Where the hell is Bob?

Terry Fox in Havana

2007-04-06T16:35:00.000-05:00

So, here are some shots taken from the Terry Fox Run in Havana.

It's the largest Terry Fox outside of Canada with about 2.3 million people participating.

Like all things Cuban, it's unique in it's own way. Unlike the goal of the Terry Fox Foundation in Canada to raise money for cancer research (and that seems to be the sole goal of the Foundation), the Cuban approach to Terry Fox is to build awareness of cancer, and participation in the movement.

They adore the story of Terry Fox, and as you can see, just about everyone gets involved in the run.

Somehow I got running with a group of "retired atheletes." These old buggers were in better shape than me, I'll give you that much.

I mean, if this isn't a powerfully appropriate image for the spirit of the race, then I don't know what is.

And in the true to form Cuban approach, no one gets excluded!

De-icing in Newfoundland

2007-02-28T12:29:00.000-05:00

Seriously, you just can't make this up!!

Bilingual, eh?

2007-02-25T14:39:00.001-05:00

So, living in Québec has been a great experience. Fewer bullets to dodge than Ecuador and fewer power outages than Cuba. It’s been more than ten years since this province nearly broke away from the country. Only by some text-book definition of a miracle under the sleepy federal leadership of Jean Chrétien, did Québec manage to stay in Canada. Yet, in 2007 language is still a major divider.

Montréal is a city of cities. There are English parts where French cannot be found, and French parts where English is as alien as Swahili, and yet there are Swahili parts where passable French and English are a bit rare.

Coming here to a Francophone university to master the language (or at least bring it up to newspaper readable speed) garners piles of respect. Many Francophone graduate students realize that at some point they will likely have to familiarize themselves with English in order to survive in academia or policy circles. But few Anglophones really need to master French to get through the whole of their lives. Translation services in Ottawa abound for both parliamentarians and the civil service. Anglos still have it pretty easy.

So, I’ve been wondering what the hell bilingualism really is. Is it a draconian policy to shove two languages down the throats of every kid in Canada, where the result, through public education, is generations of students leaving school with piss poor understanding of the other language? Is it something that is reserved for Ottawa? Is it something that can never be achieved, considering that many pure laine Francophones look on in disdain when any Anglo square-head fumbles on French grammar and misses Québec slang?

A good fracnophone pal of mine and I discussed what the hell bilingualism is. We were having fondue and wine in Québec City with a few toasts of caribou thrown in. We figured that the vast majority of Canadians can get through their lives without need of the other language. Just as in Switzerland those from Geneva never have a pressing need to master Swiss German. Sure. But those who might be in positions of leadership, and in positions to influence leadership, should certainly bring themselves to understand the language. Only we figured that the real issue is not to just understand the language, but to understand the ideas going on within its culture. The language divide between Québec and Anglo-Canada is a big thing, but the ideas embedded and separated between them is even bigger.

Reading a French and English newspaper, everyday, I’ve come to realize that our biggest challenge with bilingualism is the lack of translation of ideas and attitudes between the Anglo and Franco worlds. French media and English media in this country might as well be covering the happenings of the opposite sides of the moon. Seriously, what counts for news in English Canada gets a full miss in Québec, and vise versa. Sure a few pundits cross over, and sure, we all take notice of big issues, but the day to day happenings are really lost in translation.

So, my friend and I have come to conclude that bilingualism is really more about transferring those happenings between the two solitudes to realize that we really have more in common than we think.

In the 1995 referendum Québec really had no idea what Anglo Canada was thinking, and Anglo Canada really didn’t see the heart of the matter as to why young radical Québécois were taking to the streets chanting out “screw the world.” It was a dangerous time, and we nearly tore ourselves apart because while we may have taken notice to what the other side was saying, we didn’t understand what they were really thinking.

This is the goal of bilingualism, as I see it. To ensure that ideas, desires and hopes are expressed openly, in whatever way possible. The mechanics of how and Francophone and Anglophone communicate with each other, are just mechanics. The idea of bilingualism being forced action to help build resumes is far too pedestrian. And if we keep up that attitude, rest assured, it will come back to haunt us once again. But if we see bilingualism as a vehicle to share and communicate our ideas, I mean at street level, not just in politics, and then we may stand a fighting chance.

