July 3 2002/Day 1

Spirit Hickeys and Crazy Birds

Arrived in Quito last night around midnight after eleven hours of travel during which I did two things: read and sleep. The field school only required me to read one textbook to prepare, but due to an unexpected distraction during the week prior to my departure I only had about thirty pages read when my flight left, and very little sleep. True to academic form, I completed the last page of the epilogue amidst the jostle of my touchdown in Quito. The program director, Tod Swanson, met us at the airport, and myself and six yankees proceeded to the hostel to retire, y'all.

After breakfast we took the bus to the colonial district of Quito, viewing renaissance architecture, courtyards, the home of the city's founder, and the church of San Francisco, all circa 1530. This church was almost entirely covered on the inside with plundered Inca gold, which was breathtaking, as was the ornate Spanish renaissance architecture, statues, stained glass, etc. The inside was very dimly lit, and I got off only one flash photo before being told they were prohibited.

In the afternoon we journeyed to the home of a curandera, a Quichua healing woman, or shaman, who lives in a village about half an hour outside of Quito. The bus deposited us next to a dusty driveway, and we proceeded to a small building only barely high enough to stand up in, with a tin roof and concrete walls, resembling a garage. In the entrance there was a shrine with a statue of Christ, and an ornament consisting of a cured snakeskin covered with spears and stuffed animals and hides. On the walls were plaques announcing the state certification of the resident curanderos, who are licensed practitioners of shamanism. In the inner room there was a ceremony in progress, and we were told to quietly enter and take seats along the walls to observe. Inside, the walls were covered with Catholic paintings depicting the crucifixion, nativity, etc. The room was dimly lit by candlelight and a few sunbeams evading the loose curtains. Behind a table covered in polished stones of various sizes and sprinkled with red and white carnation blossoms sat the curandera, a small, tough-looking woman of at least eighty, singing in the Quichua language. Her son was also there, a shaman as well, and he was chanting and rubbing polished stones over the body of an Ecuadorian woman who stood in her underwear. Two others waited near the wall, also in their underwear, and an assistant sat beside us, pouring rum into a bowl and lighting it on fire, stirring it and periodically checking the temperature. The ritual was elabourate, and consisted of numerous variations on a few core themes, which soon became familiar, but never tiresome. As each action was performed, our supervising professor would explain the significance and translate for us the mix of Spanish and indigenous Quichua being spoken and sung. These rituals were clearly sacred, but in no way grave or solemn, and were punctuated by jokes and laughter, as well as interrupted or overwritten by explanations from either the shaman herself or Professor Swanson.

First the woman being healed was made to stand, as the curandera's son chanted invocations in Spanish, while brushing his hands over various parts of her body, periodically blasting puffs of air onto the areas he was stimulating. The invocations included the lord's prayer, as well as requests for positive energy, good spirits, and good luck to enter the person; good luck was requested for their work, their studies, their love life and their business. As well, any molesting or malicious spirits were addressed and told that they were unwelcome. The Ecuadorian clients seemed comfortable with our presence, although I got the impression that they would have preferred privacy. I was reminded of a story I heard recently about the experience of a woman who nonchalantly agreed to have a medical student observe her gynecology examination.

After the preliminary cleansing, the curandera's son instructed the woman to close her eyes, and he took a mouthful of the rum, spraying it finely over the body of the woman with a loud and guttural 'wwhoooosshh' sound. He did this twice, and then she was made to sit, as the curandera herself, still chanting and singing, rose to approach her, touching her in various places, a diagnosis. She then took a handful of scrap paper and, starting at the hands, she began to suck out negative energy and malicious spirits from their places of refuge throughout the woman's body. This entailed placing her mouth squarely on the skin, and sucking her lips tight to create a vacuum for a few seconds, to be removed with a wet and audible "pop." She would then spit onto one of the scraps of paper and proceed to the next region of flesh. Occasionally if the spot she cleansed was unusually foul, she would hold up the paper to reveal what she had removed, appearing as greening to blackish sludge, in small quantities. Once or twice I could see her spitting chunks of this stuff out, and she continually made sounds of gagging, choking, and revulsion, as if she were taking something truly noxious into her mouth for longer than she cared to, reminiscent of a person siphoning gasoline in the service of some unfortunate emergency. Where the dark material was coming from I couldn't be sure, but let me assure the skeptic that her mouth was clean, whenever it was visible. These spirit hickeys were placed all over the body, neck, stomach, thighs, feet, forehead, chest, and finally she was satisfied and sat down again to sing.

The next phase began with the woman in her underwear standing again, this time in a plastic tub. More rum was always being heated, and it was mixed now with a scented green liquid and a handful of herbs. The curandera's son then selected two smooth round rocks from the mesa or shrine in front of his mother and stood in front of the woman being healed, striking the stones together while chanting. He then placed them in the woman's hands, and sprayed her again and again with dozens of mouthfuls of the rum mixture. Each time he sprayed her in a new place she would rub the smooth rocks over it, eventually covering her drenched body. Finally he took a bunch of stinging nettles, tied together in a bouquet, and proceeded to swat her all over, still chanting, until finally he handed her a towel for her eyes, and dismissed her.

Other ceremonies included the blessing of their passports and property deeds with incantations and tobacco smoke, it was explained to us that this was because they were planning to mortgage in order to seek immigration to Spain and had come for good luck. Also, the other Ecuadorian woman, who was young but very obese, received a peculiar sort of diagnosis to determine what parts of her body were afflicted with ailments or bad spirits. From a canvas bag the curandera's son produced a live and squirming Qui, or Guinea Pig, and taking it by the midsection, he shook it violently in front of various areas of her body. Shortly its squeals subsided, and when he had completed his circumnavigation of her corpus, he laid it twitching on the ground, and taking a knife he made a small incision by one of it's rear legs, and stripped its entire skin off, carefully, without breaking a single blood vessel. He then cast aside the skin, and we beheld the pink glossy body beneath, which miraculously had not a drop of blood on it. We were told that this underbody would reveal the parts of the woman that were infirm, and as we watched, red bleeding blotches appeared over the lungs and on the thighs, as well as above the spleen. Once this divining procedure was complete, they could focus on these areas of the woman's body with confidence.

