and buried him, then replaced the door that had a few bullets lodged in it where she had missed. That is what you do. No questions asked. That poor girl would have gone to jail and what we did was right.¨
I took a look at Ted`s hands. What have those hands done in this lifetime? He has just admitted to a complete stranger after a few hours of conversation that he buried a man, so I am quite certain he has killed. This story was obviously not up for debate whether he did right or wrong. He did the right thing is all he wants to hear, but I cannot help myself, ¨Well, I will tell you right now. I am a pussy. I would not have buried the guy. I would have called the cops and let them sort it out. You did what you thought was best.¨
¨Damn straight, and it was right. That poor girl would have gone to jail.¨
I am thinking a blond girl killing a black guy going into her house in Tennessee would be an open and shut case, but what do I know?

I wrapped up that conversation with a comment about wanting to see the tortoise at the school and I headed off wondering how many people like Ted roam the streets. A lot.

Caption "This tortoise was my excuse for a somewhat graceful getaway from the conversation. He looks like the tortoise from The Neverending Story, right? Look at that wise old eye. His eyes are 105 years old."

Friday, November 21, 2008

Mr.Roger`s Field Trip to an Ecuadorian Prison

Yesterday morning I was carrying a new friend`s bag and hailing a cab in a dream state. Saying a `bye` just 24 hours after a `hi`. A kiss, a door slam and a plume of smoke disappears as if watching a movie in fast forward.

Lazily walking back to my hostel without a single thought in my head I ran into a fellow long haired traveler. ¨Hey, I am going to the Quito prison. Do you want to come? We just need to buy two packs of cigs and we need to hurry because to enter visiting hours we need to be there within 30 minutes.¨

This is traveling life. Whisked away to a new distracting activity before your mind can properly wrap itself around and digest the last one that just took place.

Next thing you know I am in a cab bumping along with two packs of cigs in my pockets and two beers. The beers are for me. The cigs are for the prisoner we are about to visit as a thank you. There is no entrance fee. My British traveling amigo explains to me that he got this guy`s name, Raymond, from Canadian traveler who had been last visiting hours. Twice a month the prisoners can get conjugal visits and once a week they can have family and friends. We are the friends.

Upon arriving we are searched. NO belts, cell phones, lighters. My passport is held at the gate and my forearm is covered in stamps so they know we are only visitors. I am left with 8 dollars in my pocket, my room key, two packs of cigs, two beers in my belly and an overall itchy nervous body feeling about willfully stepping into a prison.

Raymond is there to greet us. In his 60`s he has a full but slightly thinning head of gray hair with a thick yellowed mustache. His jet black eyebrows hang over droopy eyes that crave cigarettes. Raymond`s stooped over posture is that of a man that has spent a lifetime on a bar stool talking about stories with no end and no point.

He greets us in his Liverpool accent and tells us how, ¨I know the guards. He did me a favor to let me down here so I could escort you from the entrance to my room (cell).¨ Raymond shakes hands with the guard in a thankful gesture and the guard ignores him. The metal bars of the gate clank close behind us and now we are in. What the fuq are we doing in here?

It is nothing like I thought. The prisoners are walking freely among the Pabellons (cell blocks). They are not waving at you from behind their barred cells. They are brushing shoulders with you, eyeballing you, trying to extort money from you, and following you around. My only protection is this 60 year old man named Raymond that has spent 2.5 years here and does not speak a word of Spanish.

We spiral up stairs to the third floor. My head is on a swivel and I am not sure if I should be making eye contact or not. Sounds are heard while passing people to let you know they know who you are: frightened little tourists here to take a glimpse at their world. We get to Raymond`s cell. There are no bars. It is a wooden door with vents to let the air pass. Inside it is a very cramped college dorm room. A bunk bed sleeps two, and a third sleeps on the floor. It is claustrophobic, there are 6 guys crammed in there all smoking and socializing. We enter and try to make ourselves comfortable. I find a corner of a bed to take a seat and sit hunched over so the top of the bunk bed does not hit my head. One of Raymond`s roommates, Carlos, hands me a cup of Coca-Cola and a cig. I take both.


