Burn the old year down

I was glancing at the calendar yesterday and realizing that we're already in the home stretch of January.  In scarcely a week it will be February and 2010 will be well underway.

Here in Ecuador, where the sun rises and sets at virtually the same time all year, and the only distinguishable concept of seasonal change is the greater or lesser chance of rain, it's easy to lose track of the passage of time.  January, April, July, October, these are all months that have, for me and most Northerners, historically meant drastically different weather, clothes, activities and sights.  But now that I'm working on three years here along the Earth's waistline, these months are quickly becoming just names.  It's January?  A casual walk around town today or six months from now look and feel virtually the same for me.  Every day means a chance of sunshine in the morning and a chance of rain in the afternoon.  And every day is, no matter where you live, a chance to tread thoughtlessly along your routine or a chance to do something new.

There are those individuals and groups of people who believe, much as I do, that every day is sacred, and that holidays aren't really any holier than any other day.  I reflect on that even more here, where today is as much like it was on this precise day of 2008 as it is to a day in March, or June, or August.  Our concept of a calendar is the only thing, after all, that lends some sense of familiarity to July 21 of this year to the day of my birth, 32 years ago.  If we didn't play Leap Year tricks with the month of February to balance the calendar with the Earth's actual revolution around the Sun, by now my birthday would have slipped into a time more like the beginning of August, and by the end of my life, my birthday would be inching towards autumn. 

Despite all of that thought, or perhaps due to it, I have come to love one particular Ecuadorian holiday more and more, each year that I observe it.  Because, in an irreverently ceremonial way that for me knocks the wind out of any codgy or self-important significance, Ecuadorians take everything from the past, put it on display for a few hours, lump it all into a paint-and-paper-mache pile, and at precisely midnight on New Year's Eve, burn it.

Bueno.  As you can see, this moment was clearly not midnight.  And, upon closer examination of the effigies here being burned, they are not paper mache.  I guess the New Year is also a good excuse to get rid of some old clothes.  This particular scene took place on the terrace of CEDEI, my place of work.  Through the smoke you can see a man from accounting, his face belying the general sentiment one feels upon watching things burn.  We all enjoy that, somehow, deep down.

In the background you can see the ring of 8 chilean pines growing at the center of Parque Calderón, and to the right, the blue domes of the new cathedral and the symbol of Cuenca.

While these effigies burn, everyone exchanges New Year's greetings.  One of the things I respect the most about Ecuadorians is how inclusively they treat one another.  Upon entering or leaving a circle of friends, acquaintances and unknowns, each person will make a point to shake hands or kiss the cheek of every man, woman or child present.  That's true even in a party with dozens of people, which can take some dedication, and several minutes to do.  Not ideal if you're trying to make a quiet exit, I suppose.  And which also leads us to the riddle:

If 9 Ecuadorians are saying goodbye and each going their separate ways, how many individual hand shakes/ cheek kisses take place?  That is to say, each person says goodbye to every other person, once and only once.  The first correct answer wins you the prize of your choice, within the limitations of my personal income, and international shipping.

While we're on the subject of my CEDEI New Year's experience, lets take a moment to look at what New Year's traditions mean in Ecuador.  You might be wondering, for example, what the significance of these effigies is all about.  In the case of the CEDEI party, there were two effigies, each of which represented one of my coworkers.

Here is Eduardo, with his respective effigy.  Can you see the resemblance?

These effigies represent the old year, and by extension, the year to come.  Those individuals and events, both beloved and despised, get equal treatment.  When a hated figure gets burned, all the negativity of surrounding it goes up in smoke, and we all symbolically choose to forget and let go of it, with the hopes of a different unfolding of events in the coming year.  Likewise, a loved one is burned in order to erase any negativity from the previous year for that person, as a blessing and toast for the new year.

Many people make their own effigies, fashioning humanesque figures out of old clothes, balled up newspaper and cheap plastic masks.  That was the case here at CEDEI, and as you will see, with my wife's family.  But as with any celebration, there are those who make a business of it.

Stacks of pre-fab, $1 masks, with bodies stacked up behind ranging in prices, starting at $1.  So for as little as $2 you can get your effigy right on the roadside, with a mask loosely resembling your preferred victim/honored guest, ready to burn.  (As a side note, my observations have revealed that the masks are usually removed just before the effigy is set on fire.)

But, if you're really dedicated to the occasion and want to burn something more memorable, there are much more costly effigies to be bought, upwards of $200 in value.  Here are a few images of the higher end effigies on the market:

I think this is supposed to be Presidente Correa's brother...

