How does one go...
From waking up each morning on a hay stack bed, gazing up at the half-torn tarp roof clinging to its last fibers, piercing shrieks of hungry roosters in the distance, sixteen worn and scruffy people flung beside you, all crammed in one make-shift bedroom.
To waking up in a king-sized bed, arms outstretched, drowning in a sea of fresh downy-scented comforters. Alone in a bedroom far too big, fan on full blast, the sun gently casting its rays through plantation shutters, the smell of fresh coffee roasting in the kitchen.
How does one go...
From working manual labor all day beneath the harsh sun.. shovels, wheel barrows, bruised knees and elbows, sun-scorched shoulders, sore backs.
To heel clicking through the financial district in the city of San Francisco.. crisp business suit, quick pace, corporate rat race.
From cold showers, pet cockroaches, filthy tap water, constant stomach problems, an inconceivable level of poverty.
To alarm clocks, $5 morning starbucks, four wheel drive, health standards, safe and civil roads.
How does one drift between two worlds and make sense of the vast discrepancy between the two?
How does one go...
From witnessing infinite amounts of gratitude illuminating through the smiles of families who have finally been granted a concrete floor they had been hoping for? And then spending days pouring and leveling that concrete floor for them, while they use the very little money they have to prepare you rice and lentils for lunch to show their appreciation.
To witnessing envy, greed, high stress levels, and the overall feeling by most of just not being good enough, never being quite enough. All the while they're making five or six digit salaries, watching football on their 55-inch TV screens, and ordering extra large pizzas for delivery so they don't have to uproot themselves from their lazy boy couches.
The discrepancies are outrageous. And to shift between these two worlds is anything but effortless.. it is hard, sad, contradictory, enlightening, and frustrating.
We are by no means static. What we subject ourselves to changes us, molds us, hurts us, strengthens us, and gives us hope. Our thoughts, peers, what we hear and what we see. What we watch and what we read. Whether we choose to realize it or not, we take a little bit of it all and carry it with us.
I am a product of both worlds. My heart has grown to make room for all the experiences in my life that I've chosen to keep. Both have molded me and shaped me in a multitude of ways. And which world do I prefer? I prefer the values of the first world. I prefer gratitude over greed, happiness over wealth, liveliness over staleness. I prefer to wake up rugged and hungry for life. I prefer the simplicity, the realness, the raw feeling of energy at the tips of my fingers and toes. I prefer inspiration, spirituality, things that matter. I prefer real people, real hardships, real choices, and real smiles to a life fueled by money and skewed perceptions of who we are and what is important in life.
And sometimes it angers me. I wonder where we went wrong and how we became so selfish. I wonder why people waste their minds and voices on such inane topics, and why we care so much about things that we inevitably have to let go of. I wonder why we self destruct, and why so many people knowingly walk around rich and unhappy. I wonder why it has to be one or the other. And why we can't see what is right before us, how we are so blinded to the fate we have created for ourselves. I wonder why we run in endless circles and can't see that if we just stop and look around, it all becomes clear. All we need to know unveils itself in silence. And I wonder how I, despite feeling and understanding this, can integrate myself right back in with society, like a puzzle piece that went missing but never actually changed its form.
And then, it comes. Like a cool breeze drifting through a cracked window, cutting through the stale air, it settles over me. A quiet, private aura of gratitude and happiness. And I feel relief. I put down the frustrations that I carry, and let go of the misunderstandings and incongruities I've witnessed. And I replace it with gratitude for my perspective. I feel blessed that I have the drive and willpower to have led myself down these off-beaten paths that have ultimately changed me. And I feel happy to know that these experiences are mine for the taking. I will always have them, and nothing will ever change that. My heart has expanded to make room for the people and places that have snuck their way in. And I feel strong. With effort, patience, and lots of compassion, I am learning how to drift between two worlds.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
A Blessing and a Curse: Life as a PSF Volunteer
There aren't proper words to describe my feelings toward a place like Pisco Sin Fronteras. To be a part of it is both a blessing and a curse. It's a place where you walk in the gate a stranger, and leave a changed person with far more attachments than intended.
That's how it was for me anyway. I spent five weeks, six days a week, working beneath the blazing sun performing manual labor. Three weeks prior, I had never picked up a hammer, let alone spent day in and day out building houses, pouring concrete, and constructing fences. It was challenging and more rewarding than anything I've ever done.
Pisco Sin Fronteras is a volunteer organization that was founded after the earthquake of 2007 which destroyed over 80% of the city. The organization focuses mainly on rebuilding the town, residents' houses, along with teaching English to children and other community development work. And the best part of all? They don't charge you an arm and a leg to participate. For under $5 a day, you're provided with two meals a day and a bed. And the meals are amazing. The bed is not.. it's essentially a stack of hay. But we all have to make sacrifices, right?
