I was sitting alone eating breakfast, enjoying the Saturday bustle of the street and the people. I didn´t even bring a book. Surfers, tourists, people from Guayaquil, all wander by. A middle aged man, with a big cardboard box under his arm was waving around a large dark crustacean, that looked like a lobster without the claws. Trying to sell his crabby wares to passerbys and shop keepers, various antennae poked out of the box.

And I thought, this is it. This is the essence of South America. A guy with a box of crabs he probably caught himself, waving them in the air and selling them by walking down the street. I´m going to miss that ever so casual take on business and life in general.

Going to Puerto Lopez tonight, to book a whale watching tour for tomorrow. Its the humpback whale mating season, and they breach right next to the boats. Cool!

After that, I head a bit more north to Manta, where I will fly to Quito. That quick 30 minute, $45 flight will save me more than 8 hours on a bus. Yay!

See you all soon!

Those Final Hours remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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But tomorrow I shall rise early, pack, go for a swim at the club, visit Juanita, then head to the airport. Yes, the airport. For $17.85 I am flying to Juliaca (near the Bolivian border) and missing the protesters. Suckers!!! Except the gracious girls at the travel agency told me that the taxi cabs are all protesting tomorrow. Hundreds of teachers yesterday, taxis tomorrow, this is getting old! At first interesting, these protests are now seriously complicating my life. Apparently inflation has been high lately but no ones salaries are going up.

From Juliaca, I will go straight to Puno and spend the night, likely at the hostal Los Uros (this is all for Mom´s benefit, keep track of me! lol...) since the British boys stayed there and it was nice. I shall then proceed to visit the floating islands the following day, either a day trip or overnight. Afterwards, I will take a bus, cross into Bolivia and go to Copacobana. It´s on the south shore of Lake Titicaca and is where you go to travel to the Isla de la Sol, a beautiful island on the lake, the mythical birthplace of the Incas. There´s amazing scenery and ruins to be seen. Again, a day trip or perhaps spend a night in one of the small villages. From there, La Paz. Theres a lot of Incan sites to see around there, some mountains to climb (provided they have adeaquate equipment!) and of course, the highest elevated capital city in the world to explore.

Today, as forementioned, has been nothing but troublesome. All I really wanted for dinner was palta rellena, stuffed avocado, and some sort of main course. But every place was charging 14 Soles for the appetizer! Insane. I knew there had to be reasonable places. After over an hour of searching (I really wanted that stuffed avocado), I found it. Right on the Plaza de Armas, the least likely place- because so central is usually the most expensive- I found a set dinner menu for 10 Soles. Ten Soles ($3) for an appetizer (and palta rellena was on the list!), a main, and a drink of juice or tea. That´s more like it. And the avocado was worth the wait.

Well, I´m off. I need to get to bed early, take more antibiotics, and see if I can ward off this sickness. Wish me luck tomorrow in getting to the airport... damn taxis!

xo

Sarah

On the Road Again remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I shall go swimming. I read in my Lonely Planet guidebook that there´s a club with two pools not that far away. I haven´t done laps in a real pool since I left Toronto, and I dearly love to swim. I have been toting my Nike swimsuit with me for three months in the hope that I can use it. I stuff my suit and towel in my bag and prepare to head out. A quick glance in the mirror show that today I look naturally pretty, glowing skin, sparkling eyes, no spots. I feel it must be a reflection of my inner happiness. No makeup today. I slip on my sunglasses and prepare to face the world.

I shall find a place to stop for breakfast on the way to the club, which is a half a dozen blocks or so from my hostal. Finally I find a local place, breakfast is S/. 2.50 ( about $0.80). Of course there´s no eggs or pancakes... I order something unrecognizable. It comes with juice and fresh buns, and the portion is huge. A plate full of rice and a stir-fry type meat thing, with veggies and everything. Its not my type of breakfast, I´d rather just have some cereal. A young gringo guy comes into the restaurant, asks if he can sit with me- there aren´t very many tables. Of course. A glance at the font on the paper he´s carrying confirms he´s Jewish.

I return to my book. It´s an interesting travellogue from the South Pacific, and often quite funny. A voice interrupts my tranquil reading. "If you´re just going to sit there and read, I can go sit somewhere else." How rude. I didn´t ask him to sit there with me, and yes, I want to read, or else I wouldn´t be reading. But my sunny disposition prevents me from speaking my mind. "Did you want to talk?" I feign interest, asking him where he´s from and how long he´s travelling for, the typical questions. I am usually interested in lots of people, but this rude boy from Israel isn´t one of them. I´m miffed my breakfast and book combo has been disrupted. I finish long before he does, but I don´t have the energy to be rude and just leave. I wait till we both finish, pay, and I´m back in the sunshine before I know it. I breathe a cleansing sigh.

I continue to walk down the street. Its busy. Cars whiz by, and as there are rarely and stop signs or lights, they go through the intersections at random. Usually they don´t even bother to slow down, just lean on their horns to announce to the intersecting road of their arrival. I don´t know how there aren´t hundreds of accidents a day. I have seen cars just miss each other by less than 6 inches innummerable times.

I duck into a shop to buy some hair elastics, and a banana for 20 centimos (about 7 cents). It my familiar ritual, eating a banana on the way to the pool, and I don´t know why I didn´t think of it earlier.

Finally crossing the river, I turn right and approach where I instinctively know the club will be. At the gate, two security guards, one male, one female await. In my less than ideal spanish, I convey that I wish to go swimming. The male guard asks for my passport and informs me that he must keep it at the security desk till I leave. I hate leaving my passport anywhere but this is de riguer in many places. I walk with him to the pool, and he asks me the usual questions. "How old are you? Are you married? Where are you from? Are you travelling alone?" Again, I was in too good a mood to lie. I should have told him I was married and travelling with my husband. Oh well.

Gasping in delight when I see the aquatic center, glassed in on one side, and the pool inside looks Olympic size with lanes. But the door is locked. He´s in the midst of banging on the glass when I read the sign posted there. Monday; closed for maintenance. The pool cleaner comes out and confirms.

"There´s another pool on the other side of the club," the guard is telling me in Spanish, " but it´s very hot. Just follow this road around."
Hot sounds okay to me. I set off along the road.

I feel as if I have left the bustling city of Arequipa and stepped into another realm. Palms, plants, vines and flowers are everywhere. The grounds are immaculate. I pass a soccer feild. A squash court. The tennis courts are full with perfectly attired mothers and their equally well dressed pre-teen daughters. Why they aren´t in school is beyond me. Shiny SUVs slip by. Dozens of maintenance men trim hedges into interesting shapes, plant flowers, and till gardens. I see two women washing cars in the parking lot. Benches adorn the parks, and there´s a separate lane on the road for runners, marked with distances in meters. There´s a lot of construction too, another tennis court is having the concrete dug up and replaced anew. Its winter here and they must be preparing for summer season. This place is fabulous, the getaway for rich Peruvians. The sign proclaims: "Club International Arequipa: El Mejor de Peru." The best in Peru indeed. I can´t remember the last time I was immersed in such luxury. All for admission of about $3 for the day, less if you only want to use the pool. I would have felt out of place among such obvious displays of wealth except for one thing: I am a gringo (white) girl. It may not be right, but whites are attributed a high social standing, likely because they assume we are all richer than they. So nobody glared at me in my flip flops, skirt, and casual shirt like they might have at home.

After the childrens playground, I arrived at the pool. Glistening dark blue in the sun... surrounded by an immense concrete patio and lounge chairs, tables, umbrellas and even a stylish snack bar. I tingle with delight; the pool is empty, all mine. I cross the deck and enter the building at the far side. I ask the security guard if I need a ticket, but he just waves me through. Up the stairs, toward the change rooms. Luxury! I feel shy, and proceed with trepidation. Giant black leather chairs and others draped with white sheets, long mirrors, polished marble, soft carpets, perfect plants. Now THIS is a health club. I wander for ten minutes just trying to find some day lockers. I change and reemerge into the cool sunshine.

I select a table, deposit my towel and water bottle, and head for the water. One toe pokes into the shimmering blue depths. Shock. It´s cold! Not just cold, but freezing, way too cold for a swim unless one is insane. Of course. It´s winter. It the pool is not heated, an outdoor pool would be likely only about 10 C, due to the fact it gets very cold at night. A ripple of disappointment flows through me. I sit on the lounge chair for a minute, but its only after 10 am and the air is still cold. I can either brave the water, or go get redressed. I opt for the latter. I can always come back to the temperate pool tomorrow.

I wander back to the front gate, past the smooth running track complete with the red dusty soil, more gardeners, and the club shop. A quick look inside... 20 soles ( about $7) for Roxy and Quicksilver shirts. What a steal! They are so expensive at home. But I don´t need any more clothes... my bag is full enough.