Salut de Montreal

2007-01-12T16:01:00.000-05:00

Alright, as you all know there comes a time to take a break from the active front lines of revolution and to sit back and draw up battle plans for future endevours.

For now, I'm laying low in Quebec. There may be the odd commentary or photo extraveganza to appear on the site, but don't expect too too much until the Canadian government gives me back my passport.

Till then, check out some added and updated photos from the Equator episode.

Hasta Pronto!
Viva!

Christ! I just got tear-gassed!!!

2006-12-12T16:26:00.000-05:00

Oh man, welcome back to Ecuador. I'm not in this country for two hours and I get pelted with the tear gas.

I checked into the hotel and went up to an old favourite internet cafe to catch up with the world. When I get there the main street has no cars. There are cars everywhere in Latin America, so a street without them is a sign of trouble.

The municipal bus drivers went on strike, and the police responded with tear gas. I landed myself in the middle of this by complete accident. "Oh listen to that! Fireworks." Nope. Gas canisters.

Fortunately I didn't get in the direct line of fire, but the wind picked up the gas and sent it my way.

That stuff burns like you wouldn't imagine. Man. The guy next to me said, "cover your face, it will help." Sure enough I take my black hooded sweater and wrap it around my head. It did help a little, but not much, and then I looked more like a damn villian than a lost gringo. So at that point I hi-tail it before any billy clubs show up.

Good grief. What a welcome back to this country.

Feliz cumpleanos, commandante

2006-12-01T12:29:00.000-05:00

Back in Havana. I hear all of these stories about dumps of snow in Vancouver and Toronto, and I have to sympathize. You know it's getting cold here too. I mean with 19'C at night you almost have to close the windows.

Fidel's belated birthday party is tomorrow. The old guy, is...an old guy.

From his hospital bed he has assured the nation that he still makes decisions and has a say. No one really buys it.

Last night there was a Happy Birthday concert for the old guy, and musicians from all over the Americas showed up to play.

Good times it was. Sure there is some hoopla about the old man's birthday. The Slogan is Viva Fidel, and his first eighty years. First eighty.

That's fitting really. Because now Cuba's great leader has officially moved from a position of governance and symbolism to just symbolism. The man can't actually do much from his hospital bed. But now he has become the simulacra, a mythical pressence of values, beliefs and thinking that is meant to transend governance and popular culture.

Like Jose Marti himself, this is the role of the man with the beard.

True Cuba scholars have known this for some time. Some of the most important and at times radical decisions regard foriegn and economic policy took place with Fidel's hands well off the wheel.

But now, with the 80 years celebration, the leader has become nothing more than legend.

Folks in Miami will continue to bark about the change that will come after he passes. Morbid bastards all of them. The man's death, when it comes, won't change a bloody thing. The system here is on its own legs. Giving the guize that one man in a green suit runs the show, the sacred truth is that it really runs itself.

There are many aperatures in Cuba these days. Ones to travel, to continue education, to gain hard currency through purely capitalist means (from selling gum to important blue Jeans from Venezuela). And like all complex societies, Cuba's does not live and die with one character.

But that character, now a myth more than a man, still plays an important role.

The more you know

2006-11-15T19:07:00.000-05:00

Turns out that if your bumper is just a smidge over the no-parking sign, while you're in the bank for 10 minutes you get a $45 ticket.

Turns out that the banks aren't into giving temporary cheques anymore. Turns out that's pretty inconvienent for some.

Turns out that you can really shock people by walking into a bank and asking for 4,500 pennies.

Turns out that 4,500 pennies is really heavy.

Turns out that City Hall in Vancouver will accept 4,500 pennies to pay for a parking ticket.

Turns out that half of the people in the line behind me were impressed, the other half were a bit annoyed at the fact that the teller had to disappear for a while to count change.

So nice to be back.

Chronicle of S’00.00.000 oops, err S’00.00.130

2006-11-10T19:55:00.000-05:00

“Here, let me take a photo for you with your camera!”

“Thanks man, that’s very nice.”

“What’s with the cell-phone?”

“It’s a GPS. Turns out these guys have it wrong. This monument should be one kilometre that way.”

“How far’s that? Bout a quarter mile?”

“Where are you guys from, and what brings you to just south of the Equator?”

“We’re from Houston, and we’re filming a commercial for a client.”