The attachments I formed were strong and unforgettable. I met the families of the houses I worked on, who would stand around watching us, beaming. They would provide us with a home-cooked meal for lunch, typically consisting of dodgy chicken, lentils, rice, and a whole heap of spicy aji, my absolute favorite. The final week I worked on a woman's house who hand-made some of the tastiest and spiciest aji sauce I'd ever tried. I made such a rave about how amazing it was that the bowl of aji got bigger and bigger everyday: she hand-made extra for me simply because I enjoyed it. How can you not get attached to that? The families are adorable and incredibly grateful for the work we do.
Nobody takes the motto "Work hard, Play hard" more to heart than the volunteers of PSF. Everybody pours their heart and soul into the work they do.. and then don't hesitate to crack open a couple Bramas around the fire in the evening after a hard day's work. This is where some of my best moments at PSF were. As soon as the Pisco sun set (many of which I would climb up on the roof to watch), the night would grow chilly. We would fight the chill by bundling up and having a bonfire in the middle of our courtyard while nursing beers and chatting. Usually it stayed at this mellow level, but every now and again our innocent intentions would turn into long nights out at the local discotecas, which was always a blast. What wasn't a blast was peeling ourselves out of bed at 7:30 the next morning to begin a long day of work with a hangover. Lesson learned? I think not.. Lessons for me don't usually stick until the third or fourth time. Don't judge.
Pisco is not a conventionally "nice" city. The place is broken down, and the dirt roads are piled high with trash. But it's hard not to admire the people of Pisco. They have been through so much, yet radiate resilience and hope. It's inspiring.
We, the volunteers of PSF, live in incredibly close quarters with each other. In my room there were 16 of us, and we all sleep on hard beds made of hay and wash ourselves in cold showers. I grew to like this. We are bonded because each of us are in this together. Nobody is living in luxury, and for the the most part, nobody is getting special treatment. We all live close to the ground, just as we all work close to the ground. There are no contradictions in the life of a PSF volunteer.
So how is it a curse? It's a curse because the work is never finished; there is always another family around the corner living in dire circumstances. It's a curse because I formed attachments to both people and the community, and to part is painful. It's a curse because ever since I left, I have missed it and the work we do. I miss the simplicity of the lifestyle, and I miss the people.
But most of all, I miss the passing spot of time that we all shared between ourselves and with the city of Pisco... a moment that isn't easily explained, but has ingrained itself into my heart, and there is where I know it will remain forever.
That's how it was for me anyway. I spent five weeks, six days a week, working beneath the blazing sun performing manual labor. Three weeks prior, I had never picked up a hammer, let alone spent day in and day out building houses, pouring concrete, and constructing fences. It was challenging and more rewarding than anything I've ever done.
Pisco Sin Fronteras is a volunteer organization that was founded after the earthquake of 2007 which destroyed over 80% of the city. The organization focuses mainly on rebuilding the town, residents' houses, along with teaching English to children and other community development work. And the best part of all? They don't charge you an arm and a leg to participate. For under $5 a day, you're provided with two meals a day and a bed. And the meals are amazing. The bed is not.. it's essentially a stack of hay. But we all have to make sacrifices, right?
The attachments I formed were strong and unforgettable. I met the families of the houses I worked on, who would stand around watching us, beaming. They would provide us with a home-cooked meal for lunch, typically consisting of dodgy chicken, lentils, rice, and a whole heap of spicy aji, my absolute favorite. The final week I worked on a woman's house who hand-made some of the tastiest and spiciest aji sauce I'd ever tried. I made such a rave about how amazing it was that the bowl of aji got bigger and bigger everyday: she hand-made extra for me simply because I enjoyed it. How can you not get attached to that? The families are adorable and incredibly grateful for the work we do.
Nobody takes the motto "Work hard, Play hard" more to heart than the volunteers of PSF. Everybody pours their heart and soul into the work they do.. and then don't hesitate to crack open a couple Bramas around the fire in the evening after a hard day's work. This is where some of my best moments at PSF were. As soon as the Pisco sun set (many of which I would climb up on the roof to watch), the night would grow chilly. We would fight the chill by bundling up and having a bonfire in the middle of our courtyard while nursing beers and chatting. Usually it stayed at this mellow level, but every now and again our innocent intentions would turn into long nights out at the local discotecas, which was always a blast. What wasn't a blast was peeling ourselves out of bed at 7:30 the next morning to begin a long day of work with a hangover. Lesson learned? I think not.. Lessons for me don't usually stick until the third or fourth time. Don't judge.
Pisco is not a conventionally "nice" city. The place is broken down, and the dirt roads are piled high with trash. But it's hard not to admire the people of Pisco. They have been through so much, yet radiate resilience and hope. It's inspiring.
We, the volunteers of PSF, live in incredibly close quarters with each other. In my room there were 16 of us, and we all sleep on hard beds made of hay and wash ourselves in cold showers. I grew to like this. We are bonded because each of us are in this together. Nobody is living in luxury, and for the the most part, nobody is getting special treatment. We all live close to the ground, just as we all work close to the ground. There are no contradictions in the life of a PSF volunteer.