We sit and chat for a while. The usual questions: Carlos has been here for 5 years. Most of the guys are here on drug possession (minimum sentence of 8 years), but no one knows what the others are really here for. Sometimes it is found out that the guys are rapists or child abusers and they are ¨dealt with¨. The cliche is true. They are ALL innocent. Both Raymond and Carlos tell us their stories of how they were set up with their bags filled with coke in the airports. A moment later Raymond contradicts his innocence by saying, ¨Shit, they are supposed to help you and your family out if something happens. But nothing! Not even a word from them.¨ Them being the guys for whom he was obviously running the drugs.

The prisoners here have easy access to drugs and naturally, living caged up, start to lose their grip on reality. They have delusions of grandeur both about themselves and psuedo importance of their friends there in prison. Carlos explains that the prisoners run Ecuador from inside the prisons. If the prisoners call a strike the entire country shuts down. ¨How does that happen?¨ I ask.
¨Well, the prisoners kick all the guards out of the prison. Then we shut down the country. We do not do that anymore now because we rewrote the Constitution of Ecuador from inside the prison. The people voted to approve it and we will be out of prison before Christmas¨ Carlos says with raised eyebrows as if to say ¨how about that?¨.
Raymond goes on to tell us that Carlos worked on the legal changes right there in their little cell. Impressive, and unlikely.

Enough of story time hour, it is time to take a walk around the prison. Raymond brings us back downstairs to where you can eat and socialize. There is an eating area that is free. The food is so bad there that Raymond has never eaten the food there once in 2.5 years. To get decent food you have to pay for it. Cells on the bottom floor have been converted into tiny food stalls. A bakery, a Coca-Cola vendor, fried empanadas, and regular plates of food with rice, beans and carne as you would find on the side of the road. Nothing is provided for. Money is used to buy cigs, toilet paper, laundry, drugs, and betting. We leave the food area and pass a corridor that has cocks in a cages for the weekly cock fights. Now we are outside. This is Pabellon C. This is the nicest Pabellon. In order to get in you need to pay 80 dollars and then 1 dollar a week to keep your ass there. This guarantees you have a room with only three people in it. If you are a drug addict or have little or no cash you end up in Pabellon B or D. There you sleep 6 to a room. I cannot even imagine how 6 fit into a room there. I think it is impossible unless there are two in each double bed.

Outside in Paballon C there are people walking around stretching their legs. Each corner you look to there are shady conversations taking place, overly smooth handshakes and heavy rolled shoulders. The area is no larger than two basketball courts.

¨Now I am going to take you to what we call the machete ward, Pabellon B. Real bad guys there. Drug addicts with weapons. Stay close to me, do not talk or look at anyone. AND do NOT give anyone anything,¨ was Raymond's list of instructions.
¨Huh, we do not have to go there, really,¨ was my British companion´s thought. Mine too but I had some morbid curiosity.
Raymond acted like he did not hear and we walk into Pabellon B. The vibe is distinctly different as we pass the threshold, and in different I mean worse. Not even two steps in and there is a guy poking in me in the ribs asking me for a dollar. ¨No, I do not have any.¨ You know you are not supposed to give the guy anything, but your instinct is to give him something so he will go away. You also hope that the finger will not be replaced with a shiv. Next he trys the Brit. He starts nervously fumbling for some money but Raymond sees what is happening and bitches both the Brit and the crack head out.


The crack head leaves us alone but walks exactly two paces behind us for the rest of tour. I can smell him, like an LA bum covered in piss with sores all over his lips. Raymond points out the first ground floor cell. Here, like Pabellon C, there is commerce on the ground floor, but in Pabellon B it is drugs. You can get a joint for 50 cents, coke for 3 dollars a half gram, and heroin etc. can be purchased. The prison guards obviously get their cut and they turn a blind eye to it all, besides, the prisoners on drugs are probably easier to handle.


Many people buy drugs on credit. The interest rates in prison are steep. 10 dollars today and in two days you need to pay back 20. In two more days that goes to 40. In less than a week you own 80 on your original loan of 10. Trouble comes when you do not pay. As long as you pay you are valuable to everyone in prison. Do not pay and all of a sudden something can go horribly wrong. 10 people have been killed since Raymond has been there. Shot and stabbed. Those caught of killing once in prison are sent to Pabellon F. Luckily they are separated from the others, and right now us.

Coincidentally I am reading Papillon at the moment about the French murderer that escaped from prison two times in the 1930`s and 40`s. It is one of the most incredible true life stories I have ever read, so I have to ask Raymond how many have escaped. 10 people have since Raymond has been here.