And so, much as we from the US roam usually-empty lots seeking the perfect, freshly cut pine tree small enough to squeeze into our living rooms for the Christmas holiday, on New Year's Eve you'll find Ecuadorians out looking for the perfect symbol to set on fire, come midnight.

But, as I mentioned before, many people, and often entire families and neighborhoods, prefer to fashion their own effigies.  The quality and size of these range from life-size to much, much bigger.  And, since an organization awards a prize to the best creations on display, some of these effigies become part of much larger, allegorical panoramas, on profile all afternoon.  That is, until the magical New Year's hour when they, like all New Year's effigies must, get lumped unceremoniously into a heap, doused with some flammable liquid, and get torched

Nancy, Tamia and I planned to spend New Year's with her family, who would be making an effigy of their own.  But we agreed to take a detour downtown and see what kinds of displays were going up.  My curiosity had been piqued on my way home after the CEDEI burning, by sights like this:

 

Remembering my first New Year's experience in downtown Cuenca, I was eager to see just how this big head would be incorporated into the larger display.  And indeed, once we made it back downtown, this tell-tale, disembodied head had found itself atop a larger-than-life body:

If you don't recognize it, it's now resting atop the grey-suited gentleman on the center right.  I'll confess I wasn't able to read between the lines very well on this presentation, but my overall experience has told me that these kinds of panoramas typically paint a tongue-in-cheek critique of Ecuador's political scene.  Even a brief look at this small country's politics reveals an often chaotic process of governance, and every year, much as in any country, after all, there are quite a few controversial political decisions.  All of this provides plenty of fodder for the locals to poke fun at.

In other cities, it's often been left to graffiti artists to portray political criticism on the street in a creative way.  Here in Cuenca, I'll admit that the quotidian street art is pretty lackluster, in general.  There are some notable exceptions, but the overwhelming majority consists usually of black paint, a one sentence message, and little or no poetry or style involved in the presentation.  But perhaps that is made up for to some extent by the explosion of creativity that unfolds in the streets on this day.

Much later in the night, Nancy, baby and I emerged once again into the city - now piled into the family Volkwagen with the rest of the Macas family - to see how some other displays had shaped up throughout the evening.  We had to drive around for awhile to find anything very interesting, something that her family lamented.  Apparently in previous years, there had been much more community involvement in their own neighborhood.  Even in my own two years of prior experience, I found this year's presentations to be fewer and further between than the first, glorious experience I had.  I have a theory regarding that, but you'll have to wait for the next blog to find out why.

In the meantime, I will say that we did stumble upon an interesting presentation, one that demonstrated that it isn't just politics, but life in general, which can be the target for some of these creations:

I don't quite know what it all means.  But here there is featured a live actor amidst the paper mache surrounds, roasting two paper mache guinea pigs.  This particular display included a number of live actors who contributed to the show, mainly in the form of a paper mache marching band.  The overall theme appeared to be a sort of traveling carnival, with a number of sideshows and 4H-style animal husbandry.  I'll leave you to paint your own mental pictures.  I can't give away all my photos for free, after all.

As I may have hinted at before, I like my Ecuadorian New Year's panoramas to be on the sinister side.  After all, if you choose a negative theme to put on display, and knowing that people will experience them in the dark night, let's really take them to the dark side.  Perhaps this is also connected to my experiences with another pagan fire ritual that I love.  Zozobra, in Santa Fe.








The last display that I stumbled upon was, in fact, just two blocks from the home of Nancy's parents, and it might have been my favorite.  It wasn't the most beautiful or well assembled, but it did best represent the gory sort of imagery that I'm talking about:

It also well illustrated the political overtones that any good New Year's panorama ought to, in my opinion.  If you can't make out the details, here is a bus, having just run down a poor, innocent (notice the white clothing) pedestrian who was just trying to use the crosswalk like any good peatón should.  For some background information, 2009 saw the arrival of "intelligent" traffic lights in Cuenca.  They are supposed to measure the quantity of traffic and vary the length of each green light accordingly.  They also feature a crosswalk signal, complete with a chirping sound for the blind.  The city also launched a campaign of painting new crosswalks along many of downtown's main intersections, and even sent out university students to regulate the flow of motorized and foot traffic, aiming to make pedestrians cross at and only at the crosswalks, and to prevent cars from stopping in the middle of the crosswalk at a redlight, as often happens.