It’s funny, this is so called middle of the world. Back in the earlier part of last century the best astronomers in the world, using the best equipment, with the best money decided that this is the Equator. They got it wrong. Wrong by 8 minutes (in astronomy terms) or by one kilometre in on the land terms. And it is a tough place to find. It took me 4 wrong buses and two wrong times to get it right.

We didn’t really figure this out until the GPS came along, and man, were faces red. This is a big goof. A lot of concrete got poured into this place. And a lot of commercials from Houston are filmed in this place. It’s big money. For a country that gave it’s name to this imaginary line, they imagined wrong.

But even that this place is wrong, and that it is really a memorial to inaccurate science more than the waist of the earth, the tourists keep coming in droves. People straddle the red line. They kiss across it. They embrace in two different hemispheres. And they do other things across this line, creative or otherwise.

But interestingly enough, when you are there with the GPS, and you show people that this line incorrect….they don’t want to hear it. “What’d ya mean it’s wrong. Hell they put this goddamn monument here, it must be right. It’s your gizmo that’s got it wrong.”

Fitting, no? People and societies are quite capable of perceiving their own realities. And when those realities are perceived, dead wrong as they can be, and an alternative (be it truth or otherwise) shows up, presents itself, people will still refuse to believe it.

“Hey, do you guys want to take your camera to the real Equator? I’ll take you there.”

“Naw, this is good enough. We’ve got a golf game anyway.”
It’s a fitting conclusion to four months on the road. Balancing the line between what we perceive and what we know is really out there.

The only time in history that the south has pissed on the north.

2006-11-10T19:52:00.000-05:00

So this is the fake Equator

2006-11-10T19:50:00.000-05:00

And here's the real one

2006-11-10T19:49:00.000-05:00

As my thinkings on the Equator received many warm reviews, here are some additional photos.

Here's the real Equator, by the way:

What really divides north from south:

2006-11-10T19:14:00.000-05:00

Having enough of the fake Equator, I went to the real one. Armed with a GPS a camera, and bright smiles, I let the GPS lead. It lead me into a goddamn slum. One of the worst I’ve been to yet. Soccer fields without grass, cars without wheels, and dogs without life. I followed the soccer fields hoping to find the Equator barrelling right through them. But they were too far south. I went through a ravine strewn with garbage, chickens and pigs. Up the other side and through a guy’s corn field. Bone dry. More weeds and dust than corn. Ambling through a barb wire fence I make it to a street with hungry dogs, and hungry guys drinking away life at 11:00am. Finally, turning down possibly the sketchiest alley in Ecuador, I find the Equator. N/S 00,00,00.0.

They say that you weigh less on the true Equator, being so far from the earth’s centre. Most people around me do weigh less. You don’t need a scale to prove that a 10-year old kid at the Equator weighs less than a kid in Texas. Because all of them here are under-fed. This kid over here needs to put on another 15 killos. They say that being underweight in your youth robs years from your old age.

What really divides north from south? This dried up river. It’s on the Equator indeed, but it’s still in the south. You don’t get this kind of poverty in the north, sure. But you also don’t get the recognition that it exists in the south. We pay minor charity to it, we know that it might be there, but like the fake Equator monument, people really don’t want to see, feel, touch and smell the real Equator. Our society knows it’s there, and probably doesn’t have to guess that the true monument of the Equator is stifling poverty. That’s what really divides north from south.

And again science proves to be far from absolute.

2006-11-10T19:07:00.000-05:00

Now here’s the real insult to injury. While 19th century science screwed up finding the Equator, someone else got it right. You know, it’s always boggled my mind how we put guys on the moon before inventing the pocket calculator. But now, it truly blows my mind that we put guys on the moon before we even found the centre of our own planet. Amazing.

But 1,200 years ago a pre-Incan culture laid a monument to the centre of the world. On top of a round hill, one that doesn’t fit into the local topography, they made a circle of stones. If you put your GPS in the centre of it, it will read S/N 00,00,00.0. I didn’t make it up there, but a local showed me his recorded mark on his GPS. These ancient people also drew two lines 50km a part to mark the path of the sun on the equinox. These lines mark the path of the direct rays.

This culture, 1,200 years ago knew that the world was round, while Europeans were still burning those who thought so. They were also able to measure the dead centre of between north and south, and they put their monument on something that might as well be the earth’s navel…look, it’s an outey!