I see the security guard there, and breathe a sigh of relief that I wont´have trouble regaining my passport. He keeps asking me for my ticket. I try to explain to him that I don´t have one, that the water was too cold to go swimming. I show him my dry hair. Finally he understands, and laughs when I tell him how cold the water way. He motions me to wait and enters the little security booth. I think he might be going phone someone about my non-ticket. He emerges with a little peice of paper which he pulled from a drawer. I gasp with horror and recognition. Its my last travellers check, which I had (stupidly!) tucked into my passport. It´s worth $100 US. I thank him profusely. He wants to know what it is. His eyes widen when I tell him. I try to tell him its not real money, its a travellers check and only can be cashed by me. I don´t think he understands, he´s just excited by the fact that its $100. I extricate myself from his enthusiasm- and flirting- and walk back into town. I stop at a little bookshop and buy a kids´"Lets learn how to read spanish" activity book for 7 soles ($2.30). Its got pictures with words, easy sentences, and activities. Its just what I need to up my knowledge.

I find myself in the Plaza de Armas. Its the central plaza to be found in pretty much any Andean town. The Incans started them, the Spanish continued them, and they are just as well used today. Tall palm trees, fountains, flowers, and of course, large walkways and dozens of benches form the theoretical and actual heart of the city. Surrounding the main square is usually the best restaurants with second floor patios overlooking the plaza, shops, and travel agencies. I head upstairs to a promising looking restaurant.

I know many people hate eating by themselves, but I love it. Especially lunch, when the sun is shining, you are more or less outdoors, and alone with your thoughts and/or a good book. I lunched on a fabulous cappucino and an avocado salad... I love the avocadoes here. Their stuffed avocadoes are to die for! I contentedly worked through the pages in my new book even as a protest marched around the square. A quick glance revealed it was nothing big. 50 to 100 people at most. They tried to block off a road but were eventually hustled away. While the other tourists chattered excitedly and snapped photographs, I munched on my salad. I´ve seen burnt out cars, barbed wire, riot police, screaming protesters and smashing glass. This was barely a protest.

Ten minutes after the first protest disappeared, another emerged from down the street. I could tell this one was different just from the loudness of the roar emenating from the bowels of the city. And there they came. I am always surprised at how well the urban protesters are dressed. They all looked business casual, which makes sense, as I later found out they were teachers, protesting their salary of $250-$300 a month. Suddenly I see nine riot police, complete in uniforms with shields, guns, and helmets running alongside the protest. I look up the road. Its been 15 minutes so far but I can´t see the end of it. Hundreds, maybe thousands. The police suddenly split off and a minute later I see them standing guard outside one of the long white buildings on the other side of the square. Must be a government building. But once they see the protest is not circling the square but turning down a side street, they break up and head that direction.

I pay my tab and emerge streetside. I remind myself, as I have many times before, to NEVER leave my hostal without my camera... this is when I regret it. The protesters are now running in formation, for some unknown reason. I head to the other side of the square, as there is a market I want to revisit. At the corner, there stands the riot police, all nine of them. One of them holds a giant machine gun- the barrel on it is at least an inch and a half wide. I am thankful for my sunglasses, so they can´t see me oggling. I love men in uniform, and besides, riot police are something I don´t get to see much in Canada. Some of them nod and smile at me. Oh, life is grand.

I duck inside the artisan market. The other day with the boys, I found some paintings that my mother would LOVE. But I knew I didn´t have enough time to peruse them properly so I made a mental note to come back when I had a lot of free time. I located them and began to riffle through. So many amazing ones, and very original. I hadn´t seen anything like it. I wanted some for Mom and some for me. The stand was run by an older woman and her husband. I asked her if she made them herself and she beamed a yes. A quick glance on the back confirms this; there are paint smudges and such markings that would not come from mass production. She paints on this solution and when placed in the sun, it cracks. A long time for big cracks, a little for small ones. I am facinated. I finally settle on my favorites and negotiate a deal since I am buying more than one. When I ask if she buys the cracking solution here in Areuipa, her husband pipes up that he makes it. I am even more intruigued.
I asked if it were possible to come by and watch her do it. No, she replied, it is very dangerous. The oil paints are very strong and even wearing a mask you can get ill. Just as well. She probably wanted to safeguard her secrets from the gringo...

Clutching my new artistic treasures, I head for my hostal. A flower shop catches my eye. I am as much a sucker for flowers as I am for a cappucino and tall blond firemen. A single, perfect, long stemmed pink rose captures my womanly heart. Its smells unbelievable. Its mine for 3 soles ($1). I vow to carry it around with me for the rest of the day, no matter how silly I look. A woman not much older than I, smartly dressed in office clothes, beams a giant grin my direction. Its a flash of understanding, across languages and cultures. She´d carry a pink rose with her too.

I duck to the hostal to pick up my camera and head down the street. There´s a giant convent, the size of several city blocks, with imposing high walls, just west of where I am staying. It was completely closed off to the public for the first 400 years, where the nuns lived in complete seclusion, and was forced by the governement to open to tourism in 1970. I think its a shame the government can force a sacred, religious place to open to tourists, but that wasn´t going to stop me from seeing it. The damage had already been done. The admission was 30 soles ($10), and a bit steep, but the proceeds keep the convent running, support the remaining two dozen nuns, and besides, my guidebook said this was unmissable.

I spent what seemed to be an eternity wandering. Tiny streets, basic rooms, gorgeous flowers and gardens, and a ton of religious artwork were everywhere. The white blocks they built the convent with are volcanic in origin very beautiful. Some rooms were white, others a eretheral blue, others a warm ochre. Unbelievable colors.

I finally wandered into several giant rooms holding dozens of religious paintings. Many were paintings of Christ, doing miracles, preaching, and the ever so popular torturous crucifixion. Most of the everyday life of Christ painting featured him in not more than a tiny loincloth, with a tanned, perfectly muscled chest complete with a six-pack. I could not understand this for two reasons; one, they wore clothes back then, they really did. And secondly, likely due to my twisted sense of humour, why were they displaying the male body in such a sexual way to nuns who had taken a vow of abstinence? I thought if it were me, and I had to look at such amazingly portrayed male bodies all day, I think I might jump the gardener. What kind of cruel joke were they playing on these poor nuns!? Or maybe they were above such earthly desires...

Back in the real world with my now wilting rose, its time to shed my much loved skirt and don the clothes necessary for the Andean night. My flower nestled in a gadorade bottle and brightening up the bathroom, I headed out, back towards the plaza. Its only 430, a bit too early to eat. What to do?

Sit in the plaza and people watch, of course. I cross the street and immediately notice two things: there are no available seats on the dozens of benches, and there are thousands of pigeons. Why? Aren´t they scared of people? I searched for the reason. They were being fed. Some jumped on children´s heads or ams. One little girl had one clasped to her chest, and as the bird struggled, she shrieked to her mom. I laughed right out loud, and joined in on the fun. A bag of seeds from an enterprising vendor cost me 20 centimos, about 7 cents canadian.

I found a single empty seat on the opposite side of the plaza, ironically beside an older gringo man, and took a seat. Now to feed the birds! They ate right out of your hand and their beaks pinch but don´t hurt.

--to be continued, tired of this internet cafe!

A Day in the Life remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The bus to Copacobana, on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca, leaves from Cusco every night between 8 pm and 10 pm depending on the bus company you go with. I am tempted to just go to the bus terminal and see if there is a bus. Perhaps I can just stop in Puno, on the Peruvian side of lake Titicaca for the night. On and on I argue with myself, is it safe? Will the border open? Will it be really interesting? I don´t want to stay any longer here in Cusco, I have itchy feet.

Hola de Protestas remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So next I am off to Bolivia. I am going to take an overnight bus from Cusco to La Paz, I think, but also may schedule stops in Puno (On lake Titicaca, Peru) or Copacobana, Bolivia, which is still on the Lake Titicaca but is apparently cooler. I hope to climb a mountain in Bolivia, it is cheaper and there are tons of tour places in and around La Paz. Once I get back to Peru I plan to climb El Misti... if I do, I will have climbed higher than anywhere in North America. Cool, huh?´

Oh and out of the hundred(s) or so people doing the Incan trail, and we all left more or less at the same time... I arrived 11th at the Sun Gate yesterday. And the 3rd girl! I ran most of the way, in the dark, along the path that plunges down on one side to the Urumbamba river, up and around stones... it was crazy. When I got to the gate it was just beginning to get light. I have found I have a huge competitive side to me... I was also the first girl in our trek group (total people was 16) to reach the top of Dead Womans Pass, the highest spot on the Incan Trail. And it was HARD.

Well I know this is not in the style of my usual blog...but I have much to do before I catch that 330 train from here in Aguas Calientes back to Cusco. I will write about the Inca Trail later...

bye!

DONE the Incan Trail remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Writing to you from Cusco. Its been good here, met some great people so far. It is a different city from most anywhere in South America- you can buy gucci watches, begels and cappucinos. But some of the streets have Incan stonework and are truly amazing.

Moved hostals today because the other one I was in was too expensive- everything cheap was booked for the festival, Inti Raymi, the festival of the sun. Its Peru´s biggest festival and people carpeted the hillsides to watch the play, performed in Quechua. Of course, we couldn´t understand a word of it. But the costumes and actions were amazing. And sitting on a hillside for five hours with friends and hundreds, likely thousands of Peruvians wasn´t half bad either.

I´ve made friends with a bunch of people who are taking Spanish classes here at a school in Cusco. I´m actually proud of myself that my spanish is comparable to theirs- they have been intensively been studying for two months and I have only been travelling. Every day I feel a lot more confident.

Gotta go now meet my friend for lunchy lunch. ç

HUGZ!