Predictably, nothing has really changed.  Pedestrians still cross the street wherever and whenever there is a break in the traffic.  Cars still stop in the crosswalk.  And, occasionally the crosswalk signals aren't even in sync with the actual traffic lights, which could very well send a pedestrian out into moving traffic.

Much as happened to our poor effigy pictured above.  The sign on the dead, bloodied walker says "CHUCH," which I intepret as Chucha! emulating the Cuencano tendency to clip the final vowel (which is, incidently, a publicly accepted expletive hailing back to an indigenous word invoking the female anatomy.)  Here I reckon the final vowel was clipped even more abruptly by the sudden end of his life.

Hanging at the top is another sign, explaining the theme of the display: "Traffic Lights. Most intelligent.  Made in China."  Haha.  The underlying idea that I took away from the scene is that being in a hurry kills people.  In fact, in the United States, cars kill more people every year than guns do.  So this year, let's heed the message. Take it easy, and try not to go very frequently to places we can't walk to, my friends.

Let's end our New Year's story back at the Macas family home.  Nancy's father prefers to make the effigy a family event, and so each year they get together and commemorate a family member in effigy form.  This year it was the youngest generation who was represented.  Our own daughter Tamia, and our 6 year old niece Giomara.  Tamia was a bit of an afterthought, in fact, so she took shape as two pieces of paper cut into humanesque form, stapled together, colored, and then stuffed with newspaper.  Giomara took a more typical shape of old clothes stuffed with newspaper and topped with a head made from balled-up papers.  Black yarn was glued onto the head, a face drawn on the front, and listo.

Here are the two honored guests of the evening, next to their effigies:

 At the midnight hour:

 

And, for those who are curious, here's how the bus -themed party down the street turned out.

 Looks like fun.  Complete with a story-high blaze and what from a distance looks like pagan fire dancing.

Our own celebrations were more mellow.  We each ate our twelve grapes in order to receive twelve years of good luck ahead.  We raised a toast to the new generation honored with the recent fire.  And, it wasn't long before Nancy and I decided to make our way home with Tamia.

So it was that our daughter witnessed what New Year's is for the first time.  I'm glad that the images before her eyes were ones that might, over the years, reveal to her the same layers of meaning that they are beginning to reveal to me.  In each effigy and subsequent fire is revealed a tradition both ancient and modern, pagan and secular, non-assuming and grandiose.  It's a symbol of human creative energy, always renewing itself by the simultaneous remembering and shedding of the past.

Guayaquil

This is Guayaquil:




















Or at least, one very exceptional part of it. Most of the city doesn't look like this. In fact, over the years Guayaquil has developed something of a bad reputation. I've made my way down from the mountains several times to go to Guayaquil, usually purposes other than sightseeing in the city, and have seen some of its sights nonetheless. Over the course of my various trips to the big, sweltering city, I'll say that there's plenty to see and do here, after all. I've been told that much of what I'll present to you here is recent development. That Guayaquil was (and still is) plagued by crime and poverty not plainly seen in a walk along its touristy bits. Recent city mayors have focused their attention on cleaning up their town and making it more attractive to locals and visitors alike, and while there still may be lots more to do, let's take a look at some of the finished products.




















The first place on our tour, and the first stop for most people visiting from out of town, is the Malecón 2000. Completed around the beginning of the decade, as the name would suggest, it represents the greatest portion of a massive renovation of this part of town. Enjoyed by guayaquileños as much as it is by tourists, this pedestrianized center overlooks the river Guayas and is home to many of the popular sights in the city. Like the park featured above. Located in the middle of the Malecón, the park is loaded with statues, tropical birds and trees, fountains, ponds, and benches from which to enjoy them.

I won't be showing you all of it here, but the scenic avenue extends for about two miles along the river, connecting other popular stops on the tourist circuit, and is heavily patrolled by security guards. As a result, you can safely and conveniently see much of downtown Guayaquil on foot. Ducking into the nearby city blocks around the Malecón, it becomes clear to the visitor that the surrounding area is benefitting from the restoration as well. Foot traffic is good business, and by providing a safe, walkable avenue in the heart of downtown, the local economy has benefitted as a result. Not to be left out, big business is also well represented on the Malecón; a shopping center, McDonald's, and an IMAX theater are all featured prominantly along the boardwalk.

Heading north along the riverfront, the iconic Rotonda.




