This little circle was only discovered 8 years ago, thanks to GPS and a few archaeologists. Like that shot of the GPS on the compass at Machu Pichu, another tribute to ancient forms of knowledge that knew more about our earth, land and life, than we do today.

Just another weekend.

2006-11-08T13:03:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday I was burning alive with some sort of delirious fever likely related to something stupid that I ate and linked to getting caught in the cold Quito rain without a jacket. Still on the mend from that experience, I went to Cuenca again this weekend for their carnival. Straight from the airport to the fair ground. You know those dodgy fall fair rides that go from town to town in Southern Ontario in October? Who knew that they would make it as far as rural Ecuador? These things are sketchy enough in northern countries where mechanics and safety standards abound, never mind rural Ecuador. And rural Ecuadorian Carneys make the Canadian group look like members of parliament. Bearing all this is mind; I wasn’t all that keen on going on “The Zipper,” some vomit comet contraption of a ride, but Rolando already bought the ticket. In I go. Turns out it wasn’t all that bad. Pretty fun actually, and the power outage happened after I got off, so no worries there.

Later that night we went for some cheeseburgers (sketchier than eating maggots in this country, but whom I to argue?) and went dancing at a local bar. Turns out that drinks are free in this place, as long as your drinking this sketchy orange drink mixed with locally made vodka. Not bad, actually, and it will get you up on top of the bar dancing.

The Next night:

In the MTV show Jackass they would open up every skit with a guy saying, “Hi I’m Johnny Knoxville,” and then they would announce the stunt that they were going to pull, pull the stunt and get all banged up or embarrassed. On Saturday night, while sitting down at the family dinner table I heard in my ear, clear as day, “Hi, I’m Johnny Knoxville, and this is the Latin American Family Dinner.”

Georgina and Gaby invited me to their parents place for dinner. It was me in amongst about 25 uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents and others. “We have a beef leg.” Some one said. An entire beef leg? Jeeze for lunch we devoured the better half of a pig. My god, people, how is it possible that there is hunger in this country? Beef leg soup for everyone, and then a heaping plate of chicken with rice, potatoes and everything else. The old man pours me a whisky (again made just down the street). Being polite I throw it back. Another is right there by the time my glass hits the table. Apparently drinking these slow is an insult. An entire jar gets filled with whisky and gassed water, and it’s going between me and the old man.

Bursting from a heaping lunch, a heaping dinner and now drinking whisky “mano a mano,” this is what I’m up against. The aunts are asking me about what I’m doing in Ecuador and immigration policy to Canada. The uncles are advising me to never marry, but are making a good effort to point out how beautiful some of the single nieces are. And the old man is keeping a good pace on the whisky. Eventually we get on to ripping into the U.S., and at this point half the jar of whisky winding down. Not sure how much more I could take, I need an exit strategy. Fortunately, the old man falls asleep in his chair….the whisky jar remains un-refilled.

The next day I head off to the Amazon. On the first bus there are no drunken singers, but some guy, I’m sure, took a dirt in his pants. My poor nose. I switch buses in Loja and keep going to Zamora. There are two girls in my seat (about 8 and 12 years), and their mother next to them. There must be a mistake, I think. But no. This woman only bought one seat for three people. Two girls on her lap turns out to be more like a girl on me and another on her mom. I’d give her another $2.50 to help spread us out, but the bus is already stuffed full. A BBQ’d chicken arrives. These people are family of the people across the isle, and they’re sharing lunch. The bus is jammed full, so I’m going nowhere. Buried under children, luggage, chicken, BBQ sauce and French fries, I’m here for two hours on this winding road. People are standing in the isle next to me, and while this chicken is well dead, I’m sure that there is a live one in the back somewhere. And for entertainment there is a lanky Brit sitting on the armrest of the chair in front of me groping his little brown lover. Good grief. These people need a room. Maybe the bus driver can stop for a bucket of cold water. If the winding road and chicken grease aren’t enough to make you nauseous, Romeo and Juliet will get you there.
Finally I arrive in Zamora to meet, yet another unemployed doctor. She worked in the local hospital for a year, but they let her go. There’s no work. Look at all of these empty beds, there’s no demand for you. We talk for a bit, and then I go back to my broiling hotel room for the night. The power cuts off at 11:30pm, and I roast with no fan until 7:30am.