Cusco remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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But I got here to the Loki hostal and they´re working on a waiting list. Which means I am just lurking around for a bit until 1;00 pm which is checkout time. Hopefully someone leaves. If not, I´ll go elsewhere. Not a big deal, but some friends were going to meet me here.

What I really want is a long, hot shower. I did two night bus trips back to back, with about 4 hours yesterday to hang out in Lima. I went to the Lima Museum of Art and it was cool even if it really didn´t have much. But I have been in the same clothes for two days and my hair needs a good scrub too. SIgh.

Then I think I want to go see the Incan museum in town today. Then to sleep, in a real bed, super early. Tomorrow is the festival of the sun! The whole of Cusco parties.

Bye for now!

Now in Cusco remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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It was the first morning in more than a month that I didn´t wake up with the ocean out my window. My habitual morning run instantly became more complicated. I love running along the beach, the sand feels great, the air is cool, and first thing in the morning, there are no people. And I don´t have to wear shoes.

The city changes all that. First, I have to wear shoes. And socks. And its no longer hot, so a long sleeved shirt. The city also adds another dimension. Running along the streets leaves the possibility that I might get lost. So, I draw a basic map and bring some change for a cab if I have to. It jingles in my running shirt´s back pocket as it hits my keys.

I emerge into the bright sunshine and am shocked to see the number of people on the street. Like I said, for the past month I have been on the coast, and in small towns. Towns so small that everyone walks and there are no cars or cabs. I walk a bit from the hostal, trying to escape the clutches of the sidewalk crowds. No luck, I´ll just have to manouever around them.

I run for a bit, on the sidewalk, on the road, dodging obstacles when it hits me. This is really easy. I had forgotten that running on sand is much more difficult, and as a result my legs are stronger than I thought they were. I finally reached a long park, and circled the perimeter before starting back. I love running.

After my (hot! yay...) shower it was time for breakfast and to find a laundrymat. Maybe it´s because Í´ve been in so many super relaxed towns, or what, but all the catcalling hit me hard. It seemed like every car was honking at me. Men walking solo, with friends, with their wives, driving cars or working in shops, hooted, hollered, hissed or whistled at me. They called me lindo, guapa, or other terms meaning beautiful. I can´t remember how many times my butt got grabbed. One guy told me he wanted to make me his wife. God what an honour that would be, right? One little girl, not more than two and half feet tall and probably 4 years old, tapped my arm and tried to sell me some gum. Four hours later, walking along the another street, she appeared again. Her big dark eyes were pleading, and she chattered non stop trying to sell her gum. I wondered where her mother was. She followed me for a full block, I am not kidding you, after I said "No, gracias" a dozen times. I wish I could have helped her, but buying something would only encourage her mother to keep her on the street. What a life.

I decided to head up the street to check out the large market. Apparently it has a huge section catering to witches and shamans, and sells every type of herb and animal part you can imagine. After walking past a million shoes and clothes, I got to the food section. Dozens of grains, fruits, vegetables and meats. By meat I mean hacked apart animals. I saw chunks of a pig´s head, the hairs bristling in the sunshine, sitting on one woman´s table. Here, in restaurants, when you order something like chicken, it doesn´t come in neatly recognizable peice like at home. There´s no drumstick, wing, breast, thigh, etc. Most often you get a chunk of a part of a chicken, like they just chopped a hunk of the bird with an ax. Which is probably not far from the truth. Most of the time I can´t recognize where it actually came from.

I am always wary in markets, as it is crowded, and easy for criminals to get away. I had my camera with me but in my bag, which was securely across my chest and in front of me. But the plethora of fruits and vegetables where glistening in the sunshine. Anyone who´s been with me to an outdoor fruit and vegetable with me knows... I love photographs of the produce. There´s a ton of them in Florida, too. It must be the artist in me.

I glance around, and bring out my camera. I ask the vendors if it alright to take a photograph. I usually ask, to be polite, and have not once yet been refused. A few photographs and a friendly looking middle aged woman comes up to me. She looks concearned. At first I thought I wasn´t supposed to be taking photos. But she goes on and on, and I glean from my meager spanish that it is dangerous here. I thank her and slip it back in my bag. I spy a store selling yarn, and duck inside. I need a crochet hook; I am making some necklaces.

Suddenly two obviously American men, one old and one younger, appear. "Do you speak English?" they ask me. I was standing behind the counter at the time, so I replied "yes, but I don´t work here."
They proceeded to explain to me that the woman across the street had asked them to come and talk to me, since the older gentleman spoke fluent spanish. Apparently there were some men outside who were waiting to rob me of my camera. Great. They told me to be careful, and left. I quickly bought my hook and dashed after them. "Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit?" I´m pretty independant and feel I can fend for myself, but being told there were actually guys outside with the intention of robbing me was a bit unsettling. Better safe than sorry. The older gentleman was an anthropologist working in Bolivia. Dave Holden. I shall read his stuff. Shortly afterwards they had to leave and meet a friend, but okay. I was at the witches market.

It was just like I imagined it. Bunches of herbs hung from every available rafter and lay in piles on the floor and tables. Hunks of animals, skins, and even testicles dangled from the the corrogated steel roofs. Shells, crystals, antiques, cards, candles, feathers, vials of oils, incense, and innumerable odds and ends completed the picture. And I just had to have one. A picture that is. The people here seemed friendly and the "aisles" were smaller. I felt I could safely bring out my camera for a couple shots. I just HAD to!

I wandered up and down the row, looking at everthing. It was pretty facinating, and the vendors were more than willing to show me various things, with very little of the usual pressure to buy. They were just interested in showing stuff to someone so obviously facinated. I was looking at this one vendor, at some of the antique stuff. This younger (28? 30?) man was showing me a few peices. Suddenly he beckoned. To the back room. I knew instantly what was going on. I had showed interest in the archaeological stuff, and he had some in the back. It´s illegal to sell or buy pre-colombian artifacts in South America, but that doesn´t stop the grave robbers. There´s always a buyer.

I thought for a second, and looked him in the eyes. He looked at me right back. I am a pretty good judge of character and I read honesty there. He was not going to rob me. I stepped behind the display and he motioned for me to sit on a stool facing him. And then he drew the curtain leaving us in semi-darkness. He brought out artifacts one by one or in small boxes. They lay jumbled, with no thought of damaging them or preserving their integrity. There was jewelery, whistles, trinkets of every kind. I recognized some things from the Moche and Sikan cultures. Both civilizations were pre-Incan.

We must have spent close to an hour back there, looking at various things. He introduced himself as Alex, and put on an "English" cd, the soundtrack to That 70s Show. It was surreal to be holding a 1000+ year old shawl pin and listening to Gloria Gaynor´s "I will survive". I knew I probably shouldn´t, but even as Wade Davis once wrote, if I didn´t buy it someone else probably would. I settled on three large beads, two with identical etchings. They were made of some sort of very heavy grey stone and had designs carved into them. I recognized the pattern. And surely, it is possible, as my Mom later said, that they were fakes. But the work required to carve such dense stone into that shape and then do the etchings... its not likely. Its much easier for them to rob graves, and thats what they do. There were three bronze pins, for lack of a better term, that I really wanted. They were flat as a peice of paper and each had the figure of a Moche person on them. They were about the size of the palm of your hand and blue-green with age. Alex said they were worn one on the front of each shoulder, and one in the middle of the chest. He didn´t look like the reading type, I was sure they were taken off of a dead body. Turning them over, bits of cream-coloured, loosely woven cloth still clung to them.

I eventually left with my beads and escaped the clutches of the market. I needed to go back to the hostal and pack, then find lunch.

Sorry, JUNIO, to do this again... but TO BE CONTINUED. I have a lot to write but it takes a long time!

to be continued

Harrassment, Moccachinos, and the Witches Market remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I actually cried a little when I left Cabo Blanco, winding up the desolate, barren slope to El Alto, the fishing ships looking smaller and smaller below me, bobbing in the waves. I loved that place. The dusty streets, the friendly children, even the adults. Once suspicious and ignoring me, they had become friendly, protective, and sometimes mothering.

People kept asking me, "Why Cabo Blanco?" It is so far off the beaten path, and no gringos go there. That´s precisely why. And in the five days I was there, I experienced a myriad of emotions. I showered in public showers. I went fishing, and caught many fish. I partied at an 80th birthday party, and drank chicha, the saliva fermented alcoholic corn drink. I swam in the pacific ocean, under the shadow of a giant oil rig. I participated in the filming of a movie, ate, drank, and sunbathed with cast and crew and got paid for it. I slept in an extra room in an old fisherman´s house, and laughed along with his gap-toothed grin at Simpsons in Spanish. I met the Old Man as written about in Hemmingway´s The Old Man and the Sea, and dranks beers with his grandkids. I ate fish barely an hour out of the sea. I posed with locals for photographs. I sunbathed on a boat moored out at sea. I played soccer in the streets with the children. And every morning, while the air was still cool and sweet, I ran along the beach beside the pounding surf. Life doesn´t get any better than this; this is why I chose a tiny fishing village.
___________

Right now I am in Chiclayo. I travelled 8 hours through the desert to get here. I wish I could describe the desert in a way that did it justice. Near Cabo Blanco, it was hot. The hills were etched with the power of sudden rainstorms. The locals told me it only rains once every 12 or 15 years, when the clouds pile up and come over the mountains. But it comes in torrents, and the loose sand and stone on the hills bear the scars. In town, channels are built under the road for such rare but monumental events. The only vegetation to be seen is te occasional scrubby shrubs, more black than green, that exist only on the flat valleys. Some valleys are giant, dominating the landscape, a thousand meters deep. Surely, at one time, water flowed here. Or maybe, it still does, during the rainstorms.