So how is it a curse? It's a curse because the work is never finished; there is always another family around the corner living in dire circumstances. It's a curse because I formed attachments to both people and the community, and to part is painful. It's a curse because ever since I left, I have missed it and the work we do. I miss the simplicity of the lifestyle, and I miss the people.
But most of all, I miss the passing spot of time that we all shared between ourselves and with the city of Pisco... a moment that isn't easily explained, but has ingrained itself into my heart, and there is where I know it will remain forever.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Joy of Border Crossings
Border crossings in South America are not for the weak-hearted. The combination of confusion, paranoia and a fuzzy head from an uncomfortable 14 hour bus ride left me standing somewhere near the Ecuador-Peruvian border in a daze. The sequence of events that led me to this point made it a memorable adventure. And at the end of the day, that's what it boils down to...Another adventure.
There's only so much you can do to prepare for border crossings between underdeveloped countries. Doing it alone as a blonde female, with very little Spanish, adds another level of fun to the mix. There's no chance of blending in with the sea of Ecuadorians and Peruvians.
I left Montanita at the peak party hour of 4:30 a.m. (although I didn't partake in the fiesta, I got my rest so I'd be ready to handle the day of buses changes that would hopefully land me in Mancora, Peru).
So I hop on a bus to Guayaquil, a city I have zero interest in visiting for more than a couple hours. I arrive at the bus station by late morning. It resembles an airport. The place is massive, four stories high, packed with food courts and shops. After searching around and being shouted at and propositioned by loads of bus companies to come to Quito (I wanted to scream "Hell No"), I finally find the bus that will take me to Tumbes, which is the first town in Peru after crossing the border from Ecuador. There are a couple other border crossings, but this is the one I was told was the most straight forward and safe. I buy my ticket for 8 dollars and search for the platform.
I find the international platform, located on the fourth floor, step outside and am hit with a wave of exhaustion. The weight of the humidity along with my backpack immediately makes me break into a sweat. But I sigh in relief, because the bus is in front of me and I'm headed to Peru.
Not quite. Within seconds I'm approached by two policemen.. and then two more, and then two more. They circle around me and ask to see my passport, so I dig through my bag and hand it to them. They look more entertained than anything, flipping thoroughly through each page, scouring each stamp and visa, pointing and smiling and showing the others as if it were a comic strip. They clearly find it very amusing.
When they finish humouring themselves with my potentially suspicious visas, they move on to my bus ticket, and immediately decide they have a problem with it. In quick Spanish that I can't comprehend, the six of them chime in trying to explain to me that there is something wrong with my ticket. But what? I understand them tell me I needed to change it. But why? Not a clue. Something about it is apparently amiss and between their poor English and my poor Spanish and mild nervousness, it was lost in translation.
The bus is scheduled to leave in ten minutes, and I have to get on it if I want to make it to the border before dark.. which is far more preferrable. So, somehow these six Ecuadorian policemen and I need to come to a resolution, and fast. I ask them what I should do. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my forehead and did what I always do in situations like this.. pep-talk myself in my head to remain calm and confident. They asked me where I got my ticket. Let's try the bus station? I told them downstairs at a ticket office. Finally one police officer, with my bus ticket and passport in hand, asks me to follow him. I grab my passport back first, and then agree. I let him take me on a wild goose chase to the ticket company I bought it from on the bottom floor. He cuts the line and proceeds to chew out the ticket guy for a reason I cannot explain. Then, like it was nothing, he simply handed me back my unchanged ticket and said "Esta bien" (It's all good). Really?
As he walks me back to the platform, he casually engages me in conversation.. how I am enjoying my time in Ecuador, how long I am traveling for, why I am alone, the usual banter. The bus leaves in two minutes. I answer his questions in the best Spanish I could, trying to pick up our walking pace.
Finally, back at the platform. I ask the bus driver if the bus is for Tumbes, and he says yes. I put my backpack underneath the bus and climb on. Something feels off. The bus is tiny and scruffy and looks like an inner city bus, which isn't typical for a 9 hour journey. I've learned it's always good to double and possibly triple-check with important things like this, so I decide to ask the girl next to me if this bus goes to Tumbes. She looks shocked by my question. This can't be good. She engages in some commotion with other passengers and then turns to me and simply says "no". The bus driver turns on the engine. Before I can stand up, a man working at the bus station runs on the bus and grabs me and tells me to get off. I comply and follow him off the bus. He asks me where I'm going and I say Tumbes, and he says no buses leave to Tumbes. He asks to look at my ticket. While he's studying my Guayaquil-Tumbes ticket, I glance up and notice all the locals on the bus have rolled down their windows and are sticking their heads out... to watch the story unfold with the confused gringa.
The bus starts to pull away. He tells me to get back on the bus because wherever this bus is headed I can catch another bus to the border. I ask him if he is sure. He says yes, of which I am skeptical. But I have to go somewhere, so I promise myself to be as strong and safe as possible in whatever unknown city I end up in. I get back on the bus, all curious eyes on me, and take a seat in an empty row.