After the three Ecuadorians had been cleansed and healed to the curandera's satisfaction, they paid, about thirty dollars American each, and left, and our group was served lunch by the family. We were told that after lunch any of us who were interested could participate in a healing ceremony as well, at the expense of the field school. I was one of four who volunteered. I wont repeat the details of the ceremony, since they were very similar for each person, but there were a few interesting variations in my experience worthy of note. I was made to strip to my underwear and stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by the observers from the school. During the initial diagnosis the curandera's son quickly identified my right knee as a source of weakness, in need of attention. Indeed, that remains the weakest joint on my body, a snowboarding injury exacerbated by years of tree-planting. The 'whoosh' and spray of rum were described to me the night before as 'spitting' by one of the other students, but in actuality the 'whoosh' sound is composed of the resonation of the shaman's lips and a deep hum in his throat. Coupled with the expulsion of the rum, hot from being recently lit on fire, it has a powerful effect, not tangible when watching from across the room. The experience is like being blasted by a medicinal shotgun, and raises goosebumps, as well as being very calming. The feeling of the curandera's mouth sucking against my flesh was equally intense, and although my eyes were closed, and I could not see what foul material she spit onto the paper, it sounded repugnant. Her mouth was surprisingly soft, and it distinctly felt as if she had no teeth, although I know that she did, and they were healthy. Her chanting was interspersed with muttering about 'malo animo' and 'energia negativa'. She sprayed rum onto my open palms and instructed me to rub them together, and then passed me onto her son. Here is where I became the source of raucous mirth for the whole group. The curandera's son handed me the smooth stones and sprayed me with hot rum all over, back, arms, face, as I rubbed myself, spreading the liquid, and banishing bad spirits. Then, standing in front of me, he paused, chanting, divining, and soon burst into laughter and said something fast in Spanish to the translator, Martina, who also began to laugh. The only word I caught was 'loco.' She told me in English something about a 'crazy bird', my eyes were closed so I couldn't look, but suddenly the whole group was laughing, and my perplexity about the meaning of 'crazy bird' was dispelled when he pulled out the elastic of my shorts and sprayed a mouthful down the front of them. Now, I was trying to follow orders, following each spray of hot rum with the smooth stones, but I also knew that they were sacred, and spirits dwelt in them, and I was not sure if I was supposed to rub them on my genitals or not. My hesitation was quickly repaid, as the shaman instructed me to do exactly that, helpfully translated by Martina, who said, 'go on, you have to cleanse your crazy bird.' So I did.

This whole episode was devoid of silence, because of the constant and uproarious laughter of everyone in the room, especially since no one else had received any attention at all between their waist and upper thighs. Caught in the spirit of the moment, the curandera's son invited everyone to take pictures, even though Prof. Swanson had expressly forbid it before we entered. Since it would be rude to contradict this invitation, a dozen eager cameras were quickly produced, though with my eyes closed I noted only the light from the flashes and clicking sounds. I smiled and maintained good humour as he continued to douse me with mouthfuls of rum, and then endured the swatting with stinging nettles, which really did sting, especially because of the alcohol. Afterwards he handed me a towel for my eyes and asked me how I felt, and also how my 'crazy bird' felt, to which questions I both answered 'muy bien'.

This event was the subject of much humour around the dinner table later, accompanied by an explanation from Prof. Swanson about the two-fold meaning of it all. First of all, it brought in good spirits to the group through the invocation of laughter and humour, and second, it was meant to make my bird less crazy, specifically, to cure me of womanizing (his words). So far I have felt no tangible difference, except perhaps an increased humility for my transparency. Readers of this account can make of it what they may, but I must admit the experience made a very strong impression on me. I mean, how on earth could they have known that I had a bad knee?!?

Love to you all and I welcome responses. Personal notes will receive personal requital, but I will try to give general accounts of my experiences here as they arise. Tomorrow we leave for Napo province, deep in the Amazon, and I will not have access to a computer for perhaps a week. In the meantime, ten un buen verano, y suenos dulces.

Baba

 

 

July 7/Day 4

From the Andes to the Andis

Arrived the day before yesterday at the home of the Andi family on the Napo river, 30 km east of Tena, where I am now. The family consists of one patriarch, Bartolo, and his many sons and daughters, and their many sons and daughters. One of Bartolo´s daughters is married to our program director, prof. Swanson, which is why we are welcome in their home. There are cabinas on the property constructed to accommodate the field schools that visit every year, so we are very comfortable. We arrived late at night after a full day on a bus on rough roads, at which point I still had not had a shower since arriving in Ecuador. This was because I underwent the rum spraying on the first day, and was informed afterwards that I was not permitted to bathe for at least twenty-four hours, so that the ceremony could work its magic. When I woke up in the morning after a night of continuous torrential rain, the river had swollen and consumed a good portion of the riverbank, including the footpath that I had walked only the night before. It was also a filthy brown colour, which frustrated my urgent need to bathe in it. The compound does have showers, but they run off of the drinking water system, and are to be used sparingly. By evening the colour had faded back to a brownish-green, and I finally got to wash the curandera saliva and travel-sweat from my body. The river is enourmous, and very fast moving. At my fastest I can barely fight the current enough to stay in one place. Days here consist mostly of classes in Quichua language and culture, both of which are fascinating, and, of course, carry all kinds of parallels to similar post-colonial cultural phenomena in North America. The food is a mixture of American staples, which are acceptable, and wild flora gathered from the jungle, supplemented by what can be grown. The first night's fare was fiddleheads, yuca, plantain, palm heart, pineapple, and lemongrass tea. Today and tomorrow there are no classes, since it is the weekend, and this morning we took a bus, so crowded I had to hang out the door for a stretch, into Tena for email and supplies. These trips to town are uncannily like days off from tree-planting, since Tena is comparable in size and resources to many interior B.C. towns, and the day's schedule is virtually identical: laundry, food, email, phone calls, more food, leave.

Last night it was clear, with a sky of completely unfamiliar stars and constellations, this being a new hemisphere for me. The Andi family made a fire, and the musicians among them emerged to serenade us. With a combo consisting of a violin, guitar, drum, and vocals, they produced some incredible melodies, which kept us dancing for hours. The lyrics were mostly Quichua, with some Spanish folk songs interspersed. One of their tunes subtly increased in tempo every four bars or so, and I was led onto the dance floor by one of the Andi family nieces, and, following her lead, we managed to match our dance to the tempo until we were in a near frenzy, virtually collapsing with laughter and exhaustion when the musicians finally relented, their fingers no match for our feet.

The local fauna is also constantly entertaining. This morning I was awakened not by my alarm clock but by screams from the room next to ours, as one of the girls got acquainted with a tarantula near the head of her bed. Another one of the students has kept such a creature captive in a jar in his backpack for weeks, feeding it moths, and watching it grow fat. Another one of the students, Manuela, is a yoga instructor (and the former Columbian national women's waterskiing champion), and we are having impromptu classes to keep limber (yoga, not waterskiing). Waiting for the bus this morning we were comparing handstand abilities and I began walking around the muddy landing like a cavalier, losing my balance and landing so as to cover myself with black slime, so much for my clean outfit on the town.