Soon the hills disappear as does the vegetation. I´ve seen the prairies, and thought it was flat. This is something else entirely. Not even an undulation disturbs the flat, ochre surface. Winds wisp sand and grit in waves along the surface. Tavelling further, the sand organizes into dunes. Real, migrating sand dunes. A whole field of them. For countless miles. I sit high in my seat, mesmerized. I remember from Geomorphology. Slip faces. Rates of movement. Orientation to the wind. They are beautiful, like perfect crescents from the ideal bakery. I want to run my finger along the peak of each one.

Hours have passed, and the desolation continues. Suddenly out my windows, I see green trees, palm trees. Green! Its been too long. I think my eyes actually twitch. I can´t fathom the reason. To my left, green trees. To my right, desert. I think I see a stream but I must be dreaming. It gets greener, and I see grass. GRASS! It´s been more than a month since I´ve seen grass. Montañita, too, was on the coastal desert in Ecuador. Something is going on here.
The explanation arrives, but only brings more questions. A giant river. Wide, wide, much bigger than the Ottonabee at home. A huge river running through the desert. Will wonders never cease?

Soon it´s Puira and time for my transfer. Its 1:30- the bus for Chiclayo leaves at 2 pm. Three more hours of desert, tiny black shrubs breaking up the landscape, but no more dunes. THen its Chiclayo. I knew it was going to be so, but it is now cold. I shiver in my shorts. I´ve gone too far south now. I must don pants and shoes for the first time in a month and a half. Horrors.

Well I am going to go now. Almost 9 pm here. Going to go to the market tomorrow am! Shall be fun.

Love and miss you all!

"Been riding through the desert on a horse with no name..." remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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first you held captive
every bite i took
sequestered in the recesses of my loins
until your stockpile grew
to unprecedented size
you reminded me every day
of your evil plan
with aches, twinges and pain
slowly mounting your offensive
the traitor from within

losing patience with your game
it was time for the defence
a tiny white pill
would blast you into submission

for an entire night the battle raged
you gave up your stronghold
but my casualties were large
and the cost great
you became a violent beast
a poisionous snake soaked in battery acid
thrashing, slicing my innards
you do not relinquish your power easily

finally the troops were exhausted
and both sides surrendered to the seduction of sleep
dawn shed light on an armistice
we shared an unsettled peace
both wary of the movements of the other

days pass but the end had not yet come
when suddenly on a grey skied morn
you again took up arms against me
duodenum, colon, villi, all
you seared my innards
with the fires of a hundred suns
confined to cotton and porcelain
i am once again your slave

but the fight in me has gone
and i am weary
lay down your arms!
declare a ceasefire within me
you have beaten me, you have won
i cry out against the never ending torture
the strength is sapped from my limbs

give me the peace i desire
but barely remember
would that you go gentle into that good night
please give up this fight

Lament to the Intestine remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I was standing out there, just watching the sea, when a man wearing a red shirt, on a boat full of people, called up to me. "Tu quieres pescada?" (Do you want to go fishing?) I said yes, so down the stairs to the launch I went.

It seems the guy´s job was a water taxi. All the fisherman moor their boats in the harbour, and this guy circles around and picks them up and takes them back to the peir. They all give him a sole, I think. He was so proud of how much money he is making. A grin on his face, he showed me a giant handful of coins.

He asked me if I would like to go out to see the oil rig, or around the point to see the hotel, Fishing Club, now closed, that Hemmingway stayed at 50 years ago. Away we went, skimming across the sea. I love the ocean. There wasn´t a cloud in the sky, and everything was blue, so much sky and so much water... only a strip of sandstone desert with a tiny little town. The waves were gentle and the motor steady, and I just lay back and relaxed. What a life!

The oil rig, off the coast, was fantastic. Taller than you would imagine, and built of solid steel. The bottom 20 feet was covered in rust, seaweeds and random red crabs that scuttled when you got close.

"Mira, Mira!" He was telling me to look at the base of the platform, near the stairs. A sudden splash and I saw. There were a whole group of sea lions on the stairs! Some sleeping, some just sitting. With their cute noses and whiskers, they looked like really fat cats. The live on the platform, he told me. I was glad to hear some wildlife was actually benefitting from the petroleum industry.

to be continued... i need dinner!

Gone Fishing remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Leaving Ecuador for Peru was (eventually) no problem. On our way out of Ecuador we passed more protesters. This time there was a tank in the middle of the road and I saw four soldiers with giant guns in their hands. Needless to say, we didn´t stop for a photo-op, which would have been cool but unwise! Crossing the border was easy because we were on a really nice bus and they showed us what to do. We had to stop at one checkpoint and get stamped "out" of Ecuador, then drive 15 minutes through no-mans-land before getting stamped into Peru. It was pretty anti-climactic.

I spent my first night in Mancora, a surf town on the coast very similar to Montañita I just left. I didn´t want to be part of that party hardy atmosphere anymore, I want to see the real Peru, not sit with a bunch of gringos every night and drink beer.

I leaved through my guidebook to find a fishing town on the north coast. I was sitting on the beach one day in Montañita watching the fishing trawlers off the coast, and I struck with the sudden desire to be out on the open ocean. So I made it my goal to find a place where I could go out and fish.

So I left Mancora the next morning, and waited by the side of the road with three fisherman. Up and down the Pan-American highway run these vans and trucks that sort of act as taxi-buses. One pulled up and we all piled in. I had nets and weights and buckets thrown on my bag. They nodded when I said "Cabo Blanco" but soon I was standing in a ridiculously hot and dusty town, again by the side of the road. A car would take me further. A traffic coordinator of sorts told me to wait, one of the white cars would leave soon for Cabo Blanco.

So wait I did. Let me tell you, if you are in any way uptight or not chilled or "tranquillo" -meaning calm or relaxed in South America- this place would drive you nuts. There´s no schedules, and no one is ever in a rush to go anywhere. I was hungry, so I stoped by the roadside vendor for some lunch. A plate of rice was covered with a sort of thin stew, potatoes and some unidentified dark meat in a sort of gravy. It was delicious, although after a few minutes the meat, which was springy and kind of soft, like tofu or something, was making me feel a little ill, so I began avoiding it. It cost me 1.50 soles, which is 50 cents. Peruvians use Soles, and you get a bit over about 3 soles for your American dollar, so it works out to be about one dollar canadian for three soles exactly.

After an hour and a half in the blistering sun, with oodles of dust being blown into my face, even I was getting impatient. When was this car leaving? Several times the traffic conductor moved my stuff towards the car, only to find it wasn´t leaving either. Finally, after two hours of waiting by the side of the road, a red car pulled up on the other side of the street, and off we all ran. I was to sit in the front seat with another Peruvian, with four others in the back. Seven in this tiny, tiny little car.

As we wound our way away from the coast and up a steep hill, it became increasingly more desolate. I thought: this is what it must be like on the surface of the moon. It was so dry, nothing grew. Nothing. Not even cacti, which had grown down by the coast. The hills were all this ochre colour, a sort of sandstone in appearance. It was unbelieably hot. The ocean glittered in the distance like a far away aparition. A thrill went through me as I saw, far below, a group of kiteboarders working their way up the coast. And dozens of oil rigs.

We made several stops, emptying out our load of passengers. Finally we entered the town of "El Alto", literally meaning "the tall". It made sense, as we were on the summit of the hill we had spent 40 minutes winding up. I got out of the truck once again. Cabo Blanco was down the hill. Fortunately, this time a truck was waiting there. My stuff went on the roof and I climbed in the cab. Once again we were waiting, waiting for more passengers. But shorty we were off, winding back down the dusty, ochre hill, back towards the coast. Finally we reached Cabo Blanco, the smallest town I´ve ever seen. It was literally only a row of houses, all attached, facing the sea. The town was actually split into two, separated by a point that rose high, with only enough room for a road. A long peir reached into the sea, where about 50 small fishing vessels were moored. We stopped near the peir, in the second half of town. Everyone out.

There was, according to my research, only one hotel in town, a giant cavernous monstrosity that sat right beside the point, in the second half of town. I knew it charged too much money, but no harm in asking. But there was noone there.

Hoisting my giant bag, I wandered town the main street, the only street. I was, at this point, exhausted, thirsty and unbeliavably hot. Who knew noon in the desert could take so much out of you? reaching the end of town and back, twice, took ten minutes. At the end of town, the strip of houses just ended and the rocky desert once again took over. I slipped off my giant pack and let it drop, sitting down by the edge of town. My shoulders were killing me and there were bright red marks where my straps had been. It is much too heavy to be lugging around town. I decided to ditch my big bag, hide it somewhere until I could find a place to sleep. It really contained nothing valuable save my boots and trekking poles. I had already ascertained there was no hostal in town, and the one hotel had noone in it. There was a giant abandoned boat beside the hotel, sitting behing a fence. If I can´t find somewhere to sleep, I´ll just sleep there, I vowed. It might actually be a bit exciting. I ditched my bag near the boat, out of sight, and once again climbed the steps of the hotel to check and see if anyone was there.