I'm happy to report that in renovating this part of town, plenty of attention was given to recognizing its history as well. And the biggest, shiniest example of this is the monument above, which commemorates the famous meeting of two of South America's greatest revolutionary agents. Simón Bolívar, Venezuelan, who envisioned a plan for Gran Colombia, a united nation spanning the South American continent, fought the Spanish crown in the north of the continent. And, José de San Martín, Argentinian, who commanded the revolution to the south. San Martín had fought his way to become the Protector of Peru, and the Battle of Pichincha, fought by northern troops, had sealed the revolution in the mountains around Quito. The paths of these two liberators were drawing closer to one another. And so, the two great generals, having previously corresponded but never met, chose Guayaquil as the place to discuss how the revolution would continue. The details of their meeting were kept a secret, but San Martín's subsequent withdrawal to Argentina, and later Europe, leaves it pretty clear that the decision was to leave the revolution in the hands of Bolívar.

Continuing north, the flat boardwalk gives way to the uphill streets of Las Peñas.




















The place of the original Spanish settlement of the area, many of the buildings found here today predate the fires of 1896 that forever transformed the face of the the surrounding areas. Thus, a walk here is a walk back in time. And, hopefully, a walk into the future, as renovations begun here, with luck, will continue into other nearby neighborhoods. Most notably in need of attention is the next hill over, here seen rising up above the backdrop of Guayaquil's steaming downtown.




















For the time being, the visitor can content himself winding his way up to the top of the Santa Ana hill, which is topped by a lighthouse and chapel, and where the history lesson continues into Guayaquil's maritime past. As the locals will warn you, however, it's important to stay on the route marked off for tourism. As I innocently wandered through an open iron gate into what I would consider a more authentic corner of the neighborhood, a boy spotted me and called to his father, who politely told me that I ought to be heading back the other way. Was he kindly directing me away from perceived danger, or just telling me to get out of his neighborhood? While my wife optimistically suggested the former, I couldn't help but sense a no trespassing current underlying his words. Either way, I took his advice without much protest. I was, after all, the visitor.

This particular visit to Guayaquil came during the days before New Year, which in Ecuador is a big party loaded with unique and interesting traditions. Here, you can read about my impression of New Year's back in Cuenca, if you'd like to know more about how it goes. By the looks of things in Guayaquil, things are more or less the same this time of year as they are in Cuenca:




















Here, on the stairs back down from Santa Ana, a man with his monigote. Also known as años viejos, these papier-mâché dolls make the rounds on the streets in the days prior to the New Year's celebration, with which, by donating a few coins to the doll's bearer, you can unload some of your Old Year gloom, which will later be burned in effigy. Indeed, not long after this photo was taken, two boys came to us with their own painted devil, asking for some change. We gave them enough for some candy and went on our way, a modicum of bad energy lighter than we had been.

Back down to the Malecón and to the Rotonda, which marks the entry into Calle 9 de octubre, named for the Independence Day of Guayaquil in 1820, and which fittingly begins at the monument dedicated to the two revolutionary generals who met there two years later. Today, 9 de octubre is a bustling commercial avenue, lined with tall buildings, restaurants, and retail. And lots of people. Walking, driving, sitting, selling. Selling water, selling food, selling all manners of random plastic merchandise. Crossing the streets in this part of town is an exercise in patience, and in following the herd. Each intersection is a bottleneck, and at each corner you'll find yourself in a flock of pedestrians all waiting for the right time to go. And, traffic lights or no, the right time is when enough people start across that you've got safety in numbers, and everyone takes the cue.

A few blocks going like this, and you've made it to the Plaza Centenario. Home to this massive monolith:

























It's also a home for the napping homeless, to tropical birds, and, more unexpectedly, to iguanas. There's a separate city park not far from here dedicated specifically to the iguanas, but somehow, a lot of them have ended up here, too. A better place to live, in certain ways, as this park is as big as four city blocks. These iguanas, clumsy as they are, like to climb trees. A common sight and sound here is the scratching of their desperate, clambering ascent up a tree trunk, and almost as common is the sudden drop of one of the reptiles, often from a high-up branch. And yet, despite the fall, each one I watched fall somehow managed to walk away from the scene with no visible fall-related injuries.

It was here, in this park, where I've ended almost all my trips to Guayaquil. It was here where I rested after getting my official document from the US consulate which I needed to get married here in Ecuador. When we went on our honeymoon, it was here where we relaxed during our long layover between flights. Here my wife and I recently found ourselves again, this time with our daughter, after my 2nd visit to the consulate, for her US birth certificate and passport.