Tomorrow we are going to the Napo community church service, which is protestant evangelical, but delivered in Quichua, using a Quichua translation of the bible. Translators of the bible were responsible for developing written systems for many of the oral languages in South America, including Quichua, motivated by the belief that the second coming will be postponed until all tongues can praise God in unison. This is also being facilitated, I guess, by the rapid disappearance of hundreds of indigenous languages. On monday we will be embarking on a two day hike deep into the jungle, staying in a remote cabin, and information gathering from our guides, who will be pointing out the flora and fauna used by the Napo Runa in pre-Columbian times, and still used by many. Tengo que ir ahora. My next access to the wire is difficult to predict, but I will do what I can. All good things from around the world.

baba

 

July 13/Day 10

Volleyball, Vines, and Verbal Reciprocity

Hell of a week. Last Sunday we visited the evangelical protestant church here in Napo, and listened to Quichua gospel singing, both by the adults and children (captured by my trusty minidisc recorder). In the afternoon most of the group went on a jungle hike, but I elected instead to join in the local Sunday soccer game, which we passed on the way. Hiking boots discarded, I played barefoot, as did at least half of the players, which was no problem because the field was slick from rain and virtually free of stones. Stopping was not an option, with any momentum, and the game was closer to Ecuadorian mud wrestling than world cup. It was a source of constant mirth, however, as we all took turns bailing and slime-bathing in the name of the sport. At one point I took a goal-kick and actually popped the ball. It landed flaccidly in the mud, deflating. I guess I must have jammed it against the only stone on the field, because it had taken harder kicks than mine. The players all had fun making light of my superhuman strength: "Eres muy duro!"

Afterwards, we all proceeded to the volleyball courts nearby, where a game of three on three was underway. Ecuadorian volleyball is very different from what we have at home, for those readers who partook in the camp games. For one thing, the net is two or three feet higher, so there is no spiking. Also, the ball is a heavy soccer ball, so open handed setting is almost impossible, which is not a problem, because the game is pretty much catch and throw, although you can't hold onto it for more than a fraction of a second. Watching a few games I got the idea, and afterwards I formed a team with two of the Andi sons and we challenged. Abel, the one I knew the best, approached me asking for my ante, and I realized they were playing for money. The bet was a buck a head (Ecuador uses the American dollar), but since I didn't have money on me I got Abel to cover for me. The first game they put me up front (positions are fixed, no rotation) and it was a miserable failure. I think we lost 9-2. Used to spiking and blocking in the front, I was constantly flying through the air and landing gracelessly in the mud trying to reach impossible balls. Luckily it was best two of three, and for the second games I played in the back, in serving position, letting Abel cover the front. When he wanted me to come in for a high one he would shout "Entra, entra!" and I would rush in with a mighty leap. Anyway, all suspense aside, we fought our way back point by point and ended up winning the last game by a point or two. I walked home sipping a pop bought with my hard-earned spoils, which I didn't feel the least bit bad collecting from opponents in lower tax brackets. Abel told me earlier today that the losers are demanding a rematch this coming Sunday.

Monday we embarked on a two-day field trip into the virgin rainforest. The hike in was two hours up a creek - not along it, but wading thigh-deep in the middle of it, over-arched by old-growth Amazon jungle. Morpho butterflies fluttered by every so often, and the smell was incredible. The Andi family owns 500 acres of virgin jungle along the Napo, including a kind of retreat destination in the middle, which was where we were headed. The house was really just a platform with a thatched roof, large enough to accommodate the twenty of us, but small enough to begin pacing on when the rain prevented movement elsewhere. It was nice most of the time, however, and the two days were spent swimming in the creek nearby, where there was a beautiful waterfall (the walls of which were studded with spiders the size of a child's hand) and going on satellite hikes guided by the Andi men. Along these hikes they would point out each plant used for different traditional medicines, aphrodisiacs, blow-dart poisons. A few times they stopped to tell stories about personal encounters with "sacha warmi" or succubi, forest spirit women who would try to seduce them into 'crossing-over', something that happened to a cousin of theirs, instilling them with great fear. Along the path we were following there were various pit-stops, where we would observe sacred sites used by Shaman to contact the spirit world, and swing on vines hanging from the canopy. At one point we came to a great vine about four inches in diameter snaking from its place rooted in the ground up to the canopy, virtually out of sight. Camilo Andi explained to us that sometimes they would hit a monkey with a blowdart in the canopy and it would pass out up there, making them climb for it. He then proceeded to shimmy up the vine, using the sporadic notches as leverage. It was not solid like a tree, but spiraled and snaked as he climbed, like trying to scale an irate anaconda. When he came back down (having climbed about half way up), he posed an open challenge to the group, to see if any gringos could cut it and climb for their supper. Proud to represent for Canada, I was the first and only taker. I made it as high as him with some effort, and then continued on higher, until Prof Swanson had to call me down "okay, we believe you, you could go all the way up, no need to prove it", and so I slid back to the ground. Our climbing speeds were pretty equal, but returning to the ground I found my bare feet were scraped and bleeding, while his were intact. Evidently my technique needs work. This episode added 'mono' to 'crazy bird' on my list of nicknames. The only fauna we saw during these hikes were: a single small mono (monkey) from far away, a black snake that shot between two hikers and was gone, of which I only caught a slight glimpse, and multitudinous butterflies and other insects. This, as I understand it, is largely because of the advent of shotguns and subsequent disuse of blowguns in hunting around here, which has depleted the game. In Quichua, the word for 'animal' is the same as the word for 'meat.'

At night, the Andis would tell us stories from Napo oral mythology, and stories of their experiences with supai, or forest spirits, translated into English by the laconic Tod Swanson. After Camilo had finished, Tod asked if there were any questions and was about to dismiss us. I interjected, explaining that in many cultures storytelling was a strictly reciprocal activity, and I offered a story of Canadian culture (derived from a story of American culture). Since the Andis do not speak English, I got Manuela, the Columbian waterskier, to translate into Spanish for me, stanza by stanza, as I narrated 'The Mosquito' for the Napo Runa, my tree-planting adaptation of Poe's "The Raven". The Runa were spellbound (and the Americans weren't unimpressed either), and afterwards Tod explained to me that they have no traditional word for fiction, that myths are stories understood to actually have taken place, and that, since the themes of talking animals and haunting spirits were so familiar, they may have taken it for an actual occurrence. Tod said that it may have been the first time a 'story' that was overtly fictional had been told in that setting. Doubtless they understand exactly what it was, oral poetry, literature, symbolism, whatever, and since then I often get them winking at me and saying "nunca mas" with a grin, quoth the troubadour, "Nevermore".