This time, someone answered the bell. The cost for one night was too much, something I knew anyways from my guide book. I asked if there was anywhere else in town. Around the point, he said, there is a guy who rents out rooms. But there´s no sign, he cautioned, just ask for the Casa de Mento. I painfully hoisted my bag, winding down around the point, taking the beach route instead of the road.

I asked a man standing there, and he told me to go to the white house right after the green one. I was in the midst of pounding on the door when he frantically gestured for the next white house after the green house. I was lingering outside, unsure if I should knock, when the door opened and a old man emerged. He showed me a room at the front of the house, overlooking the ocean. It was pretty large and seemed pretty nice. He was very concerned that the room didn´t have a curtain for the door, but that was remedied by taking one from the front window.

I dropped my stuff, introduced myself, and that was that. Now, to find food. It was now about 3 pm and a long time since my roadside snack. I went to every restaurant in town, and no one was serving food. Granted, there is only four small places in town, basically women with bigger houses that cook and have a few tables out front. But no one would feed me, and no one seemed terribly friendly. I had no idea why. It was Saturday afternoon, could you imagine anyone turning away customers at home on Saturday? It shows the mindset of South America.

I decided to hit the only store in town. It didn´t have much, but a bottle of water and some junk food might tide me over until they decided I wasn´t a leper. As I was about to go in, an SUV and some seriously fit blond boys jumped out and went in. A quick glance at the boards on the roof confirmed: they were the kiteboarders I had seen earlier up the coast. They were headed up to Mancora.

I got some chips and chocolate and headed back to the house. My host, the gentleman he was, was quite concearned I hadn´t eaten. He walked down the road and talked to a woman in a green house. It was all arranged. She would prepare now, and I would eat dinner there around six.

I spent the afternoon wandering around town, out on the peir, and just looking. I met up with the hotel proprieter again, and told him I would like to go fishing tomorrow. He said it shouldn´t be difficult, just to go out on the peir tomorrow morning, for about 10 soles (just over $3) someone would likely take me out.

The sun was setting over the sea, lighting up the cliffs with golds and reds, the fishing vessels bobbing in the current, and a cooler breeze was blowing when it was time for dinner.

The lady was very sweet, but it still felt a bit weird eating in someone´s house. The dining area faced the sea, and her baby, a curly haired angel, sat in the doorway. Other kids were gathered outside, kicking a soccer ball in the street. It looked like fun.

Dinner was fish, rice, and half a banana, sliced lengthwise and fried. Seemed typical peruvian and ecuadorian, even. The fish was great but I am still not a huge fan of the fried bananas. A girl of thirteen or fourteen, shyly came up to the table to show me the earrings she had made and was selling. They were so pretty, with bits of shells, some dyed and some plain, in interesting designs. I could imagine her spending hours on the beach, scouring for perfect shells. I told her my ears were no longer peirced, but how much were they? Two soles. About 60 cents a pair. I couldn´t resist... I have sisters and a Mom, right? She looked delighted when I bought three pairs... 6 soles, two dollars was a lot to her.

Dinner cost me 3.5 soles, just over a dollar. I went outside where the sun was still lighting up the clouds. Finally, with a place to sleep and food in my belly, I could relax a little. It had been a hard day. I am not ashamed to admit that after the van, car, truck, the waiting, not finding a place to stay, or food, I had been close to tears. But now I was content.

Outside the kids were still gathered. I picked up the soccer ball and soon me and three boys, 8, 10, and 13, were playing barefoot in the street. Its the simple stuff that makes you happy. Working up a sweat playing soccer in the street in your bare feet with bunch of kids, the sun setting and lighting up the boats and the cliffs... can it get any better than this?

Soon we were all sitting on the curb talking. They asked about my family, and I told them the names and ages of all of them (theres four). The girl I had bought the earrings from was named Lady, and she was 14. She is so pretty. Dark, glossy hair and big dark eyes... the face of girl on the body of a woman. When I asked if she had a boyfriend, she giggled like a little girl, but here, girls get married when they are 16 or 17. Such a paradox.

I asked them about school. One of the boys told me it was three hours away. I wondered how they got there, or how often they went, but my spanish language barrier prevented me from asking. Lady said she was almost done school, that she wanted to go to university next year to study medicine. I hope she can go, that she can have a better life than getting married young and just having babies. This town used to be the best fishing spot in the world- but now the townsfolk make only enough to subsist on, none for export. Its no life for an idealistic young girl.

The ten year old boy asked if I was married. Then asked if my 28 year old brother Mike, was married either. I was surprised. He remembered the names and ages of my siblings, from talking 40 minutes ago. I was put to shame. I couldn´t even remember the three boys´names. Such attention to detail and memory... and again, likely no chance for a real education. We take everything for granted at home. A great (comparatively) education system and every luxury in the world, and yet our kids have ADD from too much TV and sugar and no exercise, while kids halfway across the world have nothing but amazing brains.

Anyways, I still have to write about Sunday! But later. Getting bored of this internet cafe. Which is actually just a lady´s house with some computers in it. She´s mopping the floor as I type this.

OH! And the reason I picked this town is that it is supposedly the inspiration for Hemmingway´s " The Old Man and the Sea". And yesterday I met the old man! Which is another story. Unlike the novel, he was 50 when it was written, and is 80 now. He even has a big box of cuban cigars, given to him by Hemmingway, and photos of him and the author. BUt again, another story!

Bye for now.

Cabo Blanco, Peru remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Just thought I would let you all know that I am leaving Ecuador and going to Peru. I am catching the 5 am Montañita to Guayaquil express, which takes about three hours. From there, I will catch a direct bus to Mancora, Peru, another surf town similar to this in N Peru. Of course we will have to stop in Tumbes, Peru, at the border to do customs. I was not nervous about the border crossing previously, but I have heard so many horror stories, it will be a relief to be across safely. I am sure it will be no problem- I am crossing in daylight with a busload of people, and besides, nothing exciting ever happens to me... lol.

Next Stop: Peru remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I Heart Surfing remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Sunday, May 2oth, 2oo7

This afternoon I bought a single white taper from a candle-seller on the street and went into the large, beautiful stone Catholic Church located right on the main square here in Baños.

Mass was being conducted, but people entered and left freely. Babies cried lustily and children scurried around, yet there was still a collective air of reverance and faith that distinguishes a church. I chose a seat close to the front, beside two young adolescent boys, there by themselves.

Standing up in front, a 3o-something Ecuadorian man was speaking. His voice was even and reasurring, reaching even the parishoners in the back via the modern sound system. His hands were outstretched as he spoke of salvation. Even with the microphone, his voice was by no means loud, and the cries a dozen babies and children, the hushed whispers of the adults, and the noise from the street detracted from the sanctity of his message. Behing him, a giant ornamental monument rose. Reaching almost to the ceiling of the enormous church, it resembled a red and gold castle, complete with towers and pinacles. It dwarfed those gathered below. Statues of saints and a large Virgin in the center, completed the scene. Surrounding the altar were red and white candles, and bunches of flowers. A few nuns and priests lingered in the wings, observing the proceedings.

Most of the service was foreign to me, both because it was obviously conducted in Spanish, and because I was raised Protestant. Some things I recognized, the Lord´s Prayer, communion, tithing. I watched carefully, and everyone gave a tithe, even the obviously destitute, tradtionally dressed woman and the two boys beside me. I wondered how much they gave.

Suddenly everyone was turning around to neighbours and friends, and I deduced the priest had asked everyone to greet and meet those around them. Handshakes and sometimes kisses were distributed all around, including me. I was relieved to see I was not singled out, and did not receive a lot of attention during this. An elderly, obviously native woman, her face etched with the wrinkles of a thousand suns, tears wetting her cheeks, reached out over and over again, grasping the hands of strangers as if to squeeze out some human affection. Her tiny stature clad in her traditional blue dress and beads, she continued long after most everyone else had sat back down.

The priest commenced the communion ceremony, himself partaking at the altar. Afterwards, most of the congregation -save myself- lined up the centre aisle to recieve the sancrament. The queue moved briskly. At the very end, and elderly woman with a wreath of white hair, leaning heavily on her cane and the young woman assisting her, made a laboured but determined pilgrimage to the altar. Each few steps came with the price of several minutes. Finally the only one coming forward, and still 2o feet to go, a nun in a black habit swayed forward with the communion.

Kneeling and praying in Spanish, and the service was over.

Worshipers rushed forward. Many carried candles, some photographs of the Virgin, and one man carried a rather large sculpture of the crucifiction of Christ, blood graphically displayed running over his tortured, agonizing body.

A priest in a white robe held a paddle like object filled with holy water. With a flick of his wrist, he sprayed the crowd, blessing the objects held upwards. I stood in the rear, patiently holding my candle and waiting my turn. Several spray ensured both me and my candle were throroughly blessed. Holy water beading on the white wax, I followed the rest of the candle-toting crowd through a side door. We emerged into a hallway the overlooked a square garden in the center of the church. Looking upwards, you could see the second floor where I assumed the priests and nuns resided. The stonework glowed dimly in the sunshine, the garden tangled yet orderly. It was the perfect picture of tranquillity.