Just another weekend in Latin America.

The first round of LAMAH

2006-10-30T15:52:00.000-05:00

This taken moments before the first round of inter-peace negotiations between Llamas and People fell apart.

For more information on the progress of LAMAH (Llamas Are Mad At Humans) check this site again for an upcoming link.

Chronicle of the City of Cuenca

2006-10-30T15:02:00.000-05:00

Georgina ordered lunch while I went to find the outhouse. Finding the can, I found it locked, so I climbed up a wee mountain to get away from the road and found the back of a guy’s house. The spot next to the dog house did just fine. Upon return there was a bowl of soup in front of me. Chicken wing, French fry and egg soup, apparently. Who knew? Damn it was good. What a surprise.

What came as no surprise was the second round: fried trout with all the fixings. This was no bolt from the blue, because only moments earlier Georgina, her husband, her daughter and her sister were with me in the car. Someone asked: “Shall we stop for some trout?” “Sure,” I said.

When we arrived at the trout restaurant, it turned out to be a lake. “Here you go,” said the little girl. She gives me a fishing pole. “Oh, shit, you’re joking.” Yes, in this part of the world you have to work for lunch.

Gaby baited my hook and I launched the fishing pole. This fishing pole is nothing more than a damn stick with some line, a hook, and a sinker attached to it. The bait hits the water, and before I can think, something bites. “Pull it in,” yells Gaby. “How? It’s a damn stick with a line somehow attached?” Huck-Finn had it better. I pull the line, she pulls the line, and sure enough we bag the sucker that I’m holding in my hands as you can see to the right.

Good, that’s one. 4 more mouths to feed.

We celebrated the catch and feast with beer, and a bottle of sprite for the wee one. It was such a laugh that I couldn’t bring myself to rush things along. I missed my flight to Quito.

No regrets. We spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch watching football, drinking hot coffee, and wondering what evil plot the llamas were going to come up with next.

On a Sunday night you'd be hard pressed to believe that this is a capital city.

2006-10-30T14:56:00.000-05:00

Good grief, a Sunday night in Quito might as well be any day on the far side of the moon. Catholic tradition coupled with a painfully long work week puts this city to sleep. Even the street dogs pack it in. I’m thinking about starting up a “Sunday night cannon firing club.” Because, no doubt, I could fire a cannon off down any given street and surely I’d hit nothing.

A little peace and quiet is nice, but tonight it gets the best of me. You see, nothing is open. Nothing. The closest cheeseburger is at the Airport, and that’s after you board the plane and leave for Texas. Now, I was planning to return from Cuenca today at a good hour, but I missed the damn plane (again) because I was fishing, (see below, and P.S. this is the first flight that I’ve missed where it’s actually been my fault). So instead of getting into Quito when things are open, I get in when things are closed.

No problem. I have some provisions in the apartment, and I’ll whip up a feed. Tough luck. The stove needs matches, and matches I don’t have. Yet another incident where being a smoker would have saved the day. Crackers for dinner it is then. Oh yeah, I ate all but three of those before I left for Canada.

Well there’s a microwave and a can of beans. Filthy as that sounds, it gets worse. Turns out that I mistook the “can of beans” in the store for “can of Ecuadorian surprise™ taco filling®.” For god sakes. Heavy on the surprise™ and light on the taco filling® this is.

So there you go. A random can of poo and a few glasses of vino for dinner. Can’t beat it. A fine way to top off yet another Sunday night in Quito, after having got into a scrap (verbal – my Spanish swears are really coming along) with an over-charging taxi from the airport, and an airport security guard who knicked my razor blades.

I blame the Llamas for all of this.

(for an update on my thoughts on the Ecuadorian elections check Blogging it real.)

Chronicle of the City of Loja

2006-10-30T14:50:00.000-05:00

Nothing kills the mood of a good interview more than an ethics form. There you are, talking along, about the most interesting of things, and thanks to technocratic bureaucracy at the home university, you have to slide an ethics form under the interviewee’s nose, and get them to sign it. Nobody likes to sign strange forms, especially from overseas. But, if they don’t sign it, some goof from the University can debunk the research.