And here, our little tour of Guayaquil will come to an end. I've left out plenty of what I've seen, and I know there's plenty more to see and do that I still haven't discovered. And I know I'll be to Guayaquil again, if only to make my way to its airport or massive three story bus terminal on the way to somewhere else. But if I've got the time, I'd like to give Guayaquil itself another look, and see what else this big, tropical city has to show me.

Cartagena de Indias

Last December, we got on a plane in Guayaquil, and by the end of the day were here, in Cartagena. Its narrow streets and balconies, and its colorful, crumbling walls greeted us as we sped by taxi inside the old stone walls surrounding the historic downtown.

Actually, we got there at night, and the narrow streets and crumbling walls were a little disconcerting as we formed our first impressions. We scanned the dark and empty street that was the backdrop to the front door of our hotel, it little more than a painted metal gate opening into a set of white tile stairs, flickering under the fluorescent bulbs above, leading up and around a corner inside the building.

I had made a reservation at this hotel while we were still in Cuenca. I followed the standard rule that you don't go with the cheapest nor the most expensive place when it's sight unseen. But I did go lower than I originally intended to. When I called the first place on my list and inquired about the price per night, I heard "seijenta mil pesoj" from the man on the line, breathing through his s sounds. Wait a minute. 60,000 pesos? I admit I hadn't taken the time to check the conversion rate before the call, but that sounded like a lot!

So I told him no, thanks. Then I called the next cheapest place. It was 50,000 pesos. I still didn't know what that meant in dollars, but these were certainly not the hotels at the top of the list in my guidebook as it was, and I didn't want to keep going lower. So I agreed. And now, here we were. And, 50,000 pesos turned out to be about $25.

As we wound our way up into the building, we saw that the white tile of the stairs matched the white tile floors and white tile walls, and the smell of floor cleaner and mothballs was slowly invading our noses. The man at the reception desk checked my name and showed us to our room, which had an air conditioner, no windows, and a broken doorknob. We examined the doorknob skeptically, and asked for a different room. The alternative was upstairs, still lacking a window and also lacking A/C. But the lock looked good and it wasn't that hot, so that was where we stayed.

The next day we began our exploration of the city. It was a blazing, dry, sunny heat that embraced us as we left the building, disoriented in time by the lack of windows. Part of our agenda for the day was to scope out some better lodging, and that we did. One with a much nicer traveler's feel. One with wood floors, an airy common room with big couches and internet access. It also had a wide common balcony that overlooked the street, the public square on the corner, and the orange church you see above.

Although the picture above was not taken from the balcony of our new accomodations, but from Cartagena's famous murallas.



















Cartagena, historically, was a strategic port for the Spanish colonies in South America. As such, it was a ripe target for foreign attackers, like Francis Drake in the late 1500's. After being sacked numerous times by the English and French, the Spanish crown began an extensive investment in Cartagena's defense, including these walls, which encircle all of the historical heart of the city. The project took two centuries to complete, and while they were effective in protecting the city from subsequent attacks, the walls were not fully built until 1796. Considering Cartagena won its independence from Spain in 1821, you might say the Spanish never got a full return on their ambitious investment.

Today, the walls have become many things. Museums, restaurants and shops line them above and below. Parks have sprung around them, both inside and out. And tourists like ourselves stroll along them from end to end, pursued shamelessly by vendors and beggars.

And within the walls lies the maze of streets, plazas and alleys of old Cartagena. To further confuse the visiting wanderer, literally every block of every street goes by a different name. We indulged in exploring these streets without a map, turning left or right or not at all, as we pleased.

At the time, I was reading Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, one of the most exemplary tales of his life, going from café to café around Paris, in constant search of that delicate balance between seclusion and stimulation that got him into the writing mode. Guided perhaps by this fine example, we made a point to try and have every meal in a new place, and often wandered for over an hour before settling on a place we'd passed a half dozen times. All in the name of good dining and exploration.



















One popular dining spot was here, the outdoor plaza in front of Cartagena's Santo Domingo church. There were six competing restaurants in this plaza, by my count, and all of them featured waitresses eager to greet you with a smile and put a menu in your hands. This aggressive strategy wasn't always well received by us, but I've got to admit how effective it was. This plaza was almost always full, regardless of the time of day or night. In the end, we ate there a couple of times, at two different restaurants, despite the fact that at either one of them a plate of ordinary pasta ran about $20. Maybe that sounds like a lot and maybe it doesn't, but after a couple of years in Cuenca where lunch regularly runs me $2-4, it felt steep to me, especially considering the food wasn't that great. But, it was a great place to watch the locals and tourists and enjoy some superb sunshine and sea breeze.