But forget religious revererance, it was a shoving match. Unheeding of their neighbours, the parishoners pushed forward towards the long, semi-enclosed area, complete with fume hoods, that housed several hundred candles of all sizes. On one wall, a large relief mural of the virgin, with a giant, erupting volcano behind her, gave a symbolic depiction of what it must be like to be a Catholic in Baños, a town continually threatened but fiery volcanic death. It was evacuated a recently as January of this year, and on clear days, one can see the volcano still spouting large amounts of ash into the blue sky.

I once more waited in the back, content with observing the peole. A native woman, clad in well worn traditional clothing, with a leather face and flashing a grin with yellow, protruding teet that spoke of a lifetime with no dentistry, held the hand of her boy, sporting jeans and a t-shirt, and to top it off, running shoes that flashed little lights as he bounced in place. He looked like any Canadian child. Mother and son, each from a different era, and likely to have completely different lives.

Finally it was my turn. The blood of the fallen candles lay in pools amidst the living, hundreds of mostly white candles of all heights. Some standing, some leaning, some fallen, it looked like a veritable forest. Burning faithfully, they cast a golden glow on the faces of those assembled.

I carefully lit my long white taper, and placed in near the back, in a puddle of wax that would hopefully ensure it would avoid the fate of so many others. I said a prayer for my mother, made the sign of the cross, and retreated.

I found myself suddently back on the street. The harsh light shocked my eyes, and a brisk wind swirled street garbage, papers and leaves. A dozen or more vendors in stalls sold balloons of Songe Bob and Spiderman, trinkets and candy. The chatter of a hundred voices rang through the air. Two policemen, dressed in army-style, grey and black camoflage uniforms, stood unthreateningly on the corner, chatting to passersby. Sitting on a park bench, it took a full ten minutes for my senses to adjust to the new reality.

Sunday in Baños remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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One of the hardest things about travelling is meeting really cool people then having them leave. As a result, all relationships move at lightning speed. You meet cool people, you don´t go out with them that weekend or next week, but an hour later. Suddenly you spend almost all of your time with the same few people. Then as suddenly as you met them, they are gone. I feel a little tired from these little, short, but intense relationships. Everytime someone else leaves (or I leave!) I swear I am going to lie low for a few days and not meet anyone. This happened last when my good friend Natalie, from Montreal, left. I went with her to Guayaquil, then took the bus home from Monañita, sad to lose a good friend and exhausted, looking forward to a good relaxing time on the bus home and some peace and quiet. But it was not to be. I met three gringos before I even got on the bus, Mark from Winnipeg, Ruth from the Utah, and Grett from England. I spent the last three days with them, saw them off on the bus today (they have two weeks to travel north to Costa Rica!) and I am left again today, a bit sad and just mentally exhausted.

So, no moremeeting people! Yeah, right. I´m a bartender for crying out loud.

The second downside of travelling is how sick I have been getting. At home, I pride myself on getting sick only once or twice a year. Here, I get sick once or twice a week, and the other days I feel less than par. I´ve had my job for two weeks but have taken three days off. From extreme constipation to diaherrea, crazy stomach aches to vomiting, I always feel under the weather. I have barely eaten for three days now; as a result I feel really weak, too weak even to grab a surfboard and battle the waves, even though I want to. I am a bit worried about my health- why am I getting so sick?

My boss at work, Melissa, is a dear and she has been really supportive in giving me time off and good advice. She says it is possible I have picked up some sort of parasite- damn amazon!- and she is going to come with me to the pharmacy. Apparently there´s this 10-pìll, three day treatment that kills all of your parasites. She says that it is recommended any westerner living in latin america do this every few months. Hopefully it will do the trick.

I have so much written that I just need to type up on the internet! But it is crazy expensive in this town... $2 an hour, and it takes me usually about two hours to write one of the decent blogs. When I get to a town with a cheap connection, I promise I´ll post some more.

The Downside of Travelling remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Laila piped up: "You know, there´s a lot of signs up around town for people looking for waitresses, you should go check it out." I was more than intrigued. Imagine being able to stay here for a few weeks, surfing and chilling out- which I wanted to do anyways- but breaking even financially or even coming out ahead in the end. Besides working in a restaurant again. Fantastic. But without an ample knowledge of spanish, I didn´t know how I could possibly get a job anyways.

Breakfast ended and we walked Pablo and Laila to the bus and said our sad goodbyes. I will really miss Laila- she was the other girl staying in Molita´s house with me in Arutam. She´s English and has this surprising sense of humour that comes out of nowhere. We´ve spent time in the jungle, in Puyo and Baños, and now in Montañita together, and we´ve become quite close. I will definitely miss her!

Back in town, I decided, on a whim, to pop into the Casa Blanca, the bar/restaurant below the hostal of the same name that had several signs advertising hiring. Incidentally, it was the hostal Cali and I first stayed at.

I thought of the absurdity of it all. The last time I applied for a job, at The Grand, I must have spent an hour on my makeup, another on my hair, and wore a fantastic outfit of pressed black slacks with leather stilleto boots and a well-fitted collared shirt. In short, nothing less than perfectly clean, groomed, and professionally outfitted. To complete the picture, I carried a bold red folder containing a perfected resume and cover letter.

I walked into the Casa Blanca wearing my black short "York U" shorts, a Hollister tank, bikini underneath. I had gone for a run that morning, as I have been doing every day now. Pushing myself, I ran the entire way down the beach and the entire way back, broken only by a single stretch before I returned. Covered in sweat and about to relish that cold shower, I discovered we had no water at all. I used the damp terry cloth and some bottled water to give myself a sort of rub-down. Of course, walking back into town for breakfast along the beach, I completed the look by re-splattering mud all the way up my legs. In short, I arrived to apply for a job a bit sweaty, unshowered, in my shorts that half the time I use to sleep in, my bikini, no makeup, flip-flops and mud splatters, without a resume or other documentation. I love what you can get away with in this country!

After some miscommunication and some gesturing coupled with my Spanglish, I was directed to a cute and friendly looking brunette who introduced herself as Melissa. Yay English! This just got a whole lot easier. I waited at the bar as she kept having to leave, scurrying hither and thither, attending to the employees.

Finally we sat down for a proper (improper?) interview. Not many questions, really. I was expecting the usual "Where have you worked before", but no. I answered, "I am from Canada, I have a lot of experience, I plan to say a couple of weeks, and honestly, my Spanish isn´t very good". She seemed wary of my dubious Spanish, and I don´t blame her. All of the kitchen staff and half of the servers were obviously spanish.

She looked at me, hestiantly, as if she were about to ask a favour. "How soon could you start?"

"Well, today, I guess. I´m just hanging out."

"Okay, we´ll we´re going to be really busy tonight. So come back at 4:00, okay? And earlier if you want a staff dinner, we eat around 3:30. We´ll try it out for a night and see how it works."

I walked out of the bar. It was exactly 1:00 pm. I had a job in Ecuador. Oh and did I mention the pay? For a waitress, it´s $140 dollars a month. Break it down, for a typical 10 hour night shift, it´s 4.50 or 45 cents an hour. Ridiculous, right? To put in perspective though, the average school teacher in Ecuador, considered a well-educated person, earns about $200 a month. Also, not terrible considering the cost of living.

_______

Two and a half hours after I applied for the job, I started my first shift. Things were a bit hectic as it was shift changeover time. Not knowing much spanish made communicating with the kitchen staff especially hard. I was to be helping out behind the bar.

Stepping behind the wood-topped ceramic bar, I met the day bar girl. She is a young middle aged woman, and I would presume also a mother. She has that look. Behind her on the floor slept her oh so cute, very shiny black, baby puppy. He seemed oblivious to the comings and goings, and slept unconcerned. I wondered how she didn´t trip over him all day, and then marveled that here in Ecuador, your dog can hang out behind the bar with you.

A quick scan of the bar, however, revealed it wasn´t entirely backwards. All of the important liquers and liquors were there, including the creme de cacao, johnny walker, absolut vodka, etc.

A guy walked in whom I reconized him from a club I briefly stepped into on Thursday night, because him and his friends seemed to be part of this strange and elite "hot people club". Tall, and very tall considering the height of the locals, he had bleach blond hair that spoke of hours in the sun, and a body that told tales of years on a surfboard. One of the girls with them, a small, very tanned blonde with interesting features and no make-up, was undoubtedly one of the hottest girls I´ve ever seen. She too had the surfer body, not a tiny bit of fat and the leanest midsection you´ve ever seen. I say lean because she was not skinny, per se, but muscular. She was the waitress, and he, the bar manager.

______________

To be continued: my first night bartending in Ecuador!

Gainfully Employed in Ecuador remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Saturday in Baños six of us girls from Arutam, the volunteering in the jungle, decided to go horseback riding. It´ll write more about that later. A four hour ride up the volcanic hills surrounding the town, past waterfalls and farms and gorgeous houses, up to the lookout where you can see the entire city. All for $10 each. And my horse was amazing, much more responsive and better than any other trail horse I´ve used at home.