Technocratic fart catching aside, Loja turned out to be a very pleasant adventure. No bullets to pull out of feet, or any of that sort of thing. It’s a pretty little city right where the sierras start to turn into jungle, but it’s still frosty at night. After the interview, the good doctor and I went out for beer with some of her friends. At some point in the evening it was decided that we’d go to the smaller village of Vilcabomba. Either because of the beer or the sleepiness, I missed the fact that we were going to a spa. Who would have guessed? Here’s me in Loja fighting off scruffy dogs for the covers on my bed, this in a house with no hot water or heat of any sorts, and a secret passage, so it seems, for the dogs to come in and compete for my covers. Those dogs, six of them on last count, really needed baths. But then again, so did I. So how would I have guessed that a luxury spa was in my future?

Missing the part about going to a spa, when I show up at the place in the picture above, there is a lovely aromatic Jacuzzi happening. Apparently $25 will get you three hours of Jacuzzi and professional massage time. While the doctor and her friend are already changed and ready for the hot tub, there’s me with my bathing suit nicely folded and placed in the drawer in Quito. I ask the staff if they have an extra bathing suit. “oh, I don’t know about that.” Great. Sure enough she leaves the spa through some random back door, and returns 5 minutes later with some guy’s underpants.

Now here’s a dilemma. Jacuzzi with some random pair of underpants that may have been worn by a hobo and 5 of the 6 dogs, or me sitting around reading for three hours. You can always read. You don’t often get the chance to wear random Ecuadorian underpants in a hot-tub. I dive in.

After dinner we race back to Loja to catch the last bus to Cuenca. It is going to be a long ride, and the weather is looking pretty rough. Still, a 4 hour bus ride should hopefully bring me to a warm bed where I’m not fending off brown dogs.

So there I am on a bus swinging through winding fog soaked roads in the Andes. Most people have the good sense to go to sleep on this into-the-night journey. But not the drunken bugger behind me. No no, he decides to sing us songs. Brutally off key songs. You know the feeling of a nail on a blackboard? Yeah that kind of singing. This dummy just kept singing and singing in his painfully annoying fashion. He sang for so long that he had to clear his dry throat, and then he’d keep going.

After the third hour of his drunken babbling I nearly leaped over the seat and strangled him silent. The only thing that held me back was the idea of the headline in tomorrow’s paper. “Tourist strangles man for singing.”

The bloody media.

They never take kindly to these sorts of situations.

Not sure how to go forward, impossible to go back: Chronicle of the middle of nowhere.

2006-10-24T10:30:00.000-05:00

Here’s a photo from the valley of the moon in Bolivia. You may want to click on it to enlarge, but I'm the little dark spot there perched like an owl up above this here gorge.

I have never seen a landscape anything like this, and neither had the original inhabitants of La Paz, so they turned it into a sacred place to worship the moon.

So there’s me lodged on a narrow “path” in this sacred valley. A fitting example of how things are regarding the research. Loosing my contact list was a major set back, and it is a painstaking task to try to reconnect with doctors in the rural Amazon, especially when telephone is sketchy and internet is non-existent.

Still, the positive response to the project from those back in Canada, and now the just received acceptance of a research paper for a major U.S. journal, prompts me to believe that you really can’t turn back, or switch the game plan in this sort of a situation.

Back in the apartment in Quito it sort of feels like I never left, and it certainly doesn’t feel strange to be back. 3 more weeks here in Quito with plans to head into the Amazon twice and the Andes twice as well. There’s no doubt that it will be life out of the backpack for the rest of the year, as it is now quite definite that duty calls back to Cuba before the holidays commence.

So yes, three more weeks of madness and adventure, then it’s back to Vancouver for a brief week before setting sail again to everyone's favourite socialist paradise. My inside connections tell me that El Comandante is doing very well and he is set to give his first public speech, since his tummy was tucked, on December 2. Hopefully I’ll see most of you in that time before I run down to Cuba and beyond. I’m sure that by then I’ll be in dire need of comfortable resting places, fine Vancouver food stuffs and hygienic services. Ahh, sweet sweet hygiene.

The Valley of the Moon

2006-10-24T10:27:00.000-05:00

Hey Geography department, how does mother nature go and make this sort of landscape? My goodness. Just a better perspective on this sacred valley to give a better feel to that narrow ridge that I posted above.