While we could have spent all our days leisurely strolling the streets of Cartagena, stopping at our whim for coffee, juice, lunch, or simply a rest in a shaded patio. And many days were spent doing just that. But Cartagena lies on the edge of the warm turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea, and so many days were also spent in search of the perfect beach.

Our first attempt was the nearby Bocagrande.



















While Cartagena faces the sea, it faces it with a rocky coast and the back of its formidable walls. Ships seeking to enter its ports must therefore do so through one of two mouths of a bay leading to its gates. The innermost waters of the Bay of Cartagena is girded by the peninsula of Bocagrande, while the mouth of Bocagrande itself has been blocked by an underwater wall which confounds the passage of large vessels. As a result, pirate ships were forced to approach the city through the smaller mouth much further to the south, the aptly named Bocachica.

Bocagrande today is Cartagena's answer to Miami Beach. The narrow, sandy peninsula has given rise to tall hotels and condos, a stark contrast to its colonial old town, and only 15 minutes by foot from its limestone walls. We did find beaches there, but I'll say without hesitation that the greatest beaches are ruined by ambitious developers the world around, and we were quickly turned off by the tall buildings and swarms of people crowding them from end to end. So it was that we spent little time there before we made our way back downtown.

Another journey led us to the promising Playa Blanca. This beach, lying two hours from Cartagena by boat, is located on the Isla de Barú, and all descriptions painted a picture of a peaceful and natural beach:



















And indeed, upon our approach we caught this glimpse of an archetypal Caribbean beach. Palm trees, straw huts, nice sand and impeccably warm sea, with a lush tropical forest nestling it from behind. The trouble was that we made our approach in a big double decker tour boat, flanked by a couple more just like it. We brought the party with us, and soon that nice beach became overrun by throngs of tourists, and the locals who prey upon them. A relaxing moment in the sun and sand was quickly interrupted by people plying coconut water, massages, suntan lotion, seafood, or candy. A soak in the soothing waters was frustrated by the lack of regulation of watercrafts, which pulled up to the beach wherever they wanted, while whatever swimmers in the way were expected to shove off.

I suppose this beach would be a very pleasant place when visited independently of an organized tour. Unfortunately for us, we were unaware of the scope of the tour we had embarked upon, and our experience in the beautiful Playa Blanca was tainted by the sunbathing masses.

Fortunately, our third attempt to find a pleasant, beautiful and peaceful beach was the charm.



















This is the beach at Bocachica. Lying at the southern tip of Isla de Tierrabomba, its shores form the top of the smaller mouth of the Bay of Cartagena. The Spanish constructed the outermost fortifications of their colony here, at both sides of this sea passage. And so, before we got a look at this uncrowded and authentic Colombian playa, we first saw the relics of Spanish ambition:



















El fuerte de San Fernando. This stone fort once bristled with cannons, and its walls are lined with slits that widened into the interior, allowing soldiers to fire out of them while preventing enemy fire from entering so easily. On the other side of Bocachica lies the Batería de San José, another, smaller fort. Between these two battlements was once stretched a heavy metal chain, one more line of defense against attack.

Today, safe from piracy and what have you, Bocachica has been dredged through, creating a deep underwater furrow that modern shipping vessels use to transport their cargo. This has helped Cartagena to maintain its importance as a major South American port of the modern age. Indeed, on our way over to the beach we saw this big ship on its way into the bay:



















It was surprising to see a massive boat like this one able to pass through such a narrow corridor in the sea. Fortunately for our beachgoing, however, this was one of only a few big ships to pass by us that day. Enough to make the scenery more interesting, but not so many to have marred the beauty of our surroundings.

And so, around the corner from this big fort was the village and beach of Bocachica. The island of Tierrabomba, to the north of which has remained mostly wooded and wild, has to its south a small and fascinating community. Tourism has passed this place by, for the most part, with the majority of travelers heading directly through the mouth of the bay on their way back and forth from Cartagena to various islands and beaches further to the south. And so this village, while eager to receive tourists when they come, is otherwise by and for the villagers themselves.

That left the beach to us, and some kids out for their day in the sun. We took our time enjoying the peace and the warm waters that the beach offered, and then found a hut in the sand where a woman sold lunches. Fried fish, veggies, and coconut rice, with lime for seasoning, and a cold beer. Nice.

Plus, this fellow, who frankly, and smiling, told us that he wasn't going away until we bought a necklace from him.



