The ride was almost over when I realized my arms were getting sunburnt. I had thought that since I had been in the Amazon for two weeks and my arms had darkened consideraly, that I wouldn´t really need protection on my arms. I used the sunscreen out of my bag, but it was too late. Wearing a t-shirt, by late afternoon I had a glowing red farmers-burn. Ha ha.

There was too much pain to sleep; I felt like someone had seared my flesh with a hot iron. My skin was unbelievably hot and an angry, angry red. I decided to slather my skin with lotion, until it was white. Then I soaked two tank tops, and tied them onto my arms, using dozens of the cheap hair elastics I had bought in Otavalo. From the innumerable sunburns I´ve experienced in my life, I knew that as the water evaporated all night, it would suck the heat from my skin, and perhaps lessen the pain. Arms bundled like a mummy, I took two painkillers and slept.

The Bad

Two days later, arms still glowing but now also peeleing, Cali, my Calgarian friend and I, decided to take an overnight bus from Baños to the coast. It left at 5:30 pm, and was to go to Salinas in approximately 12 hours, and then from there, we would catch a bus up the coast to Montañita.

We settled in for the long haul. About 2 hours in, I decided it was time for some music. But the knapsack, which had been in full sight the entire time, was suddenly lacking my Ipod. I pulled everything out, certain it had to be there. No luck, it was gone. I have no idea how it happened, or why they did not take my camera and/or money as well. It´s still a mystery.

But it has really made me frustrated.... it´s not the loss of the Ipod itself. It can be replaced, in fact, it is insured. But I am in South America for another two and a half months, and my music is my security blanket. Anyone who knows me me, has seen that I turn music on the minute I walk into a room, when I get up in the morning, when I´m in the car. When I am nervous and my stomach is upset, it calms me. When I am tired it soothes me. But most of all, it is a familiar peice of home when everything you see, eat, smell, and do, is completely foreign.

I still have to report it missing and get the vital police report for the insurers. But there are no police in Montañita; it is too small. I will go to Guayaquil next week.

The Good

We arrived, after a detour into Guayaquil, the largest city in Ecuador, near the Southern coast, in the small hamlet of Salinas, pop 1000. It was 5:30 in the morning and we were completely groggy from intermittent sleep and the jostling of the bus. The bus dropped us off somewhere near the coast, in a sort of industrial/commercial area. There was no one around, not even the dogs I´ve come to expect everywhere.

In a stroke of luck, we managed to snag a solo passing taxi, and asked for the bus to Montañita. We wound up and about, away from the coast, past firmly shut stores and dark deserted streets. It was too far and complicated to have walked, and we were indeed grateful for the taxi. We pulled up in a small little parking lot where three or four dark, small, buses sat. I assumed we would end up sitting there until one of them left, likely for a few hours until the sun rose. A few bus drivers, tired, hardworking, older Ecuadorian men, lounged nearby. We once again inquired for the bus to Montañita. To our surprise, it was leaving in 20 minutes. We climbed aboard.

Another two hour nap and we were jolted awake. We´d arrived in Montañita. Dazed from the sleep, we stumbled off the bus, which disappeared down the road in a swirl of ochre dust.

We walked towards the town. It was now 7:30, the sun well up but hidden by a veil of grey clouds. Where other towns would have been bustling, Montañita still slept. Nary a soul stirred, save the two Canadian backbackers just arriving. Every store was shut tight.

It was definitely a surf town, and we knew it before we saw the Pacific. The buildings all had roofs of thached palm, and bamboo seemed to be a major structural element. I could see half a dozen surf shops, boards and clothing visible through the large windows. Suddenly, two surfer boys appeared, walking down the intersecting street. With lean, perfectly muscled bodies typical of the sport, and boards under their arms. they made a pretty picture. I felt a sudden surge of excitement. I´m going to be surfing before I know it!

Tired of walking with our heavy knapsacks, we picked a fairly reasonable, $7 a night hostal on the main street. Our room had a balcony, complete with hammock, that overlooked the main drag. A row of coconut trees completed the view. Tired, we dropped our bags and slept, the single fan, a real luxury, keeping the heat at bay.

The good, the Bad, and the Terribly Painful remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I have been writing a ton in my journal and I can´t wait to share it with you all but for the meantime I am just posting a bit of an update here.

Kali and I are leaving Baños today to take an overnight bus, about 8+ hours to the coastal town of Salinas. From there we will head to Montanita, the chilled out surf town with perfect beaches and wicked waves. Not a huge fan of long bus rides, but there are no day buses, and at least we´ll save on a night´s lodging. Buses here in Ecuador are very comfortable and most of them have seriously reclining seats.

Very excited to get back on the road... I am a nomad now and I love it!

Talk to you all soon...

Sarah

Heading for the Coast remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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From Baños, we´re going to Cuenca and Ingapirca, where Ecuador´s largest Incan ruins are. Afterwards, we are going to Montanita on the coast. Surf and sand for us!

Well my laundry is almost done. Gotta go!

The Day of Departure remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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This morning it re-surfaced. Sure, I had a place to stay so technically I wouldn´t have to sleep on the streets tonight. But being without money in a foreign country is more than a bit unnerving.

Camilo and I took a taxi from bank to bank, with no luck. I even tried the emergency card my Mom gave me. What kind of Banco International doesn´t take a Canadian cash card? Time was running out, and he had to get to class. I was on my own. I was carrying some things I was going to stash with the rest of my luggage at the Secret Garden Hostal in San Blas. Basically, I am walking down the street carrying two orange bags and a giant blowgun. As if I don´t attract enough attention as is.

I seemed to be in banking alley. One after the other, they were conveniently lined up. And one after the other, they all spit out my card and said something about not accepting the card. I visited more than a dozen banks, and no luck.

With $4, I could get to San Blas where I knew there was a bank, but there was no guarantee I´d be able to get any out. Then I would have too little money to get back to his apartment. For some silly reason, I left my travellers checks in my bag at his apartment. I had had no trouble getting money out in Puyo, the little jungle town. So why here?

I decided, upon my $2 taxi ride´s arrival in San Blas, to head straight to the secret garden to stash my stuff. Then, at least I wouldn´t have to be toting around a blowgun, anyways. I turned up Jose Antepara, and began walking the steeply inclined road up to the Secret Garden. Suddenly, a rattily-dressed, leery looking man spied me and came right for me, at an astounding pace, considering his age. Instinctively, I darted into the nearest shop, a small convenience-style shop. My heart racing, I peeked out the door a few moments later, to discover him still lurking there. Eeep! I waited another few, and no longer seeing him, I followed two clean-cut young men up the street.

Who knows, maybe he was one of those crazy-friendly types and just wanted to chat. But then he would have followed me into the shop, right? I guess I´ll never know, but I am sure following my instinct was the right thing to do; and in doing so I surely avoided trouble.

At the hostal, Brad, the Canadian manager, was not there and Chasqi, the guide who still had my trekking poles, had not dropped them off. Frustrated, and breathing heavily because the the altitude, I stuffed my crap in the corner under the stairs near the rooftop terrace. Mostly souvenirs and extra clothes, there was nothing of real value. Besides, someone could steal it; it couldn´t make my day any worse. I had no money, a broken watch, broken glasses, and was starvingly hungry. Go ahead, it would make my day. I was already broke, blind, hungry, time-less, and if I didn´t find a bank, homeless.

Walking down the street to my last hope, the Banco Pacifico, I fought an inner battle. I had only had two cups of coffee all day; and it was about 5 pm now. I had been awake since 8:30. Justifiably, I was quite hungry. Camilo had made breakfast, which was darling, but I didn´t like the meat (bologna?) in the hot grilled sandwiches, so I told him I was not hungry, and was content with the hot cafe con leche. I had just over $2 left. I knew I couldn´t make it to Camilo´s in northern Quito on that, anyways. Maybe if I found something to eat really cheap...

And there it was. Two women and a deep fryer sat in front of a little cafeteria. Crispy, freshly fried cheese empanadas, twice the size of one of my outstretched hands, glistened and beckoned to me. A quick check of the price; 40 cents. A true steal; it would be an entire meal. Before placing it and a napkin into a plastic bag, the shopkeeper, upon my "si", dusted it with sugar.

It was heaven in dough form. Light and yet crispy, the sugar gave it a taste quite similar to the beaver tails one finds at home, in Ottawa. It was the most delicious street food I´d ever tried, and if it wasn´t for transportation, I could live for days on that $4. Maybe being on your last few dollars in a foreign country, your next meal uncertain, adds a certain flavour that´s impossible to find elsewhere.

The Banco Pacifica was my salvation. I almost wept when the words "Now dispensing your cash" flashed across the screen. Victory was mine!

______________

Some city buses here in Quito beep out a tune. I never noticed it before. Some the same, some different, and for a reason that escapes me. Perhaps it signifies the destination. The funny thing is, one actually emitted "Rudolph the Red Nosed Raindeer" and it seemed to ridiculously out of place, that I laughed right out loud.

______________

Its now 9:45 pm, and the glow of my completely sucessful day flls me. What had started as a nightmare ended as a lofty dream. Tomorrow, at 8 am, Chasqui is dropping off the trekking poles. I found the money, bought a new watch battery ($0.45), new nose pieces for my glasses ($3.00), a duffel bag to leave all my souvenirs at the hostal in ($9.45), and I got 2 GB of photos put onto four cds ($16.00). I had dinner at the Secret Garden as well; coq-au-vin and french onion soup. Camilo had class till late and relaxing in the familiarity of the hostal was exactly what I needed.