Both the Brit and I are ready to get back to the sanctuary of Raymond`s room. Once back in the room I see that the Brit is ready to leave. He is sitting on the bed and nervously fidgeting with his sleeves and clasping his hands. I feel the same way, but internalize it all. Instead I have another nervous cig and wonder if my cold sweat is washing away the visitor stamps on my forearms under my jacket.


Caption: ¨Now I understand why prisoners get tats in prison; I even felt hardcore with these stamps.¨

Sitting in the corner of Raymond`s room is a new greasy curly haired character with caramel skin. Behind glassy eyes he smiles. ¨He is one of the three main mafia bosses here,¨ says Raymond with much respect. ¨You can buy whatever you want from him.¨

Mind you, Raymond just told us a moment ago that a prisoner was caught with drugs inside the jail and was given another 8 years. And that contradicts what he told us that the cops know about the drugs being sold from Pabellon B but do not care because they are paid part of the profits.

¨Do not worry. You will not not be searched on the way out. Only in,¨ reassured Raymond. Ya, fucking hell, right. I am going to take this guy`s word? A man that has obviously made some great decisions up until this point of his life. I think I will pass on buying some coke and pot IN prison surrounded by guards that can arrest you and just keep you there.
I am not sure what is wrong with some of the tourists there but I have heard of them smoking J´s and doing lines with the prisoners and buying stuff. This, in my opinion, is the least relaxing atmosphere for drugs. My heart rate never got below 150 beats a minute while there for the hour and a half, which seemed more like one and a half days. Perhaps they figured they were tourists and nothing can happen to them, but both my friend and I felt the gravity of the situation.

You always know that prison is bad. You think about ¨what if¨ I was there. But once you are inside (and this prison is one of the best case scenarios you can imagine) your body and stomach feels heavy. Heavy with realizing this is their existence. We leave and wander outside, go to bed, and hop on a bus. All the while these guys are still in prison trying to convince themselves that they have it all worked out, have the best protection and friends, and that they will be out by Christmas time (I am sure they said that last Christmas as well...but it was delayed by `lost paperwork´).

We try several times to get up and leave. We have had enough of the tour. Each time we attempt to wrap things up Raymond gives us a ¨Oh, you going so soon?¨ and guilt anchors us there another 15 min before our next attempted escape.

While sitting there waiting for the minutes to pass, small talking, I get the creeping feeling of anxiety walking up my spine. Wanting to leave but held by an unseen hand. I look at each of the guys in the cell, including my friend, and I see that in their eyes as well. There is this pent up energy waiting to be released that has no where to go. They are all mousetraps ready to snap. Raymond`s eyes seem to be more distant now as the time with him passes. He is sitting next to us but he has left us while talking about names of streets in his hometown and watering holes. Hints of his shady past are being mentioned while reminiscing.
¨Why do you like having visitors?¨ I asked him, snapping him out of his ¨stooper¨.
¨It is nice for us,¨ was the simple response. I looked around the room and all the roommates heads were nodding in agreement.

About every 5 minutes there is someone at the door asking Raymond to buy a book or a DVD or some thing or another. The more you buy the more valuable you are. It buys your safety. It is extortion. Raymond has payed 50k dollars in the 2.5 years he has been there but he lives in relative peace for it. Now this time it is a guard asking him to borrow a charger for a cell phone (cell phones can be sneaked in, for a fee). I take this opportunity to stand up and my British friend takes the hint and follows suit. ¨Ok, me must be going.¨
Raymond walks us out. We shake hands heartily and thank God it is us who is leaving and not the other way around. The metal bars closed behind us. On wobbly legs we race down the streets fueled by nervous energy. No cab is needed. We walk as free men on the streets with heavy stomachs back to our hostel bubble.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Jesus versus the devil womb of Cotopaxi

Caption: ¨Cotopaxi in all her hate.¨

Although I was a participant in this epic struggle between good and evil I felt more like an observer. What struggle, you ask? It was the climbing of the 5,897 meters (more than 19,000 feet) of pure evil and the center of hell on Earth that is Cotopaxi.

It all started off innocently enough. Backpackers talk about hiking Cotopaxi as if it were a trip to Disneyland. No one properly prepares you for what awaits. I think this was the first of many traps the Devil laid out for us that we ended up walking right into.

The players:
Jesus aka Drouyn from the land of Oz,

Gigi, Z German the German aka, me and Drouyn.