A Peruvian guy a couple rows over tries to get my attention and motions for me to come sit with him. He has aviators on and thick black hair slicked back with what appears to be a gallon of sticky gel. He is wearing a skin-tight nylon v-neck, with army pants and boots. No gracias. He insists. I watch as he kicks out the guy in the seat next to him and asks me to sit wth him. Still, no gracias. But since his English seems decent, I ask the name of the city the bus is headed to. Then I check on a map. Not so bad, looks close enough to the border to figure it out from there. Rico Suave doesn't give up. Since I won't sit with him, he moves up a row so he is closer to me. Then he hands me a binder.
Out of curiosity, I take it from him and flip through it. Not sure how to react.. It's a picture album packed with photographs depicting him and young white girls. They all look like a cross between horrible karaoke shows and mild pedophelia. In every picture there's a row of very young white females, scantily dressed, standing in front of a white wall. They were all the same. And in every photo, he was in the middle with a microphone, looking like a cheap rock star. Before I could figure out my reaction, he was shoving his business card in my face, telling me he is looking for more back-up singers and dancers and would love for me to join his twisted sex-trafficking ring. Again, Rico Suave, no gracias. I give him his binder back, wondering if this really ever actually works on girls... but not until he writes down every contact number on the back off his card and insists I call him. It will "change my life". I bet it will.
Cheap bus rides are never relaxing, but always intriguing. People continuously hop on and off the bus, selling everything from fried fish to jewelery. Every so often someone jumps on the bus and spends 30 mins giving a speech.. either a sob story about how they have no money, or a presentation that resembles an infomercial. One man jumps on in a business suit with a briefcase, and spends the better part of an hour trying to sell the passengers a cure for arthiritis. I thoroughly enjoy it.. I find it fascinating that he is trying to sell arthiritis medicine on a bus, and even more interesting that half the passengers ended up buying it from him.
Time goes by. I hug my purse and backpack to my chest and drift in and out of sleep, waking up occasionally to drunk men stumbling through the bus slurring their words begging for money. I'm shoved up against the window and the sun is scorching through. I can feel my face getting sunburned. The bus driver is cutting back and forth between lanes, overtaking other buses and trucks on narrow one way lanes. Every now and again he jerks the bus back into the lane the moment before a head-on collision. The man in front of me has his seat reclined so far back the circulation in my legs is being cut off and his head is in my lap. I promise myself next time I will opt for Cruz del Sur, the supposed "nice" bus company.
At one point, after 7 hours or so, the bus pulls over on the side of the highway. I look outside and see a small hut across the street. The bus driver rushes over to me and tells me to get off here for my exit stamp. I've read about this. For no other reason yet to complicate things, the place to get your Ecuador exit stamp is 8 km or so from the border. Apparently I'm the only one who needs it, since everyone else remains seated. I dodge across the highway and hand my passport to the man in the hut. He takes his time, flipping through all the pages and having me fill out some forms. I glance across the street and see the bus start to slowly pull back into the street. I ask the visa guy to hurry up, and he does. I rush back across the highway. The bus is already moving again. They love to do this. So I run and jump on the bus, something I've grown quite accustomed to doing this past month in South America.
A little while later, the bus pulls over and announces it's last stop. As I climb off, I have Rico Suave on my back saying I can come with him to cross the border. The bus driver hands me my bag, along with $2.50 for a reason I cannot explain. He tells me to follow Rico Suave. I pocket the money and walk the opposite direction and lose Rico Suave in the crowd. We are near the border. There are markets everywhere and taxi drivers grabbing me trying to get me into their taxi. One of the girls who was on the bus tells me I can follow her to cross the border. I take her up on it. She is with five other Ecuadorians so I decide to go with them. We walk for 15 minutes or so until we see the sign that says "Bienvenidos a Peru" and I can immediately tell we are in a border town. Everyone from young boys to old women are pulling wheelbarrows and carts strapped to their back full of wood, rocks, and all sorts of clothes and jewelery across the border. The streets are lined with men in suits sitting with open briefcases stuffed with money. I decide I'll exhange my money elsewhere.
The six Ecuadorians find a guy who says he will drive us. To where, I'm not sure, but why not, Feels like my safest bet. A little while later we pull up at immigration office. I get my Peruvian visa. He then drives us furthur into Peru, and I realize I have reached Tumbes.
There's always so much hustle and bustle exiting cars in border towns, especially when your backpack is spotted. Men surround us, trying to grab our bags and tell us they will take us where we need to go. One guy grabs my bag. I grab it back and tell him I need to go to Mancora. He tells me he has a van with people who are going to Mancora. I go across the street and buy a ticket to Mancora, then shove in a van with more locals. Again I drift in and out of sleep. We drive down a highway surrounded only by vast desert on each side. The van driver pulls over at one point and jumps out. I turn around to see where he went and notice he has only pulled over to relieve himself behind the van. Gotta love Peru.
After 14 hours and plenty of confusion and entertainment, I can proudly say that I made it. The driver drops me off in the beach town of Mancora.