We put him to the test, and went about our lunch without paying him much mind. He sat there, unobtrusive except for when he had something interesting to contribute to our conversation. But sat there he did, for about half an hour. We had finished our lunch, and the beer, and were contemplating our next move. But, since Nancy had souvenirs to get for her sisters and family, and we had here before us a hardworking but friendly salesman, we caved and gave him some business before we left.

Our walk back to the docks led us through the village, and in the late afternoon breeze, people were gathering together for some shade and refreshments outside their homes. On the way past a house where a few dozen people were hanging around, a man came up to us and handed us a couple of beer bottles, and motioned for us to have a seat in the shade. And so we did. The man went into the house and left us be to enjoy the afternoon and the beverages he had offered us.

The people around smiled at us and gave us welcome, but also left us in peace, to be part of their scene without any overt attention. Some cumbia was playing, of the sort that belies its Caribbean and African roots the best. The whole house was full of people, and so was the yard, sitting, standing, some dancing, talking, singing. After we hung around for awhile and finished our drinks, we got up, and I suggested to a man sitting near us that I pay someone for the beer. A shake of the head and a motion of the hand made it clear that no payment was necessary, and the smile we shared afterwords said the rest.

Satisfied at last with a day at the beach, we turned our tourists' eyes towards another piece of Cartagena's long history of self-defense, the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas.



















Lying across a small lagoon from Cartagena's old town, this massive fort began as a more modest fortification sitting atop this 40 meter high hill. In the mid 18th century, however, it was extensively expanded until it appeared much as it does today, completely covering over the hill that it was built upon. Loaded with cannons and designed with a myriad of techniques with strategic defense as their aim, this fort was never taken, despite several attempts to do so.

The walls were built at steep angles, sheer enough to prevent enemies from easily scaling them, but at enough of an angle to allow soldiers from above to spot oncoming attackers without looking out far from the edge. A maze of tunnels riddle the fort's interior, carved out in such a way that sound reverberates throughout them all, allowing even the slightest sound to be carried to the ears of the defense. To enter the tunnels, one must make a steep descent into total darkness, after which the tunnels generally adopt a level slope. Defenders lying in wait at these points could easily see and shoot anyone entering, long before the tunnel's entrance would carry them low enough to see inside, even if their eyes could adjust to the darkness that quickly.

Further taking into account the limitations of human sight in low light, the tunnels are lined with small alcoves to the left and right, where soldiers also once waited in ambush. While the tunnels admitted enough light for a man whose eyes were well adjusted to the darkness, anyone fresh into the tunnels would have no awareness of their presence, until they were blindsided by the attack.

All of these and other methods of defense were explained - and sometimes demonstrated - to us in detail by our helpful guide, whose English was at least as easy for me to understand as his Spanish. He also explained Cartagena's many rings of protection. The outermost ring, he told us, was the Spanish Armada. At all times, ships were strategically deployed in and around the Bay of Cartagena, ready to defend and call the alert. Inside of this were aforementioned defenses around the two mouths of the Bay of Cartagena. Further in were the forts such as this one, scattered throughout the islands and peninsulas that surround the city. Then came the city's walls themselves. Lastly came Cartagena's own human resources, where espionage and information were as valuable and convoluted as they must still be today.

Which led me to ask, why is protection so important? Why did the Spanish endeavor to spend so much of the wealth that they funneled out of the Americas in order to ensure its safe passage back to their ports in Europe? I suppose every wall has the same story. In our often mindless pursuit of wealth and prosperity, there comes a point where the need creeps in, to protect everything we've worked so hard to scrounge together. And so while Cartagena's extensive fortifications represent an extreme example, may we all think for a moment, every time we lock a door or set an alarm, about the other side of human ambition, our constant clambering for all things deemed valuable, or beautiful.

On our last night in Cartagena, we sat in the Plaza de Bolívar. Here is the statue commemorating El Libertador, who saw, and briefly realized, the dream of a united Gran Colombia, hundreds of miles to the south and a few short decades after the first great experiment in American independence, by the British colonies. Before it was the Plaza de Bolívar, it was the Plaza de la Inquisición, where the Spanish once publicly delivered punishment to those found guilty of blasphemy. In 5 public autos de fe held in this small square, an estimated 800 received that ultimate consequence, as public examples.

