Hey Blogger, what the hell?

So it seems that my bit on Chinese food in Quito disappeared.

If anyone has it saved in their internet browser's history folder, would you be able to send it to me, and I'll repost it?

Sketchy Ecuadorian internet.

In other news, while catching a flight from Quito to Guayaquil in order to catch another flight to Lima, I found myself sitting next to Ecuador's next possible president. The only woman candidate in this race is running on a campaign of improving healthcare and education, while permitting the unbriddled pillage of Ecuador's natural resources by foriegn conglomorates.

Check her out:

Personally, I'm more in favour of this guy. Turns out that I can't vote in the upcoming election, but if I could, I would.

Off to Lima!!

Breaking News: Science proves that Coca Cola cannot cause another 9/11.

More Breaking News: Orwellian security does not yield!

My goodness. The speed of scientific discovery astonishes me. In August of 2006 it was proven that liquids…any liquids could blow up a plane. Now, in September of 2006 it is proven that only a lot of liquid can blow up a plane. As Canada and the U.S. relax travel bans.

Again, the biggest disappointment is the complacency of passengers and the general public, on this one. “Oh, we knew that it would blow over,” some say. So, if we knew that this policy was bull from the start, why do we allow those governing us to remain governing us?

“Why don’t the people in North America do something to change the government, and the way things are?” Jacqueline Rios asked me in the middle of the Amazon.

Okay, now I've really got to stop eating weird shit

In la joya de las sachas, right in the midst of the Amazon, there are a lot of things to be concerned with. Poisonous snakes, deadly spiders, monkeys that steal things from you, rivers that are heavily contaminated from petroleum development, still water loaded with malaria and dengue, and the list goes on.

When you're up against that much, what's a little skewer of giant maggots for lunch? These critters breed inside the bark of a type of palm tree. You search into the trees, find the maggots, bathe them in a pool of water and soap, skewer them alive, and set them on the BBQ. When they start to cook the heat makes them explode from within. Best stand back, because there is nothing worse than boiling maggot guts exploding in your face. After about ten minutes they're reay to go. Just add salt to taste.

They're actually pretty tasty, you know?

You can really taste the BBQ, you know. But the head is almost too crunchy.

And now for a cleansing ale

So that was the maggot adventure. A very tasty dish, actually, no feeling hurt in the process. The Amazon experience was very rewarding in the end, despite the many perils of the jungle.

When I was visiting with the doctors at the public clinic (the only place within 200 km that has free services) the doctors were a bit overworked, and understaffed. Three children were born. It was the 4th child for a woman of 25, and 2nd for a girl of 18, and a 13-year old girl was raped at a party around the new year, and now the child comes into the word.

In the emergency room, there were many different wounds and pains. While taking notes about the whole process, I asked the doctor of she needed some help. I figured, “what the hell could I possibly do anyway.” Sure enough the Cuban philosophy of medicine is to train assistants on site. “Let’s go.” Was the response, and there was me taking off the anthropologist hat and putting on the gloves. We treated an infection from an old woman’s eye, mended a bacterial infection that went about 4 inches under the skin on another guy’s buttocks, and helped to pick pieces of bullet out of a guy who got shot in the foot.

That’s public healthcare for you in Ecuador. You do what you can, and for whom you can, when you can. No questions. It’s a damn shame that there is a philosophy here, that is slowly growing in Canada, to remove resources from a public system, and to ensure that everyone’s right to healthcare begins after a $30 consultation fee (the going rate here in Ecuador, which for people making $100 a month, is not even an option in the wildest of fantasies).

I’d like to personally invite Stephen Harper, Jean Charest, Ralph Kline and Gordon Campbell to come down to the Amazon. Spend some time seeing the benefits of a two tier system in a place that is loaded with wealth (Amazon drives 70% of Ecuador’s economy), and then argue that this should be the case the world over.

For more doom and gloom, check out my post on the New Zealand site:

bloggingitreal.blogspot.com

I actually ate one of these little guys...damn it.