Gigi was visiting me on the typical one week American whirl-wind vacation. Being a lawyer based in SF this was her longest break from work in over three years, and you could tell. Somehow we decided hiking a mountain would be a good idea and luckily we managed to talk Z German and Jesus into it as well for some companionship on the walk to hell.

We left Baños for a long warm cramped jeep ride up to the refuge camp where we would be sleeping. We were acclimatizing in Baños at 2,000 meters for a few days before, if you can call that altitude acclimatizing. Along the way our driver explained some interesting facts about Ecuador. One, he says all the industrious indigenous people of Ecuador are immigrants from Boliva. All the lazy indigenous folk are native to Ecuador. Interesting fact. Second, the top 2 sources of income for Ecuador are its sales from petroleum AND money sent back home from Ecuadorans working abroad, mainly in Spain. That is insane.

We hike slowly up to the refuge at 4,800 meters to spend the ¨night¨ before hiking up. Arriving at 4pm we quickly eat dinner and go to sleep at 6pm to wake up at 11pm. We were tired due to the long ride and from a lack of oxygen but the cruel joke with the lack of O2 is you cannot sleep even though you are tired. Stacked bunk beds sleeping shoulder to shoulder with over 60 is our sleeping quarters. One of the special added bonuses of the altitude is it makes your intestines freak out. Trying to digest food at this height feels like two hands are kneading your innards and in the process everyone is leaking like a natural gas main. This was hell`s waiting room, and man did it stink.

After ¨waking up¨ at 11:30PM from one of the worst restless and stinkiest nights sleep in memory we all get to enjoy nice cup of tea and a fat throbbing headache. You try to choke down an apple or something even though you have no appetite, bordering on nausea, because you know you need the strength for the climb that awaits. Everyone is clomping around the wood planked floors with their hard plastic hiking snow boots, two layers of pants, three layers of jackets, two layers of gloves and a fleece hoody, snow goggles and a lantern strapped to your head.

At 12:30 we begrudgingly shuffle out the door of the refuge in pitch darkness having no clue what the next hours holds in store for us. Here is where there comes a bit of game theory. For each 2 people there is 1 guide. If 1 of the 2 gets sick both people of the group have to return with the guide, UNLESS one of them turns back before they put on their crampons (Metal teeth attached to your snow boots so you can walk on snow or ice without sliding down the hill. They look like you are wearing bear traps on your feet.)

Jesus and Z German are one group and Gigi and I are the second, each having our own guide. As we are approaching the point of no return, where you put on the crampons, Gigi tells me she is feeling nauseous and a moment later my guide says he has never seen anyone walk as slow as Gigi in his 4 years of guiding up the mountain. My fingers are crossed for Gigi to turn around before putting on the crampons because everyone in the group silently agrees there is no way she can make it to the top. Nope, she is putting on the crampons.

After walking a very slow 30 min more I ask the guide if we can make it to the top at this pace, and he flatly says no. So I suggest that just the men go and leave the the other guide with Gigi since she is now wearing the crampons and cannot be left alone. The guide explains he is fine with it but that Z German and Jesus must understand that if one of the three of gets sick we all have to go down since we are roped together in case one of us falls down a crevasse. They luckily agree and this puts pressure on me and places in an awkward position if I am to become ill. Now it would be my fault they do not make it to the top. They guys are cool and once we leave Gigi we excitedly start a jog up the hill to make our summit quest and to make up the time lost. I want to suggest slowing down in order to pace ourselves but I am now the invited guest of the group. I just hope my biker legs and lungs can keep up with their bounding energy.

At first the Devil Cotopaxi tricks us with a nice gradual incline and firm snow. Jesus is gingerly making his way up the mountain as if walking on water. We are in high spirits with our new found freedom and opportunity to make it to the top.

We settle into a good rhythm plugging along with sparse water breaks in the midnight hours. The sky is clear and starless due to the full moon washing them away with her brightness. We still have O2 and energy to enjoy ourselves and look around to appreciate the glacier that surrounds us and the desolate peaks in the distance bathing in the moon light.
Caption: ¨My headlamp lights up liquid life.¨

2 more hours pass smoothly but with strained effort. The devil sees we are approaching.