Quichua lessons have been progressing well, hampered only by a twenty four hour flu that gripped me earlier this week, during which I lost voluminous fluids from both ends, and spent much of my time staring at a grinning three inch cockroach on the outhouse wall. My delirium, and the cockroach's presence, had me contemplating the possibility that the runs might have been a mal aire hex imposed on me for some irreverent jungle transgression. In Runa mythology the moral of many stories is: "never disrespect the jungle, it will come back to you." The Andi women prepared a remedy for me, wickedly bitter, from the bark of a few medicinal trees. The parasite was no match for that foul brew.

Last night I offered to trade some of the Andi kids a Quichua lesson for an English lesson, and after they had helped me with my homework I broke out my rhyme book and forced them to try reading through some tongue-twisting raps, to their great amusement: "My job has major perks / it's got my crazy bird / tryin' to escape the words / of the shaman's curse / I can't stay in one place and chirp / stagnation hurts." My rationale was, if you can enunciate densely rhymed verse, and understand the syntax, you can speak the language. Progress was made, evidence of the applied potential of lyric poetry for ESL training. Nina and Chashma and anyone who has taught ESL under a rigid curriculum may balk at this, but the possibility remains.

Time is up for now. Hope you are all well.

baba

 

July 21/Day 18

Fighting the Current and Biting the Bullet

This morning a few of us rose at six and walked to the hotsprings here in Banos, a beautiful town surrounded by towering cliffs and one of the larger volcanoes in Ecuador. As I was walking towards the hot pool an old man informed me, "tienes que duche antes nadiendo," pointing helpfully to the hot showers on the far side of the complex. Instead I plunged into the icy cascade beside us, appearing, with some effort, quite comfortable and very much at home doing so. In response to his surprise and amusement, I said "Esta bien senor, soy de Canada, el norte, para nosotros eso es caliente." He laughed, nodding, no doubt picturing polar bears and igloos.

Yesterday our sojourn with the Andi family in the jungle came to an end, after an academically rigourous week, punctuated by a few events worthy of narration. Most of the time was spent in classes, or preparing for tests, or interviewing the Andis, information gathering in preparation for some hypothetical final paper that will come out of this trip. One day at lunch I sat down to rice and sauteed meat, which smelled delicious. To my surprise, several people at the table offered me their portions, eagerly scraping their plates onto mine. One said, "you'll enjoy it more if we don't tell you what it is." I told her that she should know me better than that by now. What we were eating was a giant white-bellied rat species that lives in the jungle, a delicacy among the Napo Runa. It was quite enjoyable, with one small exception. At one point I winced in pain as my teeth met unexpected resistance, what I took for a bone. It was actually a bullet, a round lead pellet I am keeping for a souvenir.

Tuesday we participated in the harvesting of Yuka, or manioc, which is the staple food of the Runa. The yuka chagra, or garden, is on the opposite side of the river from where we were staying, and we crossed in a small canoe, hiking a short distance through banana trees until we reached the yuka stands. The plants were thin with small leaves, looking quite inedible, and we began by clearing the brush around them with machetes, and then chopped them down a few feet from the ground. Pulling on these stocks revealed the bounty, a swollen root system of starchy bulbs, similar to yams, but closer in texture and flavour to potatoes. These were then broken off and peeled, revealing smooth white insides, which were stacked carefully in baskets, to be carried back by Kevin and I, the only two males to participate in this optional activity. This whole process was ritualized, and the Andi women sand a traditional song as they chopped and peeled. After carrying the baskets back to the boats under a dazzling sun, we were all sweaty and hot, and a few of us elected to swim back. Since the yuka field is upstream from the compound where we stayed, we could float downstream, enjoying the sunshine, and make our leisurely way across. It was a singularly pleasurable conclusion to the day, but in retrospect a little foreboding of what was to come.

The next day we got another typical downpour, which swelled the river dangerously and forced us to cancel our trip to Misahualli, a small town downstream we can reach by boat. I read in the paper today that the whole beach was swallowed and policia national had to be called in on flood duty. We went swimming in a different river nearby and worked on projects or whatever. The next day it was sunny again, and the river was down, but still not to normal. We had been going everyday to our swimming spot, which only afforded a small area to bathe, because ten feet out from the bank the current was swift and powerful. As I have described, this allowed a strong swimmer to stay in one place only with great effort, a sort of water treadmill. Directly across from the swimming place was an island, mid river, which looked like a promising place to explore, with small beaches, bushes, etc. The problem was, directly downstream from the swimming spot the river became shallower, rockier, and rougher, sweeping into a patch of rapids that would be painful or treacherous for a swimmer to endure. The question we had been posing to ourselves was, if we dove in and swam as hard as we could, aiming slightly upstream to compensate for the current, could we make it to the island before being swept into the rapids? Thus far we had not ventured an attempt. Our experience a few days before had rekindled our interest, however, since we knew that we could just hike upstream, and swim to the island with ease. On Thursday, our last day on the Napo, we did exactly this, hiking to where our boat had launched for the yuka excursion, and without having to exert too much effort, Manuela, Sasha, Kevin and I all swam across to the island. We spent an hour or so there in the sunshine, skipping rocks, laying on the only sandy beach to be found in the area, and congratulating ourselves for having the expeditiousness to seek such a place out. At one point we encountered a small brown snake in the rocks, and poked at it with a stick to test its pugnacity. It promptly wheeled around and bit the stick several times. Suddenly uncomfortable about sharing space with it, we chased it into the water and bid it farewell as it slithered downstream.