Alex Garcia invited me for lunch. Of course I accepted. We drove about 30 minutes away from Guaranda to a little thatch roof bar. His wife got out of the car, ran up to the cook and ordered four bowls of chicken soup, and a cuy (guinea pig, as in these cute little bastards). I said that I wouldn’t eat these critters. Having visited two different cuy farms, and my affection for cute and cuddly creatures, I was really set on avoiding this local cuisine. But, as Alex's wife already ordered it, and it was coming to the table one way or another, I couldn't break rule number one on the road: 'eat whatever is given to you, at all costs, medical, ethical, or otherwise.'

First bite into this little guy was enough to end it right there. I couldn't get their little faces out of my head. I also remembered just how adorable they are when you approach the pen, and they're piling on top of each other, huddling with fear in the hope that they'll avoid the destiny of the plate.

It's a very greasy meat, and the skin is not something that you can ignore. Once you crack the legs apart you mistake this little bugger for a rat. But the taste of the BBQ overtakes the mental blockage, and then it starts to taste good. Very good. I was ready for more, but then Alex's wife flagged down the mesera, and said 'senora, la cabeza por favor.' I jumped out of my seat. The head!! They're going to head the bloody head??? Sure enough a little head with teeth and eyes still in it showed up. I said that I was full. Fortunately, even here the head is an admitted acquired taste, and I was let off the hook.

I've been served a lot of food lately. Juan Alberto, and his family fed me till I nearly burst. All I could do in return was cook them a pasta dinner one night, which was enjoyed by all.

When I visited the community of Paltabomba I was offered Ecuadorian tortillas (much closer to a pancake then what North America considers to be a tortilla). These are very tasty, but they are loaded with un pasteurized cheese, and the hygiene, as always in poor places, is questionable. But yet, there I was, in the back yard among chickens, dogs and children dwarfed from hunger, and mama offers me a giant plate of tortillas that I can hardly finish. I finished every bite, and the consequence was that more tortillas appeared. Very delicious, but it boggles the mind that I am being fed to the point of voluptuousness, while there is a 4 year old kid hanging on to my leg and he looks more like 2.

It is challenging to comprehend the geography of food, that sacred commodity, especially in the south. I came down here saying that cuy was off the diet, figuring that it was against my morals to eat something so cute. But last Monday, in a gated hacienda, complete with armed guards and servants, I was offered a delicious meal of beef wrapped in bacon. There was salad, fruit, dessert and mineral water. I didn't seem to have a moral objection to that, despite the fact that on the other side of that wall there are people living, just hundreds of meters away, without ever knowing the taste of beef, bacon, milk, or anything else much past a steady diet of corn and the occasional cuy.
I think that one's ethics takes a greater beating with the beef dinner than with the little guinea pig. There's really little difference between that wonderful hospitality given at the hacienda, the cuy shack, and the rural hovel. It's the advantage of being a visitor with an interest in the country and the community. People want to feed you to their best of their ability. But you can't ignore the fact that these abilities are so dangerously separated. Now I'm stuck with the question as to why that generosity stops at the walled gate, and makes people, and dogs together, battle for the scraps that sometimes fall from the table.

From the pen to the plate!

Y, senores y senoras, Alex Garcia

The Ecuador / Peru border? Or that place where Luke Skywalker met Han Solo?

The border between Peru and Ecuador is brutal. It’s a place that you should not go to if you’re not from there, and if you are from there, you still probably shouldn’t be there. As I have found out, this border between Aguas Verdes and Hauquillas is possibly the most dangerous border in the hemisphere. Dangerous because it is ripe for smuggling, theft, assault and just about anything else you can imagine. With one wrong turn, or one too many distractions, you can easily become victim / accomplice to it all. On Sunday I, along with all of my important life possessions crossed this border….on foot. Never do this. I’ve seen a lot of neat shit on the road, and I’ve done well to counter the traveller’s paranoia, but seriously this border is messed up. You need a few horseshoes planted firmly up your ass to make it through.

The Ecuador / Peru border is completely lawless. Contraband junk comes from Ecuador into Peru, and arms and drugs go to Ecuador. Because immigration, customs, and military check points are located at minimum 5 km outside of the two towns (which join over a bridge in their main roads), you have a region that has no official presence…anywhere. This place needs a UN security force, let alone regular police.