The next 2 hours becomes a monotonous existence. My reality and field of vision is reduced to the rope between my two bear trapped feet, foot holds in the snow, and the sound of my dry breath going in and out like a steam train.Nothing else exists. I could be on the moon or in a desert or on this glacier. It is now all the same to me. I ask the guide, ¨How much time until we get to the top?¨
¨2 hours,¨ was his reply and the group takes a collective sigh. Sweet Lord, 2 more hour of this?! We were already spent and I could see each of our shoulders, including Jesus`, slump forward. We all juggled the thought of quitting but no one wanted to be the one so we continued. We continued miserably and with far more frequent stops as we approached the summit. Our ice axes were used as canes to slump our bodies over to catch our breathes. The higher we get the thicker and looser becomes the snow. Often you take three steps and fall back two, but you have to quickly recover because you are anchored to the person in front of you. At times you have to take one large step instead of two small ones and this feels as if the Devil has punched you in the gut and takes all your air away. You have to struggle to regain a breathing rhythm or risk passing out.

The closer we get the more I can hear the devil womb laughing. Jesus is carrying the spiritual load of the group and thankfully he calls breaks to spare us all. ¨10 more feet then a break,¨ became our mantra. The closer we get the higher we are with less O2, deeper snow so more difficult to walk, plus each step we take the more tired we are.
Caption: ¨Our guide, and clearly one of the devil`s helpers.¨

Yes, the final hill is in site. We all joyously work our way to the summit and find out, nope! that is NOT the top. We have to go down and around a crevasse then back up another 30min. This is demoralizing. On top of it, since I have been in the caboose position, I am the one to go down along the side of the crevasse first. I took a peak over the ledge, then into Jesus`s eyes, and realized it is an endless pit. At least 7 stories deep. I assume it is Cotopaxi´s butt crack.
Conquering all we make it to within 20 feet of the top, and for some reason my body cannot catch its breath. I try to sync up my breathing to my heart rate, which has been like a hummingbird for the past 6 hours, but I cannot. The group is tugging at my cord, eager to be at the top but my legs are firmly planted and I will not move until I can breath. I can only compare it to running a full speed sprint while standing still and you have that fish trying to gulp air feeling. You cannot take in enough of what your greedy body wants.
Caption: ¨Sunrise view. We earned that monkey.¨

I recover and get to watch Jesus reign over the raging bitchface that is Cotopaxi. Z German also celebrates by collapsing on the summit top and dry heaving for 10 minutes. Oh, success. It tastes so sweet. Jesus is content and I have the face of someone that is getting a hot branding iron shoved up my ass. Not happy. I was envious of Gigi snuggling up in the refuge while we were here. Instant karma, serves us right.
Caption: ¨Type II Fun in progress. I do not recognize myself.¨

Caption: ¨Being a good friend I had to take a photo of Z German dry heaving on the summit. A form of celebration, I suppose.¨

We give each other hard heart felt man hugs. Hugs that I imagine were given after war battles to your friends when you realized you are still alive and you won. The sunrise is amazing. There are clouds but only far off in the distance that add to the landscape and help with perspective. White topped mountains are seen in the distance giving their morning stretch and clearin their eyes of clouds. It will be a nice sunny day. We feel like champions.

We made the typical error and used up all our energy for the accent. Resting on the summit we drink water with newly formed ice cubes floating in it and we try to eat frozen Snicker bars to recharge. I was desperately looking around for a teleferico or cable car to get us down. Nope, only the big gaping vagina of Cotopaxi laughing at us while belching sulfur in our faces.
Caption: ¨The sulphur belching devil vagina of Cotopaxi.¨

Time to go down. I tried to butt sled it all the way down but Z German would not have it. He walked down with the determination of Arnold Schwarzenegger. If he walked it made my balls get crushed and tied up in my harness. The truth was at this point I was willing to sacrifice my balls. I was that tired. Jesus too was knackered. He would take two steps, trip over his own feet and go down like a Godzilla character on a building in slow motion, but this happened to all of us at least a few times a minute. The sun was baking our wills and we were ´over it´ and ready to be back in the refuge to complain in comfort.