The problems began when we started to discuss the best way to get back to the shore. The most obvious route would be to make for the swimming spot, which was directly across from us, but that posed the same unpleasant possibility as the reciprocate, i.e. that we might not make it across before the rapids took us. It looked possible, but we wanted to explore all options. Just above the island, the river split, flowing to either side of it. The right side, on which we were lodged, took the bulk of the flow, hence the rapids. The left side, however, looked almost shallow enough to wade across, which would allow us to walk back up to the shore near the yuka field, where we could cross back as we had the day before. In order to test this route, Manuela and I, the stronger swimmers and trail-breakers of the group, decided to try wading across. In the beginning, the water was up to our knees, and the going was easy. I was ahead of Manuela most of this trip, which was a crossing of about sixty meters. By a third of the way, the water had risen to the level of our thighs, and the current was much stronger than it had looked. The other side looked close enough to reach, however, and having come this far we were loathe to give up. By the time I was over halfway across, the situation had worsened, the water was up to my waist, and powerful, so that my thighs and calves were burning from exerting against the current. Every few steps I would look back to Manuela, and she would give me a smile, indicating she was okay, although I noticed the smiles growing more and more strained. She is at least as strong as me, but she is shorter, so her hips were forming an anchor, causing her to fight the current more with each step. Also, I was wearing my Teva sandals and she was barefoot.

By midpoint, Manuela began to fall, as the rocks she stepped on would dislodge and roll away with the current. Each time this happened she would recover, but with greater difficulty, slipping further downstream from me. Presently her smiles of reassurance began to look more like panic, and I began to consider what would happen if either of us decided to lift our legs and go with the flow. If we did this we would be carried around the far side of the island from where we needed to go, through some equally difficult rapids, and away down the Napo, which has whirlpools and snags and other hazards, besides the difficulty we would have in getting back home. I suddenly felt the river as a great menace to us, and realized we had been foolish to put ourselves virtually at its mercy. The roar of the water was constant, and although I could stand without slipping, I felt the constant draw of the current, as that of an overpowering magnet; going back seemed as difficult a prospect as going on. This whole time, Sasha and Kevin remained on the island, watching us with mounting concern, convinced more and more that this route was not for them. At this point I made my way back to where Manuela was floundering, to give her some support, a welcome excuse to abandon a lunatic excursion. It was only by clasping hands in mutual support that we could return, since my tired legs also began to give out under me, and we took turns falling and supporting each other, until we were back in safe water, though still on the island.

Also this whole time, the Andi boys had been watching us from the swimming spot, part concern, and part amusement. As Manuela and I made our way toward them, Sasha and Kevin began to signal to Tito, who was on the shore, that they were ready to be rescued, and by the time we got to them Tito had jumped in the dugout canoe and poled over to them. Instead of having him bring them to the safety of the swimming spot, however, they had him pole upstream to the bank we were trying to reach, and they got off there and walked up until they could swim across easily, from the beach by the yuka patch. When Tito returned for us, I was busy psyching myself up to swim for the other side, gauging the distance downstream to the rapids, and basically resolving myself not to be rescued, even if I ended up a mile downstream, bruised, and had to bushwhack home. We asked Tito what he thought of the swim I was proposing, and he said it would be nothing to him, but he didn't recommend it for someone who doesn't know the river to do alone. He did, however, propose to swim with me across, and he left the boat beached on the river with Manuela, who had had enough of provoking the river's ire. Tito and I waded into the current until it was too much for us, and then he shouted "Vamonos...SWIM!" and we made hard for the opposite bank, reaching it a good twenty meters above the dangerous water. He then ran upstream, dove back in, swam back to the island, and brought Manuela back in the canoe, although it was now obvious to her that she could also have made it easily across as we did. Returning to the compound, shaken, humbled, exhilarated, and grateful to be safe, we found we had missed lunch by almost an hour, but that they had saved us more than enough, and we ate ravenously. I can't say I actually feared for my life at any time during this episode, since I was always relatively sure that however far downstream we were swept, we could make our way back. It was, however, a strong reminder of the river's power, which, like the jungle's, ought not to be trifled with.

That same afternoon we all entered an enormous canoe and motored downstream for Misahualli, where we shopped for souvenirs and chocolate and chips for the Andi children, and drank beer and ate fried Yuka and patacones, which are deep fried plantain pieces. That night we had a grand farewell fiesta with the Andis, with chicha served in bowls of gourd, and music and dancing. Chicha is one of the staples of the Amazon, a sour brew made from fermented yuka, with some small alcoholic content, which some people will not touch, but I found quite palatable. An acquired taste, I suppose.

This pretty much brings us up to the present. We will be in Banos until tomorrow, and then we are going to Salasaca, high in the Andes, and finally back to Quito, to conclude our journey. At that time, you all will read the epilogue of the ASU Field School chapter of this trip, which so far has proven worth every American penny. All good things.

baba

 

 

July 25/Day 22

Traditions, Temples, and Temporary Conclusions

Took the bus to Salasaca on Sunday, to stay at the house of Martina's family. She is one of our professors and was the medium through which I learned Quichua and much more on this trip. Her home near Salasaca overlooks the entire valley surrounding, with a splendid view of Chimborazo, the highest mountain in Ecuador, and the highest mountain in the world as measured from the center of the earth rather than sea level, because of the equatorial bulge. The first day in Salasaca we were taken by a teacher from the local school to visit sites in the valley that were sacred to the Incas, and continue to be used by shaman as sources of power. One was a great granite boulder jutting from the bank of the steep valley side, shaped much like a human skull, with crosses painted on it in whitewash, appearing as if it could dislodge at any moment. Here we witnessed a cleansing ceremony with local herbs and flowers brushed over the body of a volunteer, with incantations. That same night we witnessed yet another Ecuadorian shaman's healing rituals, with more spitting of heated rum steeped with various flora, and the transferring of mal aire and bad spirits into a bouquet of scented plants, which was then covered with rum, and lit on fire. The shaman then took mouthfuls of rum and sprayed them over the burning bouquet, aiming his fireballs out the door, so as to disperse the malignant influences captured in the plants. During this whole process he was chanting a song and whistling, and we later had the lyrics explained to us by Prof Swanson. The song traced a series of connections between the spirits of the Incas, the mountains, gold, the sun, water, and forests, each associated closely with the last to create a circle of spiritual assistance to his healing work. Martina was the recipient of this attention, and rather than stripping to her underwear, she endured the whole experience fully clothed and in a bulky winter jacket, wincing against the blasts of hot scented rum.