This is a clear example for how you need, to some reasonable level, comprehensive security; an authoritative presence so to speak. All that you see in Aguas Verdes and Hauquillas are some private security guards and not much else. National police, customs and the military deal with the mess from afar. It’s that hands off, “leave the dogs to themselves” attitude that creates this place. The unwanted of both countries come here like a hive, they live by stealing and reselling the stolen wares. If it isn’t stolen, it’s probably fake and for sale too. Never do the beggars, thieves and bandits have to show their identity to anyone. Slums out number sturdy structures. Trucks being gutted and reassembled with concealed contraband outnumber the ones that are intact. The poor outnumber the not-so-poor, and, thieves out number everyone.

The towns smell like hell, and everything looks it. It’s a scene somewhere between a Brazilian slum and the apocalypse. Through the mud roads, loaded with the shit of many creatures, are the crowds with their hands out. The strong come at you with offers and threats, while the truly broken lie hobbled to the side of the road.

When I arrived in Tumbes (30 km outside of Aguas Verdes on the Peruvian side), I was met by my guide, Miguel, who really assumed, and admitted to, the role of guard…as in body guard. Where the hell outside of Iraq, or wealthy circles in Mexico City do you need a body guard? Especially when you’re me? Already the hustlers had trickled down to Tumbes to snatch the unaware, but we made a clean break to his private car. Miguel and I exchanged all the formalities, including enough information about each other, so that we knew that I was the pick up and he was indeed the pre-arranged “guardia del cuerpo.”

As we drove the 25 minutes or so to Aguas, Miguel briefed me of the reality of this place. And we continued to chat about what we’re up against even as we stopped for some cheap contraband Ecuadorian fuel. We stopped at Peruvian immigration. Miguel watched the car with the luggage, and I went into customs house. The jinteneros were thick as flies. Coming at you left and right with wads of fake bills, and trying to distract you away from their partners, even for just a moment. Getting through this with many “no gacias” and “¡no me jodas!”, I received my exit stamp, and returned to the car. Into town we went.

As we approached the center of Aguas, the pedestrian traffic overwhelmed the car. Miguel turned off the main road and went down a shady shanty-town road, and parked the car in a soccer field next to a couple of trucks that had been gutted bare. He told me that it would cost him to take the car into Ecuador, and he just didn’t want to “risk it.” As we parked a homeless kid came up to us with a wheelbarrow. We loaded my large pack on to the wheelbarrow and started to walk up the shady shanty town, and back onto the main road loaded with chaos. The kid led the way, and I kept him in arms-length, while Miguel walked behind me at my 5 o’clock. And with eyes in the backs of our heads, we walked into Ecuador.

In Hauquillas we loaded into a taxi and took 5 km down the road to Ecuadorian immigration. Quick stamp there, but of course with hoards of jinteneros everywhere. Then we were into another taxi and back to hire a van to drive 4 hours to Guayaquil. The van made it through the mess without a problem, and Miguel went back for his car. Cruising past Ecuadorian immigration, we were stopped at customs. The guard went through my packs, and upon discovery of my lap top, he demanded that I show him proof of purchase. I told him that it was two years old, and I could prove it with the files already loaded. He didn’t seem to care, but when I told him that I was not Ecuadorian and only visiting, he had to give up the song and dance.

The road to Guayaquil was without incident, and a last minute change of flight plans allowed me to get to Quito that very night. A day later, in the somewhat sanctity of Quito, I could only imagine what it must have looked like back across that international bridge. It felt like some cheesy action movie minutes before shit goes pear shaped. Fortunately it didn’t, thanks to a damn good guide / guard.

Apparently doing this by bus is riskier than with the kid in the wheelbarrow. When customs opens the buses to inspect the baggage the jinteneros are there before you are, and your bag may be long gone before you get off the bus. Hearing this from first hand accounts, I’m not at all surprised. When the buses come in, it is crowded and confusing, and the jinteneros have the advantage. But when you muster the guts to walk across the most dangerous border in the Americas, you have a fighting chance. Maybe it’s how the system works, or maybe it’s because every single mugger is actually standing back in amazement for a second saying, “Who the f*#k is crazy enough to do that?”