I've quickly learned that bus journeys in South America are very differemt from bus journeys back home. You never simply jump on at one stop and end up in your promised location. Well, I don't anyway. It's always a real adventure trying to decode what is going on and who I should trust. But, in the end it's always worth it. I always feel very accomplished and relieved when I realize that me, my bags, and my sanity have all made it to my destination in one piece. More or less.
There's only so much you can do to prepare for border crossings between underdeveloped countries. Doing it alone as a blonde female, with very little Spanish, adds another level of fun to the mix. There's no chance of blending in with the sea of Ecuadorians and Peruvians.
I left Montanita at the peak party hour of 4:30 a.m. (although I didn't partake in the fiesta, I got my rest so I'd be ready to handle the day of buses changes that would hopefully land me in Mancora, Peru).
So I hop on a bus to Guayaquil, a city I have zero interest in visiting for more than a couple hours. I arrive at the bus station by late morning. It resembles an airport. The place is massive, four stories high, packed with food courts and shops. After searching around and being shouted at and propositioned by loads of bus companies to come to Quito (I wanted to scream "Hell No"), I finally find the bus that will take me to Tumbes, which is the first town in Peru after crossing the border from Ecuador. There are a couple other border crossings, but this is the one I was told was the most straight forward and safe. I buy my ticket for 8 dollars and search for the platform.
I find the international platform, located on the fourth floor, step outside and am hit with a wave of exhaustion. The weight of the humidity along with my backpack immediately makes me break into a sweat. But I sigh in relief, because the bus is in front of me and I'm headed to Peru.
Not quite. Within seconds I'm approached by two policemen.. and then two more, and then two more. They circle around me and ask to see my passport, so I dig through my bag and hand it to them. They look more entertained than anything, flipping thoroughly through each page, scouring each stamp and visa, pointing and smiling and showing the others as if it were a comic strip. They clearly find it very amusing.
When they finish humouring themselves with my potentially suspicious visas, they move on to my bus ticket, and immediately decide they have a problem with it. In quick Spanish that I can't comprehend, the six of them chime in trying to explain to me that there is something wrong with my ticket. But what? I understand them tell me I needed to change it. But why? Not a clue. Something about it is apparently amiss and between their poor English and my poor Spanish and mild nervousness, it was lost in translation.
The bus is scheduled to leave in ten minutes, and I have to get on it if I want to make it to the border before dark.. which is far more preferrable. So, somehow these six Ecuadorian policemen and I need to come to a resolution, and fast. I ask them what I should do. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my forehead and did what I always do in situations like this.. pep-talk myself in my head to remain calm and confident. They asked me where I got my ticket. Let's try the bus station? I told them downstairs at a ticket office. Finally one police officer, with my bus ticket and passport in hand, asks me to follow him. I grab my passport back first, and then agree. I let him take me on a wild goose chase to the ticket company I bought it from on the bottom floor. He cuts the line and proceeds to chew out the ticket guy for a reason I cannot explain. Then, like it was nothing, he simply handed me back my unchanged ticket and said "Esta bien" (It's all good). Really?
As he walks me back to the platform, he casually engages me in conversation.. how I am enjoying my time in Ecuador, how long I am traveling for, why I am alone, the usual banter. The bus leaves in two minutes. I answer his questions in the best Spanish I could, trying to pick up our walking pace.
Finally, back at the platform. I ask the bus driver if the bus is for Tumbes, and he says yes. I put my backpack underneath the bus and climb on. Something feels off. The bus is tiny and scruffy and looks like an inner city bus, which isn't typical for a 9 hour journey. I've learned it's always good to double and possibly triple-check with important things like this, so I decide to ask the girl next to me if this bus goes to Tumbes. She looks shocked by my question. This can't be good. She engages in some commotion with other passengers and then turns to me and simply says "no". The bus driver turns on the engine. Before I can stand up, a man working at the bus station runs on the bus and grabs me and tells me to get off. I comply and follow him off the bus. He asks me where I'm going and I say Tumbes, and he says no buses leave to Tumbes. He asks to look at my ticket. While he's studying my Guayaquil-Tumbes ticket, I glance up and notice all the locals on the bus have rolled down their windows and are sticking their heads out... to watch the story unfold with the confused gringa.
The bus starts to pull away. He tells me to get back on the bus because wherever this bus is headed I can catch another bus to the border. I ask him if he is sure. He says yes, of which I am skeptical. But I have to go somewhere, so I promise myself to be as strong and safe as possible in whatever unknown city I end up in. I get back on the bus, all curious eyes on me, and take a seat in an empty row.
A Peruvian guy a couple rows over tries to get my attention and motions for me to come sit with him. He has aviators on and thick black hair slicked back with what appears to be a gallon of sticky gel. He is wearing a skin-tight nylon v-neck, with army pants and boots. No gracias. He insists. I watch as he kicks out the guy in the seat next to him and asks me to sit wth him. Still, no gracias. But since his English seems decent, I ask the name of the city the bus is headed to. Then I check on a map. Not so bad, looks close enough to the border to figure it out from there. Rico Suave doesn't give up. Since I won't sit with him, he moves up a row so he is closer to me. Then he hands me a binder.