The following day we visited a school taught entirely in the Quichua language, modeled on the Montesory system, situated in a few modest buildings, and funded entirely by volunteer work and donations. The children were already in summer recess, but about twelve of them came in to show us around, commence projects in the workshop, and explain the Inca counting system used to inventory people, animals, and goods during the height of the empire. This was similar to the Chinese model using sliding beads, but consisted instead of a series of strings hanging from a dowel, representing multiples of ten, in which knots would be tied for each unit, allowing them to store precise numbers into the tens of millions. Later we returned to the house of the shaman, and observed his wife preparing a die from the cochineal insect, and using it to die a hand-woven woolen shawl. The bugs grow in silken cocoon on the side of a certain cactus planted specifically for this use, and are collected en mas and mashed up into a paste, which is the same dark red as their blood. Martina observed that the smooth round stone used to mash the bugs was the same one she used to see at age five, and it was permanently stained and worn. This paste was then mixed with yellow flowers and lemon juice in a great cauldron, and cooked with the shawl overnight, producing a beautiful golden red. Most of the Salasaca women were dressed in these shawls, and other hand-made textiles, representing their traditional dress with defiant pride, surrounded, it seemed, by a tide of cheaply-manufactured western garments. That night we were seen off by an ensemble of Salasacan musicians, and danced around a fire under the nearly-full moon until after one, the musicians compelled by Martina and Luz Maria to play encore after encore, close to five hours without a break. At long last, anticipating the demand of another "Penultimo!", they played while marching around us in a circle, as we continued to dance, and then wound their way, still playing enthusiastically, into the patio doorway, through the dining room, up the stairs to the living room, and out the front door to their waiting vehicle, as we followed them in a long line, waking everyone who had disdained the festivities and retired early.

Seen off with some emotion the next morning, we proceeded by bus to a site near the base of Cotopaxi volcano, which was shrouded in clouds, and toured the hacienda that once belonged to the former president of Ecuador. This hacienda was established in a compound built by early Spanish conquistadores, on the remains of an Incan temple, constructed by the Incas on the sacred site of a much older pre-Incan civilization. It was amazing to see the architectural mishmash created by this transition. The Incan mason work was incredible, with stones cut and placed together with no mortar so perfectly that even the insertion of a needle between them was impossible. Atop this base, there was the clumsy patchwork of the Spanish colonizers, irregularly fitted stones with crumbling mortar falling from between them, looking in every way like a national embarrassment next to the careful work of the civilization they bent beneath the sword. Above the Spanish stone "work" was the tiled roof of the hacienda-builders, creating for the ex-president a suitable retreat. Crowning it all was the shiny satellite dish of the hotel currently operating on the site. The Incan temple was strategically placed along triangular energy lines that correspond geometrically with the locations of the three greatest mountains in Ecuador, Cayambe ("Medicine Here"), Chimborazo ("Snowy Place to Cross"), and Cotopaxi ("Neck of the Moon"). Nearby and clearly visible was a perfectly symmetrical hill, the height of a twelve-story building, which seemed completely out of place rising from the otherwise flat valley bottom. This was a man-made feature of the landscape, predating the Incas, and remains a mystery, since its contents have never been excavated. From its summit is the only place all three of the great mountains are visible. My overwhelming urge to procure a shovel and start digging was thwarted by the prompt departure of our bus, hurrying to deposit the better part of our group at the airport that same evening.

The field school has, in retrospect, been an invaluable way to travel, and the connections of professor Swanson have afforded us many rare encounters with aspects of Ecuadorian culture fully closed to tourism. As a tourist, there is always the suspicion that the exoticisms being witnessed are put on for your benefit, since they have been commodified by your very presence. On this field school, however, I could ascertain no motives for our deception, and the overwhelming theme seemed to be the deconstruction of exotic stereotypes, to get a clearer picture of the way indigenous people in Ecuador are living and surviving today. This existence is enriched by their heritage, which they rightly feel is threatened and hold as very precious, but they are compelled as well to take their place amongst the global community, and accept those aspects of the western world that they cannot, nor desire to, escape. The perfect example of this is Tito from the Andi family, who swims the Napo river with aplomb, speaks Quichua and lives with his family largely on subsistence farming, and still goes to university in Tena, writes email, and was instantly hooked by the rap music I introduced him to, retreating from cards and conversation to listen to it for hours. The correlation between the "rimas" of urban North American youth and the traditional Quichua stories being transcribed and adapted for oral delivery was manifest.

Back in Quito at the same hostel that sheltered us the first night in Ecuador, most of the field school students have distributed, some to beaches and other destinations, and most back to the United States. Last night Sasha and Manuela and I met with Erik, and once Lobke, the fifth member, has joined our group, we will proceed back to the Amazon via a hike to a volcanic lake, and begin the non-academic portion of this adventure. This may feel like a conclusion (at least to this essay-writer), but it is probably closer to an interlude. Narratives, especially serial ones, divide nicely into chapters for the convenience of the writer and readers. Further adventures may warrant further accounts, but who knows, life could grow suddenly and unaccountably sterile, and deprive me of material. Knock on vine-ensnared, medicine-baring, succubi-concealing, flower-studded, bird-clustered, Amazonian hardwood.

baba

 

Aug 2/Day 30

Incantations, Invitations, Implications

A few missed connections had us looking for Lobke, our fifth travelling companion, for twenty-four fruitless hours, but we found her. Whenever we are asked by curious parties where we are from, our response is never brief, since we are travelling in company with two Canadians (Erik and myself), one American (Sasha), one Columbian (Manuela), and one Hollander (Lobke), the backpacker's U.N.

On Friday last week we departed Quito by bus and headed for the remote town of Quillotoa high in the Andes. This is a small community funded entirely on tourist dollars, established on the rim of a spectacular volcanic lake. From the lookout, the entire crater can be seen, with the electric green lake 400 meters below, a colour resulting from the alkaloids produced by the volcano, which is presently inactive. This renders the water unsuitable for drinking and bathing, which is a great inconvenience to the community, forcing them to import all of their water. Arriving in the afternoon, we ditched our gear and proceeded to the lookout, to see a train of mules winding up a narrow path along the face of the crater. Rather than submit to this circuitous route, we hiked and shuffled straight down the bank, picking our way through extremely steep terrain, to arrive at the shore of the lake. The water was icy cold to the touch, but the sun was shining, and we passed a few hours exploring around the shore, and hiked out just before sundown. The return hike was exhausting, especially because of the high altitude (3850 mts), the soft, sloughing slope, and the steep grade. Returning to the hostal we dined on roasted guinea pig and afterwards went to visit a woman whose calling involves travelling around South America teaching whoever is interested how to bake banana bread and other cakes. She had very little success with the residents of Quilotoa, and was on the verge of departure after a frustrating five months, but her banana bread was excellent. Later in the evening, her twelve-year-old son put on a rap CD (D-12), and began singing along with the lyrics. When asked if he knew what they meant, he shook his head no, so I took the time to transcribe a verse, and Manuela and I translated it into Spanish for him, to his great delight. Rhymes that once had only aural value suddenly became illuminated as he came to understand the puns and punchlines.