The guide must have had a hot date because he was eager to get us down and end his shift, but that was not in the cards for him. ¨On the way up, very good. On the way down, very bad,¨ was his honest and correct assessment. We were walking with rubber crutches all the way down. I could hear, ¨Fucking hell. Dammit, Fucking damn it,¨ from each slip and ass slam from the guys behind. I broke out into giggles from sheer exhaustion.
Caption: ¨The sunny and comical rubber leg walk down.¨

I am not sure if this account sounds fun to you. Personally I found not one part of the experience ¨fun¨ or enjoyable. Not the miserable sleep, not the climb up and certainly not the hike down. The only fun there could be that came out of this experience was Type II Fun. Type II Fun is the kind where you are miserable the entire time you are doing it, but you reflect back after some time (in this case perhaps years) and think about the summit or the overall experience and say, ¨That was fun,¨ even though it was far from fun. If you like Type II Fun then the devil Cotopaxi is waiting for you, my personal hell on Earth.
As for me, I made up some new rules. NO more high altitude climbing. NO going above the tree line. I figure if trees cannot breathe then neither can humans.

**note: less than 50% of the people made it up that fateful day

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Border Crossin´

I stayed in Popayán much longer than I had planned, a week longer to be exact, but I had to get over this fever and cold thing. Once that was out of my system I figured, why not stay until Halloween? Nothing could be more depressing than being between here and nowhere during a holiday alone. I stayed to check out the once a year party that all of Popayán talks about the rest of the year. I do not want to go into the boring details but the party was small with alternating bad electronic and salsa music. Regardless we all had fun after getting hopped up on rum and danced the night away. We all paired up that night and I danced the blurry night away with a quintessential ´butter face´ that was as British and young as she was annoying, but when in Rome right? Well apparently they did not get action in Rome because I passed out hugging a pillow that night.


Caption: ¨Halloween: This kid blew me out of the water on the ¨cute-off¨ He is a horse riding another horse.¨

I lack that youthful freshness that I remember once having. There is a doughiness now. The freshness seal of youth has been broken. Perhaps it was drank away or traveled away. It is not necessarily a bad thing either. I enjoy the new stoicism. I find myself relating more to my grandparents. Flashing back I remember bouncing off the walls with energy while they sat in rocking chairs all day for hours and hours while watching life go by. I understand them now. It looks really appetizing. I am not willing to put in the effort with a young lass that does not get me excited. Before it would be ´game on´. You play because there are players.

Then a penny from heaven arrived in the form of an email. It was a message from my friend Gigi that she wanted to meet me whereever I was to have a week long holiday. Awesome. I could use the friendship.

She was down to meet in Quito, Ecuador on the 8th of Nov. That gave me exactly 7 days to get there from Popayán, about 600 up and down and up again kilometers away. It would be a struggle, but I am no purist and I was up for cheating to get there on time. I headed out and burned myself out the first day trying to go 130km. Easy there tiger. My legs were hairy throbbing bags filled with soreness.

The next days were all up, up, up through some hills that made you feel like an ant. I had to crawl up these monsters on what felt like hands and knees. These damn things would not stop. Sometimes it would be 6 hours of uphill. I wanted at least a moments break to feel the wind in my hair, but no.
Caption: ¨6:30Am sunrise riding. Breakfast was a 2 hour hill.¨

So I thought long and hard of why in God´s name am I doing this to myself. To me it seems that in today´s society all is provided for- you have a place to stay, a job to earn money to buy food. You are never ever hungry. I mean hungry in both in terms of food and in a desire to do shit. All is convenient and easy (this is especially true of backpacking where all is provided for you and you don´t even have to work). I think the challenge of today´s comfortable consumer is to create a hunger. I see it in all my friends. Although all is comfortable they have a hunger to explore their world and create things and inform themselves. For me, since I have no talent, my hunger is to challenge myself to see if I can make it up a hill or learn a language that sounded like babble for a year. This act of creating hunger today is what makes life interesting and not just living. It must be the annoying American in me talking right now. I guess you really don´t always have to be doing things.

I pulled up to kilometer marker number 38 and called it a day at a gas station. My legs, and more importantly, my will, was spent for the day. I showered up and watched and listened to a cow chewing grass until the sun went down. Cows are zen. What a bitch to be a vegetarian. My friends always say the biggest animals are all vegetarians, which in general is true, but have you seen what those guys do all day? They stand staring at the grass or a branch of leaves eating 16 out of the 24 hours of the day. It´s insane.