Gittin´er done in Quito remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Before the bus even pulled away, there was a native man at my side. I have no idea where he came from or how he got there, but suddenly he was there, hoisting my giant knapsack with ease. Another girl, maybe 10, materialized and picked up my day sack, leaving me to carry only my plastic bag with my rubber boots. It was bewildering but reassuring.

They took me across the road, where I inquired about a bathroom. It had been a long, bumpy ride. Wordlessly, but with a smile, the young girl whisked me across the road and through the forest. I could hear english near one of the houses and knew the volunteers were near.

Afterwards they picked up my stuff, and took me to where I was staying, my habitaçion. It was all a blur. Up some wooden stairs into a room without a door or window, then the disappeared as suddenly as they´d arrived. I was left alone, in a wooden room with two single beds made out of plywood and without mattresses. The door looked out of the family garden, the window, out over the soccer field. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed two giagantic spiders hanging out near the roof. Time for the mosquito net. I unfurled my sleeping bag, and hung my net from a beam I placed across the top of the two walls. I placed my knapsack in the corner and sat. It was completely quiet. It had all happened so fast. I had arrived, and now was sitting in a room in an unknown person´s house. Now what? It was only 6:30 pm.

I sat crosslegged on the bed and reached for my comfort food, sucretes, or frosted flakes. I could see stars and a giant red hibiscus tree out of the door; the clouds had cleared enough to allow the light of the stars. Nothing else to do, I decided I might as well sleep. I crawled into my sleeping bag, under my net, and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

A knock on my "door" and an voice in English woke me, slowly. I attempted to drag my self from unconsciousness. I focused on the words. A girl was standing at my door. "Are you going to come down for dinner? It´s 7:30."

I mumbled something unintelligible as I attempted to clear the cobwebs from my mind enough to formulate an intelligent response. Anyone who knows me and has tried to wake me knows it´s quite the feat. "Umm, sure, that´d be great. Just let me change."

I found myself walking back downstairs, through the hole in the wooden floor with the ladder. The first floor had the main bedroom, where the family lived, and a door to the outside, with stairs. The kitchen, where I was headed, was a half level lower than the main floor, right on ground level. As I grew accustomed to the light emitted by a single bulb hanging in the center of the house, I saw that it was a dirt floor. A table sat in the corner, with benches on both sides. Another corner sported a stove top of some sorts, on a high wooden platform, with two burners. It was attached via a black hose to a canister of gas a few feet away. It looked like the same kind of coleman type stove we would take camping. A few banged-up, well used aluminum pots rested on top. A third corner seemed to be for clean dishes, dirty dishes, fresh fruit, and garbage, all stacked around each other. A group of bananas and plantains lay on the floor.

I sat at the table, where the other girl was seated with a bowl of dinner. A woman, obviously the mother of the house, smiled at me and asked me my name in spanish. She had a baby, a toddler really, and sat with him on her lap. She got up to fill me a bowl as well.

I looked at it. I don´t know what I expected amazonian food to be, but this wasn´t it. It was chunks of potato in a sort of chicken broth, thick gravy. Three minature bananas, cooked, sat on the edges of the bowl. Dinner was potato and banana stew. I started to eat. It tasted as bad as it looked. I gamely tried to eat, not wanting to insult my host. But after getting sick, I really did lack any appetite for this weird food. It was like eating a bowl of mush in mush, pure starchy carbohydrates. It lacked any real taste, and I was thankful for the (dirty) bags of salt and pepper on the table that one could take pinches of. The bananas were not very sweet, more starchy. I´ve read there are about 130 varieties of bananas down here, and they pretty much eat them all. They had a bucket of tea on the table, but it was made with some sort of plant I suppose, which gave it a light green colour. It was bitter and odd tasting.

The lady took the baby up the stairs, leaving us gringos (whites) alone. I said I really didn´t like it, and the other girl said "Oh, it´s pretty good today. At least there´s some kind of sauce!" Uh-oh.
Neither of us finished and we threw the rest to the dogs, which is what they do with leftover food down here.

Afterwards we headed over to the volunteer house, where everyone was hanging out. The house is elevated, and underneath was just beams and a table. Hammocks hung from the beams and gringos filled the benches, playing cards and drinking cervesa, or beer.

Some socializing later, I ended up back in bed, even more tired. Back to sleep.

____________

I awoke the next morning, Tuesday, starving. I was sure looking forward to breakfast! A quick trip to the baños (ban-yos, or bathroom) which was located across the soccer field near the volunteer house, and I was back in the kitchen. I smiled at the lady (a young woman who couldn´t have been much older than me), and tried to make small talk in spanish. Not entirely successful.

A bowl and a mug appeared in front of me. I stared, incredulously. Breakfast was five tiny, hot bananas in a bowl. They appeared to have been boiled in their skins and then peeled and served. They tasted exactly how they looked; like hot bananas, only very starchy and more tough then the ones at home. I sampled the mug. It was a cold banana drink; and tasted like she had mashed up bananas and put them in the cold tea from the night before. Which is likely exactly what she did. She sat at the end of the table, feeding the baby the banana drink. Holding a giant brown bowl twice the size of the little boy´s head, she poured the mash down his throat. He squirmed, cried, but ate. Chunks of yellow banana fell unnoticed onto his shirt.

After she left, we once again threw our bananas to the dogs and ducks, who hung out in the mud behind the house. Guiltily but happily, I thought of my jar of nutella, soda crackers, and half a bag of doritos stashed in my knapsack upstairs.

After breakfast we headed to the volunteer lodge, where we lounged for an hour before the Shuar got there, to organize the day´s activities. Splitting into groups, I decided to go help with the
mirador, or lookout; a house they were tearing down and rebuilding up on the hill that overlooked the the Rio Pastaza and some volcanoes in the distance.

The house, a wooden structure with a palm frond roof, as partially dismantled when we got there. We set to work finishing the job. Once the wet, rotting roof came down, we had real problems. There was a giant ant´s nest inside. Large, quite round, black ants came pouring out of the disintigrating palms, by the thousands. And we still had to drag the pieces of the roof away to various piles; a lot of the wood had to be reused.

I have never been more uncomfortable or close to freaking out ever. The ants were everywhere. They climbed up our boots dozens at a time, and every time we moved a chuck of roof they swarmed us. I had ants on every part of my body; some even crawled into my pants and I found one between my breasts. We often had 20 or 30 on us at any given time. If you squished them in any way, they bit. Hard. I actually undid my pants to flick them out. It was torture; I was losing my mind. As soon as you think you´d gotten them off of you, more had climbed up your boots. They swarmed the ground, making parts of it look like the earth itself was moving. Some of them tried to rescue the tiny white capsules I can only assume were eggs or larvae. We were continually stamping our feet and brushing our clothes in a futile effort to dislodge them. I can feel them crawl on my again as I write this.

An excruciating hour later, most of the ants had run away, leaving only hundreds, not thousands to bother us. But the plague was not over yet. Out came the tiny blackflies. Clouds of them. They went for our eyes; and often flew right in; blinding out until you stumbled around and flicked them out. Some went up my nose. Now we were swatting our clothes, stamping our feet, and waving our hands in the air, while still trying to get work done. We must have looked insane but at that point I almost was. Oh did I mention we found a tarantula in the stuff we were moving too? Peachy...

Eventually we quit for lunch and headed back down to our respective lairs. Lunch at my house was a chunk of cooked yucca (a root which is a staple of their diet; think of a yellow, very starchy, hard, a bit stringy potato.. sort of) and two chunks of some sort of very grey, almost blue, grainy potato. Completely tastless, somewhat dry, carbohydrates in a bowl, this time, no sauce . This is it; I am going to starve in the Amazon, I thought.

Things improved after lunch, I decided not to return to the mirador but stay in the lowlands helping Maria clear a garden. I used a machete to clear grass and leaves and we tried to burn the refuse, not easy to do as everything was pretty damp. I was kind of fun, easy work, just swinging the machete and raking the rest.

Dinner was yucca again, this time in a chicken broth. A bone with a little bit of skin attached was all the chicken we got, apparently they break it and suck out the marrow. Not for me...

Anyways, I have decided to take a proactive approach to the food situation. I am staying at one of the poorest houses in the village; everyone else eats much better. Some get cereal and coffee in the morning! So today in Puyo here I am going to pick up some vegetables and some dried pasta, and I am going to offer to cook a few meals for them. Give them a little taste of Canada, which they may appreciate, and keep me from starving. I worry about my blood iron levels (which tend to always be low, like my Mom´s, which makes me tired) if I don´t get any dark veggies or meat. I know food is supposed to be included- and it is, I guess- but a few dollars on food is not going to hurt and I want to do something nice for the family anyways. Everything we´ve eaten so far has come right out of their own garden; she spent all morning digging up that yucca that I fed to the dogs.

I don´t know if I want to stay a whole month or not. Apparently there is not much work to do volunteer-wise (there´s 16 volunteers right now). We´´ll see if I can study medicinal plants. Tomorrow I want to work in the garden with my host, see what they grow and how the harvest it.

Time to go. Love you all!

Life in the Amazon remains copyright of the author SJS, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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