The next morning we boarded a bus early, and after a series of connections made our way back to Tena, over 12 hours of travelling time. The climatic contrast between Quilotoa, high in the Andes, and Tena, in the humid depths of the Amazon, was amazing. The next day Manuela, Sasha, and I returned to the home of the Andi family in Venecia, the location of most of the field school, and spoke to Tod and the few Andi's who were around. They seemed a bit listless, deprived only a week before of the presence of the field school students. I was searching for a lost item I believed to be there, but did not encounter it. Erik and Lobke spent this entire day sleeping. Later that afternoon we returned to Tena to collect them, and the five of us made our way by Taxi to a community called Wayra Yaku, fifteen minutes from Tena. We had come to seek out a yachaj, or shaman, who lived there, hoping he would engage us in an Ayahuasca healing ceremony. No sooner had we arrived than we learned that he had indeed lived there, but had died over a year ago. His widow informed us of this, seemingly apologetic. Giving condolences, we asked who his successor was in the community, and were given the name Cesar Ricardo Alberado, along with elabourate directions to his home. These included a long hike through the jungle on various paths, and since it was now fully dark, we were beginning to despair of finding him, when the man himself walked down the road, a strange coincidence. We arranged to meet him in Tena the next day, and returned to town to the cine-cafe, where we drank wine, played cards, ate cake, smoked rich Colombian tobacco wrapped in corn husks, and watched Cinema Paradisio in the DVD theatre.

Early the following morning we joined with a French couple for a whitewater rafting trip on the upper Napo river. The first part of the trip was spectacular, since we were travelling through virgin rainforest, tackling turbulent rapids, and pitching overboard every so often to swim a rough patch recommended by the guide. We stopped for lunch on a sandbank, and tossed a frisbee until lunch was prepared. Within an hour, the river had completely swallowed what began as a sizable island, the water rising from the morning's rain. We had to keep moving the lunch table up as our terra firma disappeared around us. Maneula stepped on and was stung by an large and vicious black hornet and later had to take breaks from paddling as the poison spread through her whole leg in flashes of heat and numbness, yet she never swelled. The lower part of the river was tamer, and the afternoon provided fine scenery though less excitement.

In the afternoon we located Cesar Albarado and took a taxi with him back to Wayra Yacu. He and I shared the box of the truck, and conversed on the way, in Spanish. He told me that he was glad for this opportunity to share his culture, and that he had been working his whole life as a healer, but had never worked with any foreigners. I told him it would be a new experience for us too, and we were grateful. We then followed a path into the jungle, which was partially cleared for yuka gardens and banana trees, for about a kilometer to his small wooden house, roofed in tin. We were served a supper of soup with yuka and plantain, and chicha to drink. After supper we took turns explaining to Cesar our motivations for wanting to participate in an Ayahuasca ceremony, in relation to our life experiences thus far. We also made it clear that we had come seeking a spiritual healing, and not in the interest of drug experimentation. Cesar told us that he was not a miracle worker, and that he was just a simple man, but that his father had been a yachaj, and his grandfather, and he had many years experience with his work, and was happy to share it, and do what he could. He sat in a chair at the back of the main room in his house, which was open above waist-high walls, and not screened. Behind him we could see the silhouettes of the jungle. Beside him were two of his cousins, his daughter, her husband, and his wife, all of whom were serving as assistants and observers. Into a bowl they poured six portions of the Ayahuasca one by one, and Cesar and the five of us all took turns drinking. The liquid was dark and very bitter, but less repulsive to the taste than I had read. It tasted very much like the stomach flu cure that the Andi women had prepared for me. The only accoutrements Cesar used during the ceremony were a bundle of herbs, tied like a bouquet, and a constant flow of cigarettes and aguardiente (cane liquor). One by one we had to approach him, first the women, and then the men, and on each of us he performed a similar ritual. All lights were extinguished, and in the pitch blackness only the coals of cigarettes were visible, flaring occasionally. The cigarette smoke was highly ritualized, blown over parts of the body as they received the healer's attention. I went last, but from what I could tell in the dark, the experience was very similar for each of us. Cesar began by placing his hands on my head, feeling about, divining. Once the results were clear to him, he would communicate them for each of us, directly or through a translator, depending on the Spanish proficiency of the subject. For Erik and I he spoke of bad dreams, and bad spirits that would visit us in the night, and people in our lives who were malignant influences. He then coughed deep in his throat with an abrasive rasping sound, and seemed to bring something foul up from the depths of his esophagus. Holding this in his mouth, he leaned over and placed his lips on the crown of my head, puffing out a short pop of air. He did this three or four times, periodically drawing smoke from a cigarette and blowing it over me. I had witnessed this same rasping in other ceremonies we observed with the field school, and it was explained by Prof Swanson that the yachaj is able to produce darts in his throat, spirit darts, that are then fired into the body of the subject being healed, seeking ethereal targets. Next he took up the bundle of herbs, and shook it about my head for some minutes, singing in a powerful voice, ensuring that my back, shoulders, head and chest were all variously brushed by the rustling herbs. I was then dismissed. Every so often a firefly would enter the house and hover about the ceiling, and Cesar would sometimes pause, disturbed. He explained to us that these insects were always omens of malevolent intention, and that there were some in the community, including his neighbours, who were aware and severely disapproving of our presence. He told us that he would not be dissuaded, and that it was important to him to share this part of his life and culture with us. He said that the night before he had been sitting at home, and had become suddenly aware of us, departing immediately to seek us out, no coincidence.

After we had all been cleansed with the herbs and spirit darts, we were given candles, and made to rub them over our bodies, so that each candle would absorb some part of our essence. The candle would then hold a sort of spiritual agency for us, and the burning of it would be both purgative and revealing. During my earnest attempt to glide the candle over the whole of my body, I foolishly applied too much pressure, and broke it in half, the top dangling flaccidly, still connected by the wick inside. I held my fractured spiritual agent in shame as I watched Cesar working with the straight tapers of my fellows, trying not to read too deeply into the event. In this part of the ceremony, we approached him once again, one by one, and handed him the candle, striking a match and lighting it. Staring hard into the flame for a minute or two, he was able to determine some insight into our respective spiritual paths, giving advice or warning, as needed. For Erik, Cesar smiled and identified a strong desire to understand the ceremony and the work of a Yachaj, and the Quichua language in which most of it was conducted. Erik confirmed this, expressing his frustration in the language barrier, and the strong feeling that much was lost as Cesar's insight was translated from Quichua into Spanish and from Spanish into English. Cesar also recognized in him a healing spirit, and the character necessary to do the work of a shaman, and he offered, if Erik wished, to be his teacher. For me, it was very much the same, and he often used the phrase "para tu, es lo mismo de tu hermano." I was also told that I could learn to be a shaman, and that he would teach me to speak Quichua, and to perform healing ceremonies with Ayahuasca. Head spinning with the implications of such an offer, I was dismissed, and returned to my seat.