I prefer to eat meat every once in a while. Then, after eating a piece of chicken that really tasted like a burnt bird with a strange tumor growth looking thing hanging off it´s bone and growing into the meat, I started to think. If you eat unhealthy animals, like a chicken with breast cancer or a cow with leukemia do you think that would be bad for you? I was eating a hunk of pig skin that still had hairs still on it. This particular piece of pig tasted really piggy. That did it, my stomach did a half somersault. The thing is I need to eat to keep my gas tank full. There is nothing else to eat but these hunks of sub-prime meat in all these pueblos, rice, beans and fried platanos. I found the secret. Ají picante! You just drown your food in this hot sauce and you can eat the furriest burnt creature without a problem. The only downside is the exit of the spicy on the already tender bottomside from being your only pressure point for 8 hours a day on the bike. As with all things in life, it is going to catch up with you eventually, it is just a matter of time. I figure I am working on good down payment for colon cancer with 4 portions of spicy grilled meat a day and biking. My poor ass is wondering what it did to deserve this kind of treatment.

I finally arrived to Pedregal. Only 40 short and very uphill km from the border of Ecuador. I sat facing the street having my usual piggy tasting pork lunch and I noticed two motorcycle cops madly driving up and down the street. They were swerving here and there with really serious looks on their faces. I saw a car drive by with a mattress on top of it and I did not think of anything. Then another and another one appears- this one right in front of the food stall. The lady chef, who looks and walks a lot like a pig herself, jumps into action and trots over to the car with a knife. People are jumping out of the woodwork to help get this mattress off the car. They lady chef slashes the cords and 4 guys whisk the mattress next door and out of sight. Just then the motorcycle cops are flying up the street and are on the scene. They stop 2 more cars with mattresses. I ask a young lady what is going on. ¨Contraband from Ecuador. A shipment of 35 mattresses was hijacked and they are trying to get them into the city,¨was her story. We had a good laugh. Only in border towns. It´s a cat and mouse game with the people and the cops here. I snapped a few pics and the cops flagged me down. ¨Me?¨ I gestured to myself. Yep, me. They left the illegal mattress-ed car and came over to make me delete the photos. What a shame.
Caption: ¨On the left hand side of the pic you can see the car with the mattress on top. I had to take this picture over my shoulder while walking so the cops would not delete this photo as well.¨

I had a restless sleep that night. It was decided, today would be a rest day and I searched out my first hitched ride of the trip in order to give me enough time to do the border crossing paperwork and make it to Tulcán 10 km inside Ecuador.

I flagged down a pick-up truck and truely enjoyed the one hour freezing ride up the hill that would have taken me a better part of 5 or 6 hours. I have never relished a ride so much in my life. The peaks are so craggy and foreboding that nothing will grow on them in this area except an coat of emerald green and rust colored moss. I noticed the wallpaper on the computer in the internet cafe was of a country road on a barren plain- flat as far as you could see. This must be such a mysterious landscape for them, for people that have never left their pueblo and seen a horizon without a mountain.

Caption: ¨Biking in fog, and then later in the pouring rain. Good times.¨

Well, I made it out of Colombia without a single problem. Out of one frying pan and into another. I am like a piñata of a gringo on a bike filled with bags of money (I literally do have money stashed in each one of my bags incase I lose one I have something in the others). Take a wack and watch the money pour out. I am more suprised that they have not robbed me than they have not. 70% of the people are below the poverty line and are daily looking for a way to fill their and their families stomaches. Why not rob the gringo? Shit, I would. I am more surprised of civil peace than civil war, but people, for the most part, are not pure evil unless they are pushed into a corner and have no where else to turn.

Caption: ¨The Piñata sitting at the equator, I think.¨

**A BREAKING FOX NEWS ALERT**
There have been some recent developments of new muscles on my legs. They were last seen in the inner upper thigh region flanking the testicles. The testies are reported to be quite annoyed by the recent encroachment in their sphere of personal space. Negotiations will be taking place between the two parties in the coming weeks to arrange some sort of settlement. The leg muscles have promised to stop any further growth until after talks have closed.

In other news Obama is our new President.

Other roadside attractions:
Caption: ¨The grounds keeper of the most amazing garden in the cemetary of Tulcán. Notice the cig while working. Nice touch.¨

Caption: ¨The romantic cemetary.¨

Caption: ¨The bumpin streets of Tulcán, Ecuador.¨

Caption: ¨Lunch time.¨

Caption: ¨This fellow American ambassator was very very proud of the tattoo he designed. America, fuck ya! (in the banner it says ¨sit n´ spin¨)¨

Caption: ¨Street art in Baños.¨

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Anal in the name of the Lord

Perspective is everything and it is easy to lose it when you get to wrapped up in your own little world.