I didn't take photos of this historic moment, but the following links have good photos depicting the scene:

Dutch NGO

Another mad adventurer

And another

Safety of a car?

I slept through the revolution

Last night a group of poor farmers stormed into the town of Chiclayo. I ate a chicken and drank beer in Chiclayo, and then I went to sleep very close to the downtown. They came into Chiclayo at about 2:00am, and by 4:00am the police were responding with riot gear and tear gas. At one point some dummy threw a Molotov cocktail through the old municipal building. It burned to the ground. At 5:00pm, the fire was still burning inside the remains of the edifice. This all went on 3 blocs away from my hotel. Thanks to jet-lag and private security guards, who aren’t afraid to shoot you dead, I slept like a lamb.

It is too bad that this event will never be broadcast far beyond Chiclayo. It is just another day when a band of poor people got a little crazy. But this is Latin America, and you’re up against this every day. Some days, thanks either to too much booze or too much political tension, the poor actually come together and let their voices be heard in a way that makes authorities listen. Often people get hurt and things get burned down when the authorities finally listen. In fact Latin America’s poor speak volumes every day, but thanks to centuries of social inequality, coupled by the culture of individualism, most decision-makers, even those claiming to speak on behalf of the poor, are quite deaf to their needs.

Interestingly enough, I visited Sipan today. This was the center of a vast and powerful pre-Colombian kingdom, until the Incas decided to invade and set things straight. Part of the Machu custom (the people who made up Sipan), was for the king to buried with his wife, his concubines, his guards, and anyone else he thought important. Apparently, it was supposed to be a great honour to be sacrificed when the king died, because you would accompany him to the next life. Too bad if you were a slave during this time, as you’d be buried in a hole somewhere, and your chances of making it to the next life were not good at all.

This crazy archaic society that separates the powerful from the powerless was supposedly transformed under the Inca rule. And then it was transformed again when the Spaniards had a go at governance. Later on, in the same place but in a different time, democracy was supposed to make all equal. The responsibility of citizenship gives us all the rights of equality, so it says. Yet, in this very town, that at one time sacrificed the selected to be buried with the king while the poor were damned to damnation, a group of poor people burned down the municipal building. I’m not sure that democracy brings a great societal difference from the age of Sipan under these circumstances. Looking at the skeleton of that ancient King, buried in the desert, I can’t help but wonder how many unmarked graves have long since been forgotten. Maybe those in the unmarked graves burned down a building or two in their day. We’ll never know if, and if if, we’ll never know why.

Will anthropologists and archaeologists eight hundred years from now pay attention to every citizen that this society buries? Will they know why the Municipal building in Chiclayo burned down last Thursday? Or will they look for the grandeur, forget about the rest, and say that in their age there really is a better sense of equality?

“Anything to declare?” “Two kilos of cocaine and heaps of fond memories…”

Air Canada sent me to Bogota, Colombia and wanted to keep me there for four days. This makes sense, seeing as how I purchased a ticket to Lima that was supposed to allow me to arrive a day ago. As a means of compensation, our national airline sent me to the world’s third most dangerous country, you know for a quiet and relaxing stay. Colombia was considered to be the most dangerous place on earth in terms of violent crimes mostly related to the drug trade. When the world invaded Afghanistan it was knocked back to the second most dangerous, and thanks to American leg-work in Iraq, Colombia has secured third place.

Colombia is actually quite pretty, and the folks here, other than those wearing military fatigues, are very hospitable. Because of the sketchy reputation this country has, the tourist count seems quite low, which is certainly to your advantage in avoiding the career hustlers in places like Peru, Mexico, Guatemala and even good old Cuba. The currency is horribly devalued, so everything costs nothing, essentially. I was quite unprepared to arrive in Bogota. I hadn’t the foggiest idea of the currency, time zone, or even the climate. From reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I assumed that I’d be up against a suffocating heat smothered in brutal humidity. As it turns out Bogota’s altitude of 8,000 feet above sea level is quite pleasant.