A Machu Pichu llama

2006-10-24T10:19:00.000-05:00

Cultural war with Llamas

Here’s a Llama. Not quite as cute as their close cousin, the Alpaca.

You know I saw a damn Llama walk right up to a little child and kick her in the face. I tell you, llamas are sketchy critters….probably grumpy from over 500 years of indentured service, and all for a few bites of Alfalfa.

Now Alpacas are much happier critters. All they want to do is give you sweaters and funny hats. They are such docile beasts. As Spanish conquistadors soon learned, if you’re cruel to an Alpaca and hurt its feelings, it’ll just sit down and die. But not llamas, they kick children.

I really think that we’re at cultural war with Llamas.

Strange critters

2006-10-24T10:12:00.000-05:00

I encountered this guy in Peru. Any ideas as to what the hell he is?

A sense of home? Chronicle of the City of Kingston

2006-10-19T19:24:00.000-05:00

People ask me where I'm from, and where I'm living, and I'm having a great deal of trouble answering. Quito doesn't really fit, and Vancouver, at times seems to do so less and less.

Today I was in Kingston, my former "home" for 5 years. In fact, for 3 of those years I lived on this street, and 2 of those years were in the house that once stood on this crater.

I was giving a guest lecture at Queen's university this morning. It was a great honour to return to the old Alma Mater, not as a drunken buffoon during homecoming but as a recognized lecturer.

Things always change when you come back. New restaurants, new buildings, new students, and other little changes. I knew that the university was going to destroy my old house, but seeing it was a little shocking...truly the end of an era.

The wild times on Clergy Street will never be again. Never again will 200 people be jammed into 101 Clergy for a house party, and never again would we have the opportunity to send the overflow to 85 Clergy Street.

Sure these houses were dives, and ready to collapse at any point. We had rats the size of skunks and skunks the size of raccoons, and raccoons living in their own special rooms but not paying rent.

A strange feeling it is to return to Canada for a short week between 4 different cities, while officially on the road in South America. Stranger feeling yet to stay in a hotel in your old town, and see your old house blown away in the winds of time.

Awe Inspiring Mahcu Pichu

2006-10-19T19:21:00.000-05:00

Machu Pichu under the sun

2006-10-19T16:39:00.000-05:00

Incan GPS and the ethics of knowing (double click the photo for better detail)

2006-10-17T23:21:00.000-05:00

Machu Pichu should be considered a wonder of the world. Built over 500 years ago without any cement, lined perfectly with the stars, the moon and the sun, this dynasty of the Incan empire is awe-inspiring even though it is in ruins, and half buried under 500 years of natural growth.

When it was discovered in the 1900s (from the point of view of Western society that is, because sometime in the 1400s it discovered itself) there were two Quechua families living in it.

Today Llamas live in it, and tourists by the bus load come up to visit every 30 minutes. But between the construction of Machu Pichu and the most recent tourist bus to arrive, there were 500 years of knowledge and understanding lost, that we may never be able to fully comprehend.

The GPS is above a stone that the Incans used for a compass. The stone is shaped like the Southern Cross (that intensely bright constellation that Northern Hemisphere types may never get to know), and is, as according to the GPS incredibly accurate.

We need satellites to find our way now, but the Incas used rocks. They relied on the stars to navigate themselves, and now, thanks to our means of getting around, the poisonous pollution clouds that choke our cities throw the stars from the sky.

The Incas understood stone work to such a degree that they didn't even bother to use cement. Brickwork was a temporary fixture compared to their masonry which still lasts to the day, and was purposefully designed to withstand earthquakes. Making buildings stand up during an earthquake is a completely lost science in Latin America.

What other ways of knowing were lost over time? The Spaniards, waving bibles, dogs and guns did a good job to blame a lot of what they didn't know (astronomy, medicine, hygiene, manners, and respect for the natural environment) to witchcraft and acts of the devil. Words of the bible were shoved into the Incan folk, and if that failed bullets went in shortly thereafter. From fear of what they saw, Spaniards justified repeated attacks on the Incans, because this witchcraft could only be made sense of by forcing the creators into a state of indebted labour.

How many pains of the world have been caused by too little understanding and too much fear to seek new ways of knowing?