I know a couple named Jeni and Jimy (I misspelled their names to keep their identity secret). Jeni was one of those Catholics who followed the word of the scripture to the letter and although she was 27 she was still a virgin, or was she?

Through a firsthand friend source I found out that she was saving herself for marriage, BUT, and this is an important but, they would have anal sex. Hmmm. Ok, I like the religious loop hole. No vagina, but taking it in the ass in the name of the Lord is quite alright.
Caption: ¨One of the churches in favor of Anal.¨

I can see in my mind`s eye a tear welling in the corner of Jeni`s eye as she gives a furtive smile to the cross hanging over her bed as Jimi is hunched over from behind. The Bible is opened on the bedside table with a highlighted passage that reads, ¨Hell hath no fury for the unwed vagina, turn thy other cheeks and endure.¨ Ok, I have too much time to contemplate these things.

Well instead of being wrapped up in a religious world I have been wrapped up in traveler biker world. I realized that I was so focused on biking and all the dangers that come with it that I was missing out on the most important part: the people. I just finished Colombia but I feel as if I did not open myself up to the people as much as I have in past trips and I think this is due to feeling vulnerable traveling alone and trying to create this comfort zone around me. I have managed to build a little wall around myself.

I do not want to be too hard on myself because after all, I am still learning how this bike travel thing works and I think it is natural to start off a bit defensive. I am also sure that I will realize that I have met some great people, although I say ¨hi¨ and ¨bye¨ to them so quickly because I am always moving that I do not get to create strong bonds with the locals.
Caption: ¨I had breakfast in their home. More ¨hi´s and bye´s¨.

All this became even more clear to me when I met Dan yesterday in the Ecuadorian border town of Tulcán. A 50 year old good-hearted affable American who teaches 8th grade. As simple as he is likable. He has been biking 15 months down from Alaska with his dog in tow. He travels slow, takes his time even while speaking, and does not worry about something going wrong until it does.

Caption: ¨Dan, my hero. He bought and biked with 200 USD worth of weed that was the size of two bowling balls all through Colombia.¨

I went over my daily biking routine of taking breaks to eat every couple of hours and his response was, ¨Ya, I do the same thing, but instead of food every few hours I smoke a J. Next thing you know, 3 days later, I am there.¨ This was in reference to his leisure pace of 3 days in what took me 1 to get from Pasto to the border.

He chats with the locals with a child-like innocence and curiosity. No rush, no where to go and no where to be. I realized there was much to be learned from him, as usually seems to be the case with the older travelers I meet. Over a Chinese food dinner we talked about America, travel, life, houses and marriage.

¨How about those views between Popayán and the border?¨ was my open ended question.
¨Ya, amazing. I want to write people back home about them but how do you describe it? So I figure why even try,´´ Dan says.
¨Ya, I know what you mean. The hills make me feel like an ant. So why is it you have never been married? Was it because you do not consider yourself the marrying type, or was it a matter of not finding the right lady?¨ I asked him.
¨Ah, it was me. I couldn´t give up my freedom,¨ was his straight blue-eyed response. ¨I see so often in my friends that they have to be with someone else, jumping from one relation to the next, and I prefer my independence.¨
¨Ya, I think that humans are social creatures though, and it is normal for people to want to be with someone else. After all, you have your dog as a companion on the trip. Everyone needs someone in their life,¨ was my reply.
¨Yep, I don´t think I could have made it 15 months on the road without her. She is old I worry about the black smoke coming out of the buses when they go by. Hell, I can take it. I am a smoker, but I worry about her.¨ Dan cares more about the dog than about himself, that much is clear.

Caption: ¨One of those views. An ant tunnel. Nah, I had to bike through it in pitch darkness.¨

Caption: ¨Big man eating hills. Fun?¨

The conversation continued with moments of over laughing that was needed by both of us. It was a sanity break for us and Southern Cali colloquialisms were thrown back and forth like a game of catch with an American football.

We parted ways with an exchange of emails and a hearty handshake. After this mad 7 day scramble from Popayàn to Quito to meet up with Gigi on the 8th of Nov I am going to take a deep breath and start pulling down those bricks I set up of a wall that does not protect me so much as keep me from even more experiences than what I am already having. Time to make the little world a little bigger.