I’ve found myself in Colombia because the unionized mechanics in Vancouver couldn’t get their plane ready for take off, and Air Canada, despite my request to be notified if the plane was late, failed to let me know that anything was going pear. AC got me on another flight that did arrive before the flight to Peru took off, but because of a last-minute gate switch, they boarded the Peru flight from the in-field, and hence I couldn’t make the connection. They offered to get me on one of three flights the next day: Miami -> Lima, Bogota -> Lima, or Sao Paolo -> Lima. Seeing as I don’t have a valid visa for Brazil, I’d be stuck in the “sterile zone” of the airport for quite a while, and seeing as how I’m not fond of U.S. authority at the best of times, I elected to go to sunny Colombia, a place I knew next to nothing about.

It should have worked, but the unionized mechanics in Toronto couldn’t get the flight to Colombia in the sky either, and hence I missed the Avianca connection to Lima. Bogota airport, like most airports, isn’t a real laugh when it is late at night. This is especially true when there are hurried and angry passengers everywhere, speaking various languages, and all venting at two Colombian women hired by Air Canada to take our abuses and solve our problems. Everything was in a panic at that airport. People rushing over people, customs agents frustrated, gate agents frustrated. Everyone wanted out, and they were willing to take casualties in the process. In fact a tiny little grandmother, stuffed into a wheelchair, sped past me in customs and took me out at the knees. My knee swelled up like a pumpkin.

So, upon arrival here in Bogota Air Canada offered me a next day stand by on TACA or LAN, and if I failed to board, they would do nothing more. It would be all on me. So I went for a secure option of a confirmed seat on Tuesday night.

Air Canada has been quite good about this whole thing, in terms of free fancy hotels, upgrades and free meals. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that while aviation is more than 100 years old, this company still struggles to get their planes from point A to point B. However, for those they favour, they are quite good on the compensation. For three days now, Air Canada has dined me, and put me up in pretty chic hotels. Even better, is that they even bought me full fare, last minute tickets on rival airlines. I checked out the price of the scheduled LAN flight that they booked me on: $5878. Ouch.

This morning (Sunday) they just called to say that they got me on the LAN flight today (two days earlier than promised), and now I’m in the airport heading for Lima. But here’s the stinger. As I’m eventually trying to get to Quito at the end of all of this, guess where this LAN flight stops for a pee break? Quito. Can I get off and stay in Quito? Nope. None of that.

So here’s hoping that I still have a hotel waiting in Lima, and here’s hoping that I’ll be trekking up the north coast as of Tuesday. Because of all of this funny business, I’ll be by-passing Cuenca on the way to Quito, and I’ll try to fly from Machala (which is in Ecuador, right across the Peruvian border).

So as it sits, I’ve been a costly passenger to Air Canada, what with first class hotels and full fare tickets on their dime. But besides that, here’s what looks really bad. I have Colombian entry and exit stamps in my passport that are within 24 hours of each other. This will make for fun chats at Canadian or U.S. customs from here on in.

“What were you doing in Colombia for less than 24 hours?”

“Oh, I just stopped by to check it out and pick up a few things, you know?”

I got a feeling that I’ll be seeing more of that room filled with Middle Eastern men and angry dogs.

This may just be the easiest way to stay in touch!

When Coel Kirkby was running around South Africa, he tried to do something like this. Regrettably, I never checked in much to his site due to too many distractions. Still, I thought that the idea was good. So I’ll give him credit for the idea.

Seeing as how Latin internet is about as reliable has Air Canada getting you to your final destination without delay or spending time in a violent drug running country, I figure it’s best to save money and time by posting some of the day to day adventures here.

This way I can try to keep you all updated on this adventure without harassing you with mass e-mails, or trying to condense four months of adventures into a conversation over a single round of libations.

Already this project has been an adventure, so hopefully there will be the odd bit of entertaining commentary.

Also feel free to check in with my Kiwi counterparts at bloggingitreal.blogspot.com for more politically charged commentary.

Ciao for now!

Live from somewhere over the Caribbean!