At this conference in Ottawa that I’m at, a man wearing a suit and showing signs of eating more than he should, asked us if we thought that the research ethics committee should restrict research based on deemed use and importance.

What the hell? The Spanish inquisition did not even have the fallacy to summon an ethics board before administering an execution, I thought.

In all the knowledge that we've done so well to destroy, perhaps none better is the ability to learn from our mistakes.

The highest I've ever been

2006-10-17T23:00:00.000-05:00

You may have to double click on this photo to see it in detail, but this is me with the GPS at 15283 feet above sea level. 15,000 feet is where things start to go funny. Ball point pens start to burst, hard drives burst, diesel engines do not perform worth a damn and German tourists puke and puke and puke. Nothing funnier.

It is something to think that if you were standing at this elevation above Vancouver the turbo prop planes would be a good thousand feet below you, and the sea planes, nearly ten thousand feet below. It's no mystery why the Spanish had such a difficult time colonizing this neck of the woods. Sitting up is a challenge at this height, and I can not possibly imagine lugging a cannon and mortar up to this elevation

This is the place where you begin the trek down Bolivia's death road. The death road (see photos below) is being improved in parts so that it is paved, and a few safety standards are put in place.

Funny that even in the new parts the locals refer to it as "el nuevo camino de muerte."

Such confidence in local engineering.

I'll just let Machu Pichu Speak for itself

2006-10-17T18:19:00.000-05:00

6:20am at Machu Pichu

The Death Road!!! And my role in the war on drugs.

2006-10-10T19:31:00.000-05:00

Communication isn't always easy on the road, and this is especially true when you're spending your time on the most dangerous road in the Americas.

Here we are barrelling down el 'camino de muerte'. That's what the locals actually call it. A few years ago one of the big and mighty development NGO's labelled this road the most dangerous in the hemisphere. Now, crazies such as us can go barreling down it at 55 km/h on a damn mountain bike. At this point the road is paved, but it certainly gets a bit worse in parts.

This is how we spent a day in Bolivia. A fantastic country that is fantastically poor. This makes for your dollar going a long way, and coincidentally, exceptional hospitality from the local folk.

For most of the time we were well over 3,600 meters above sea level. This makes for frequent use of Coca tea, Coca candies and other wonders that are coca. This strange little leaf tends to help with the altitude, wards off hunger, fixes your guts, and probably has about 16,500 other medicinal properties. But, because rich lawyers in New York like it best when mixed with gasoline (and other fine traditional ingredients), and then have it shot up their nose in the form of Cocaine, the poor little Coca leaf has been at war with the U.S. for quite some time. Funny how in order to make Cocaine gasoline is just as important as the Coca leaf, but it is the impoverished Coca farmers in Bolivia who get soldiers sent on to their farms and agent-orange-like-herbicides sprayed on them and their crops.

Personally, I'm all for the Coca leaf. And I plan to bring some Coca tea back with me to share with you all. Certainly our customs agents will have the good common sense to recognize this traditional herb for what it really is....a tastey infused beverage, and not a dangerous drug.

More on the death road

2006-10-10T18:01:00.000-05:00

Now imagine two of these guys passing each other on a blind curb.

This is not exactly like riding in Vancouver, now is it?

2006-10-10T17:09:00.000-05:00

This is what you're up against. Oh and P.S., while that is a fully loaded lorrie barreling past my right leg, about six inches from the left leg is a 2,000 m vertical plunge.

As reward for survival....you get a tight fitting T-shirt. Bienvenidos a Bolivia

And it gets a bit dusty on the death road

2006-10-10T17:00:00.000-05:00

In case you haven't got a complete feel for this road

2006-10-10T16:18:00.000-05:00

Oh, and let's not forget about the Coca tea

2006-10-10T16:17:00.000-05:00

Natural medicine at its finest.

Hey Blogger, what the hell?

2006-09-29T15:30:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-09-25T16:32:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-25T13:16:00.001-05:00

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?

2006-09-25T12:52:00.000-05:00

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

And now for a cleansing ale

2006-09-25T11:33:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-09-18T17:08:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-09-18T16:10:00.000-05:00

Y, senores y senoras, Alex Garcia

2006-09-18T16:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-12T19:14:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-08T09:08:00.000-05:00

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…”

2006-09-04T17:36:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-09-02T10:07:00.000-05:00

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!