Out of curiosity, I take it from him and flip through it. Not sure how to react.. It's a picture album packed with photographs depicting him and young white girls. They all look like a cross between horrible karaoke shows and mild pedophelia. In every picture there's a row of very young white females, scantily dressed, standing in front of a white wall. They were all the same. And in every photo, he was in the middle with a microphone, looking like a cheap rock star. Before I could figure out my reaction, he was shoving his business card in my face, telling me he is looking for more back-up singers and dancers and would love for me to join his twisted sex-trafficking ring. Again, Rico Suave, no gracias. I give him his binder back, wondering if this really ever actually works on girls... but not until he writes down every contact number on the back off his card and insists I call him. It will "change my life". I bet it will.
Cheap bus rides are never relaxing, but always intriguing. People continuously hop on and off the bus, selling everything from fried fish to jewelery. Every so often someone jumps on the bus and spends 30 mins giving a speech.. either a sob story about how they have no money, or a presentation that resembles an infomercial. One man jumps on in a business suit with a briefcase, and spends the better part of an hour trying to sell the passengers a cure for arthiritis. I thoroughly enjoy it.. I find it fascinating that he is trying to sell arthiritis medicine on a bus, and even more interesting that half the passengers ended up buying it from him.
Time goes by. I hug my purse and backpack to my chest and drift in and out of sleep, waking up occasionally to drunk men stumbling through the bus slurring their words begging for money. I'm shoved up against the window and the sun is scorching through. I can feel my face getting sunburned. The bus driver is cutting back and forth between lanes, overtaking other buses and trucks on narrow one way lanes. Every now and again he jerks the bus back into the lane the moment before a head-on collision. The man in front of me has his seat reclined so far back the circulation in my legs is being cut off and his head is in my lap. I promise myself next time I will opt for Cruz del Sur, the supposed "nice" bus company.
At one point, after 7 hours or so, the bus pulls over on the side of the highway. I look outside and see a small hut across the street. The bus driver rushes over to me and tells me to get off here for my exit stamp. I've read about this. For no other reason yet to complicate things, the place to get your Ecuador exit stamp is 8 km or so from the border. Apparently I'm the only one who needs it, since everyone else remains seated. I dodge across the highway and hand my passport to the man in the hut. He takes his time, flipping through all the pages and having me fill out some forms. I glance across the street and see the bus start to slowly pull back into the street. I ask the visa guy to hurry up, and he does. I rush back across the highway. The bus is already moving again. They love to do this. So I run and jump on the bus, something I've grown quite accustomed to doing this past month in South America.
A little while later, the bus pulls over and announces it's last stop. As I climb off, I have Rico Suave on my back saying I can come with him to cross the border. The bus driver hands me my bag, along with $2.50 for a reason I cannot explain. He tells me to follow Rico Suave. I pocket the money and walk the opposite direction and lose Rico Suave in the crowd. We are near the border. There are markets everywhere and taxi drivers grabbing me trying to get me into their taxi. One of the girls who was on the bus tells me I can follow her to cross the border. I take her up on it. She is with five other Ecuadorians so I decide to go with them. We walk for 15 minutes or so until we see the sign that says "Bienvenidos a Peru" and I can immediately tell we are in a border town. Everyone from young boys to old women are pulling wheelbarrows and carts strapped to their back full of wood, rocks, and all sorts of clothes and jewelery across the border. The streets are lined with men in suits sitting with open briefcases stuffed with money. I decide I'll exhange my money elsewhere.
The six Ecuadorians find a guy who says he will drive us. To where, I'm not sure, but why not, Feels like my safest bet. A little while later we pull up at immigration office. I get my Peruvian visa. He then drives us furthur into Peru, and I realize I have reached Tumbes.
There's always so much hustle and bustle exiting cars in border towns, especially when your backpack is spotted. Men surround us, trying to grab our bags and tell us they will take us where we need to go. One guy grabs my bag. I grab it back and tell him I need to go to Mancora. He tells me he has a van with people who are going to Mancora. I go across the street and buy a ticket to Mancora, then shove in a van with more locals. Again I drift in and out of sleep. We drive down a highway surrounded only by vast desert on each side. The van driver pulls over at one point and jumps out. I turn around to see where he went and notice he has only pulled over to relieve himself behind the van. Gotta love Peru.
After 14 hours and plenty of confusion and entertainment, I can proudly say that I made it. The driver drops me off in the beach town of Mancora.
I've quickly learned that bus journeys in South America are very differemt from bus journeys back home. You never simply jump on at one stop and end up in your promised location. Well, I don't anyway. It's always a real adventure trying to decode what is going on and who I should trust. But, in the end it's always worth it. I always feel very accomplished and relieved when I realize that me, my bags, and my sanity have all made it to my destination in one piece. More or less.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Montanita... Por que no?