The final phase involved the same spirit hickeys I had received on the first day of the trip. Cesar identified an area on each of us that was afflicted and needed cleansing, Manuela's heart, Sasha's back, Erik and my head, and began by blowing puffs of tobacco smoke onto the region in question. He then sucked his mouth tight to that place and removed it with wet 'pop,' spitting audibly to purge his mouth of whatever he had removed. At the end, he said, "eso es mi tabajito, gracias," ever humble.

I did not omit Lobke from this third phase because of an oversight. She could no longer participate. During the course of this ceremony, which took more than three hours, the Ayahuasca sacrament had a very different effect on each of us. Erik, Manuela and I felt no tangible results from drinking it; occasionally I would imagine I felt something coming on, and would anticipate some change, but ultimately feel nothing. The sounds of Cesar's ministering and the shadows of the jungle were more than enough to lend the night a highly surreal quality, but my perceptions were never altered in any way. Sasha described colours filling the darkness, and the sound of a large insect orbiting her head, as well as resurgent feelings of nausea, which always subsided before they became critical. Lobke's experience was completely unique, and unlike anyone else's. About fifteen minutes after drinking the Ayahuasca, we heard, in the darkness, the sound of her getting urgently to her feet, making unsteadily for the door, and pushing it open to vomit off of the porch. She returned to do this again at least three more times throughout the night. After Cesar's initial darts and shaking of the herbal bouquet, she rose again to vomit, and afterwards refused to approach him, laying on the floor, and saying that she was sick. She remained on the floor for the rest of the ceremony, except for when she would have to rise hastily to return to the porch to purge herself. Afterwards we questioned her about her experience. She also experienced the circling insect, and the colours, and also saw great jungle animals, including a "black lion", obviously a jaguar, both in the jungle around and in the house with us. She was visited by her parents, who were in Holland, and saw a man standing outside of the house, holding a spear. She later identified him on a poster with a photo of a statue depicting an Incan warrior, something she had never seen before. Cesar, who was a powerful presence to the rest of us, appeared ten feet tall to her, and menacing, even terrifying, hence her refusal to return to the space before him. What is remarkable about her visions is the extent to which they reflect the Amazonian power symbols and mythology, none of which she had ever seen or read about before. The jaguar is ubiquitous in accounts of the Ayahuasca experience, although she did not know this, taking it for a black lion. Badly shaken, she couldn't believe people paid for and sought out the kind of traumatic experience she had, but we all assured her that we would have traded places with her gladly, if only to witness what sounded so spectacular second hand.

We made our beds on Cesar's floor, and passed a restless night. The next day we returned with him to Tena, and Erik and I questioned him on his offer to take us on. He was indeed serious, and proposed an apprenticeship of one year, to learn the Quichua language and the specifics of the healing ceremony, the preparation of Ayahuasca, and the dangers and possibilities surrounding it. He said we could stay at his home, and that he would put us to work on his land for our food and lodgings. He said to return whenever we were ready, shook our hands, and left us in amazement. The idea is appealing for as many reasons as it is fearful, and has us both re-appraising our future plans. This was an experience more significant than my descriptive abilities can convey, and we are bound to be drawn to it again.

We spent the next day resting, and discussing, and Wednesday we returned by bus to Quito, stopping for the night at the hotsprings of Papallacta, soaking up their salve. I am now writing from Quito, the location of many of my post and pre-adventure interludes. Tomorrow, we are going to the town of Otovalo for the famous Saturday market, and then, if all goes well, to the Gallapagos islands, for some Darwinian observation of the local fauna. Only one week remains in this trip, but a week is more than enough to change a life, as we all know. See you all soon, and some of you sooner.

baba

 

End

Our last week in Ecuador was a rest cure, and compared with every other update I feel at a loss for satisfactorily exotic anecdotes. We spent four days in Quito, visiting markets, watching movies, and researching the possibility of a trip to the Gallapagos islands. When this possibility turned out to be too expensive, and thus impossible, we decided instead to head for the coast, just Erik and I. We departed from our companions, and took the bus for ten hours, arriving in a dirty fishing town called Bahia. Here we spent the night, and in the morning caught a launch across a narrow straight to the town of San Vincente, and from there took a cab to Canoa. Canoa had been recommended in the Lonely Planet guide as a relatively remote destination with a beautiful beach and minimal tourist presence. At the end of the beach are enormous caves where bats roost, reachable only at lowest tide. An earthquake three years ago in the area rendered them unnavigable, however, and our one attempt to reach them was thwarted by the rising ocean, crashing against sharp rocks, an uninviting swim. We passed our days in Canoa reading novels, swimming in the ocean, walking on the beach, playing volleyball and billiards, drinking tropical cocktails, eating excellent seafood, and fraternizing with the few other backpackers staying there. It was thoroughly relaxing, but at times a little understimulating, standing in stark contrast to the preceding five weeks, though overall it was a time I could appreciate as a tranquil conclusion to an otherwise constant adventure. After an equally long and tiresome bus-ride back to Quito on friday, we retired for our last night in South America. The next morning we took a bus to Otovalo, which transforms on Saturdays into an city-wide street market, selling every form of clothing and sculpture, jewelry and tapestry, with lots of junk, but also many things modestly priced and exquisitely made. We passed the day wandering and shopping, and returned to Quito in the afternoon to catch our flight. And that's it.

Back in Vancouver, composing the anticlimactic conclusion to the last five plus weeks, I realize this is probably the last journal entry of this sort I will write for some time. In September school recommences, and I would be loathe to tire you all with the weekly rituals and ceremonies associated with academia. Most of you know all too well. My life is not perennially interesting enough to produce the kind of narratives I experienced this summer in Ecuador, at least not as long as I am writing non-fiction. As non-fiction goes, however, I can recognize the time I have just passed as often bordering on fantastic, a rare adventure. Since it has come to an end, I will cease to "publish", and resume private correspondence with whomever is interested. Thank you all for enduring the impersonality of the group email, and for the supportive comments I received. Now I am travel-weary, and ready for sleep, and afterwards, for adventures new, which are always close at hand. I look forward to sharing them with many of you.

baba