I don't like planning my own travels too much. I believe part of the fun of traveling is giving yourself the freedom to leave a place if you're not into it, or stay longer if you are. I want the chance to choose! One place that stole me away for a quarter of my time in Ecuador was Montanita... the both dreaded and beloved party beach. I heard from other travelers before I went that people either love it or hate it. I had a sneaking suspicion I would love it. And I did. For a week anyway.
Montanita has all the charm and claustrophobic feel of a small island. You see the same people repeatedly. It has that Groundhogs Day feel where each day blends into the next. The beach itself is beautiful and surprisingly very clean, with soft white sand and crashing waves. Vendors walk up and down the beaches in the mornings selling fresh ceviche. Locals as well as dread-locked hippies saunter around trying to persuade you to buy their hand-made jewelery so they can stay in Montanita for one more day. Music blasts from nearly every hut, bungalow, and make-shift bar at all hours. People are so friendly and the whole place has a great vibe.
I've never visited a beach with as much of a party scene as this one. Music bumps from every corner of town from 9 in the morning to 6 in the morning... hardly ever a quiet moment. Every bar and restaurant is open-air with sand and rocks for flooring. People wander around aimlessly in the blazing heat drinking cervezas and wasting their life away, then grabbing their surf boards when waves meet their expectations. It was admirable, the collective dedication to doing nothing.
I adore places like this... for a little while anyway. I was lucky enough to have two friends with me at this point and the three of us had a blast. We lazed each day away on the beach, drinking fruit shakes and capiroshkas, taking ocean swims when we couldn't stand the Ecuadorian sun beating down on us anymore. We watched the sunset every evening. We took breaks in the shade swinging in our bungalow hammocks. We fell in love with latin reggaeton and danced every night away to it. We practiced our spanish constantly to our many willing victims, who would patiently smile and correct us. We surfed. We took daily siestas, spent too much time on la calle de cockteles, and attempted to salsa dance on the regular. We found ourselves at late night beach bonfires and magic shows. We ate great food on the cheap. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we forgot we were supposed to be traveling.
The problem with places like this is that it makes you lazy. We got so caught up in doing "nothing" that doing "anything" sounded like such a challenge. I knew even when I was there that my time in Montanita was something I would always look back on and smile. And I wanted to keep it that way.
I think there's a danger that often places like these wear thin after a while. Seeing so many young people who had been there for years, giving up on showering and turned ultimate-hippie, sitting all day in the sun making bracelets in hope that someone would support their stay in Montanita, I wanted to ask them if it was really so worth it, or if a place like this loses its charm after too many long nights...
But that's not for me to decide. I love my experience of Montanita and enjoyed every loco moment, taking away nothing but a great sun tan and amazing memories.
Montanita has all the charm and claustrophobic feel of a small island. You see the same people repeatedly. It has that Groundhogs Day feel where each day blends into the next. The beach itself is beautiful and surprisingly very clean, with soft white sand and crashing waves. Vendors walk up and down the beaches in the mornings selling fresh ceviche. Locals as well as dread-locked hippies saunter around trying to persuade you to buy their hand-made jewelery so they can stay in Montanita for one more day. Music blasts from nearly every hut, bungalow, and make-shift bar at all hours. People are so friendly and the whole place has a great vibe.
I've never visited a beach with as much of a party scene as this one. Music bumps from every corner of town from 9 in the morning to 6 in the morning... hardly ever a quiet moment. Every bar and restaurant is open-air with sand and rocks for flooring. People wander around aimlessly in the blazing heat drinking cervezas and wasting their life away, then grabbing their surf boards when waves meet their expectations. It was admirable, the collective dedication to doing nothing.
I adore places like this... for a little while anyway. I was lucky enough to have two friends with me at this point and the three of us had a blast. We lazed each day away on the beach, drinking fruit shakes and capiroshkas, taking ocean swims when we couldn't stand the Ecuadorian sun beating down on us anymore. We watched the sunset every evening. We took breaks in the shade swinging in our bungalow hammocks. We fell in love with latin reggaeton and danced every night away to it. We practiced our spanish constantly to our many willing victims, who would patiently smile and correct us. We surfed. We took daily siestas, spent too much time on la calle de cockteles, and attempted to salsa dance on the regular. We found ourselves at late night beach bonfires and magic shows. We ate great food on the cheap. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we forgot we were supposed to be traveling.
The problem with places like this is that it makes you lazy. We got so caught up in doing "nothing" that doing "anything" sounded like such a challenge. I knew even when I was there that my time in Montanita was something I would always look back on and smile. And I wanted to keep it that way.
I think there's a danger that often places like these wear thin after a while. Seeing so many young people who had been there for years, giving up on showering and turned ultimate-hippie, sitting all day in the sun making bracelets in hope that someone would support their stay in Montanita, I wanted to ask them if it was really so worth it, or if a place like this loses its charm after too many long nights...
But that's not for me to decide. I love my experience of Montanita and enjoyed every loco moment, taking away nothing but a great sun tan and amazing memories.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
One week in Quito...
...Is plenty.
There is no denying Quito is a very beautiful city, particularly from above. The city is built on rolling hills, which makes for a gorgeous setting.
However, the horror stories I had been listening to all week from locals as well as fellow travelers on the roof of our hostel is enough to terrify any solo female traveler from grabbing the bull by the horns and taking on Quito. I try to take what people say with a grain of salt, but when every other person is giving you a laundry list of warnings, it's hard not to start nurturing an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You start calculating the odds of safety and think twice before stepping foot outside the hostel doors.
Muggings, theft, crafty techniques the locals use to distract you, taxi cab kidnappings.. the list goes on, but it mostly all revolves around targeting the gringo(a).
I found myself taking a deep breath of encouragement before leaving, and crossing my fingers when entering a taxi at night, hoping he would take me to my destination rather than on an infamous "taxi cab kidnapping". I was getting completely caught up in the warnings, and found myself tensing up as I walked down the street.
Part of it could have been exxagerated. Because that's how it goes.. People never tell you about the time they walked down the street and didn't get mugged, they only tell you those instances where something did go wrong. You only hear the bad stuff. So as it went, I never ran into any problems, nor did I have any close calls... As far I could tell anyway.
All warnings aside, I had a good time. I attempted to eat bbq guinea pig, an expensive Ecuadorian delicacy here, went to the centro del mundo (the equator line), climbed a church and a couple questionable ladders in order to get a 360 view of quito, had multiple cervezas on the roof of my hostel, played endless card games and even learned a couple new tricks, met so many friendly people from all over the world, took spanish lessons at La Pinchinca school (I highly recommend this place.. they are incredibly helpful and patient, and my teacher Rosarito was just a gem), had tons of laughs with Rosarito over things completely lost in translation, made the mistake of bringing up football in a local bar, took a "party bus" solely because it was cheaper, and then got lucky enough to get the dreaded stomach bug from eating some mystery meat. Again. But this time only one day of lying in bed puking. I consider that lucky.
Quito was a good starting point for me, and although I enjoyed parts of it, I was more than happy to pack my bag and book it out of town after a week.
A couple days ago I took a bus to Mindo Cloud Forest, and I can't tell you how amazing it feels to breathe in fresh air and wake up to the sound of the roaring river, as opposed to waking up in a coughing fit from the pollution.
As it goes right now, I am sitting on the edge of my lodge on a wooden bench next to the river and a swarm of humming birds. Crazy to think this is only two hours from Quito. But, I like countries of contrast.. It's nice to experience the diversity.. And for now, I'm appreciating this one.
Some from Quito...
There is no denying Quito is a very beautiful city, particularly from above. The city is built on rolling hills, which makes for a gorgeous setting.
However, the horror stories I had been listening to all week from locals as well as fellow travelers on the roof of our hostel is enough to terrify any solo female traveler from grabbing the bull by the horns and taking on Quito. I try to take what people say with a grain of salt, but when every other person is giving you a laundry list of warnings, it's hard not to start nurturing an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You start calculating the odds of safety and think twice before stepping foot outside the hostel doors.
Muggings, theft, crafty techniques the locals use to distract you, taxi cab kidnappings.. the list goes on, but it mostly all revolves around targeting the gringo(a).
I found myself taking a deep breath of encouragement before leaving, and crossing my fingers when entering a taxi at night, hoping he would take me to my destination rather than on an infamous "taxi cab kidnapping". I was getting completely caught up in the warnings, and found myself tensing up as I walked down the street.
Part of it could have been exxagerated. Because that's how it goes.. People never tell you about the time they walked down the street and didn't get mugged, they only tell you those instances where something did go wrong. You only hear the bad stuff. So as it went, I never ran into any problems, nor did I have any close calls... As far I could tell anyway.
All warnings aside, I had a good time. I attempted to eat bbq guinea pig, an expensive Ecuadorian delicacy here, went to the centro del mundo (the equator line), climbed a church and a couple questionable ladders in order to get a 360 view of quito, had multiple cervezas on the roof of my hostel, played endless card games and even learned a couple new tricks, met so many friendly people from all over the world, took spanish lessons at La Pinchinca school (I highly recommend this place.. they are incredibly helpful and patient, and my teacher Rosarito was just a gem), had tons of laughs with Rosarito over things completely lost in translation, made the mistake of bringing up football in a local bar, took a "party bus" solely because it was cheaper, and then got lucky enough to get the dreaded stomach bug from eating some mystery meat. Again. But this time only one day of lying in bed puking. I consider that lucky.
Quito was a good starting point for me, and although I enjoyed parts of it, I was more than happy to pack my bag and book it out of town after a week.
A couple days ago I took a bus to Mindo Cloud Forest, and I can't tell you how amazing it feels to breathe in fresh air and wake up to the sound of the roaring river, as opposed to waking up in a coughing fit from the pollution.
As it goes right now, I am sitting on the edge of my lodge on a wooden bench next to the river and a swarm of humming birds. Crazy to think this is only two hours from Quito. But, I like countries of contrast.. It's nice to experience the diversity.. And for now, I'm appreciating this one.
Some from Quito...
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