A visitor to this park today, listening to the band playing la pollera colorada, doesn't need to know any of that. Instead, one sits peacefully, drinking coffee, or eating yellow pineapple, watching the big fountain overflowing. All the history, the greed, the pirates, the people who died in centuries of battles posturing for their own tenuous hold on a place, all that has led to this moment. Sitting idly, in peace. That's what we want when we build our walls. To create a respite from the wind, from the sea, from change, from the masses and their collective ambitions. And like the music that rises up into the air, we enjoy it, we breathe it in, while it's there. All while we know that it all still will change, and drift away.

Ayampe Memories

Ayampe, at low tide. Walking along a seemingly endless strip of beach like this, with the one you love, where the sea rolls into the rolling hills, it's hard to decide when it's time to turn back. Here was the last stop of our weeks along Ecuador's central coast, a little wooden shack town like so many others. Lying along an exposed stretch of coastline, the ocean tumbles into the beach here too hard for a port to have emerged from this little patch of green amongst the surrounding drylands. And unlike the party town and gringo haven of Montañita to the south, the surf's not big enough to draw many people with their boards, although we did see a couple of people giving it a try one afternoon.

Once again, though, I've started at the end of the story. Before we got off a bus at what appeared to be a stretch of road like any other, and I walked down the dirt road into Ayampe for the first time, we had spent a few more days in Puerto Lopez after our trip up to Agua Blanca. Or perhaps it's better to say that we spent our nights there, as the days there were dedicated to exploring as much of Machalilla National Park as we could.




















El Parque Nacional Machalilla is divided into three primary sections, both politically and geographically. The village, ruins and surrounds of Agua Blanca, which made up the first area of the park we explored, lie further inland, along the fringe of the divide between low dryland scrub forest and higher up, cloud forest. The second principal area of the park, as you can see, is made up of the coast itself, alternating repeatedly as you go between beaches and cliffsides covered in palo santo, until the view disappears into the clouds. Those clouds, representative of the weather constantly carried inland from a cold Pacific current, help keep Ecuador's temperature perennially mild even here along the coast. Just as the northern Pacific renders the US west coast balmy at times of year that the rest of the country is buried in snow, the central Pacific cools much of what would otherwise be constantly sweltering lowlands.

Here we spent a day, wandering the trails that led us in and out of beaches, dry aromatic forests and high up overlooks, before hopping into one of many motorcycle-driven taxis back into Puerto Lopez:




















Another night along the town's beachline malecón and the next day had us on the way to the last principal section of Machalilla's diverse spread of ecosystems tucked into one of Ecuador's many corners: la isla de la plata, which lies two hours by boat from Puerto Lopez. And, as fate would have it, we embarked onto Pacific waters that day during the height of humpback whale season.




















It turns out that humpback whales, spending the bulk of their days feeding in polar waters, come down to the tropics to breed and bear their young. By the time we got there, these whales were already rearing their calves, born at around 2 tons. Despite their enormous birth size they still looked small next to their 40 ton mothers, who swam and occasionally breached the surface alongside them, seemingly unperturbed by the flocks of tourists in boats doggedly pursuing them with their cameras ready (myself included).

We chased the whales for an hour or so, taking turns with the rest of the day's tripulation, climbing onto the roof of our small speedboat. At that height on our little vessel every pitch was exaggerated and threatened to knock you off your feet, or hands and knees, but we were willing to put up with that to get a better look and with luck, a better snapshot of whatever part of those massive shapes might poke out from the depths. Like any good fisherman, I'll say that I saw plenty more than I managed to catch, on film. For those of you absorbing all of this vicariously as you are, this tail will have to do.

Soon we were nearing the desert isla de la plata, known casually as the poor man's Galapagos for its similar (but smaller) slice of fauna and much more accessible location from the mainland. In some ways it might be said that here the wildlife is under less threat from human pressure despite its vicinity to the coast, as here there are no permanent settlements. While the burgeoning Puerto Ayora, the Galapagos' main tourist reception area, swells to a population of over 10,000, the only structures to be found here are a ranger's station near the wet landing area and a few lean-tos for shade along the trails. Perhaps part of its relative isolation is due to its shape:




















A jagged rock poking out from the sea, this island harbors no calm beach to welcome the visitors who wade to the shore. Once you're on land, however, there are few physical barriers presented by the local flora, as la isla de la plata is a true desert island and what plant life there is is stout and sparse. Nonetheless, the relative lack of predation here has given sanctuary to those same birds that have made their home on Ecuador's more famous archipelago. Most notably, the blue-footed booby.




















It had been a year since last I'd seen this mating dance, but once again I bore witness to the long, ceremonial courtship punctuated by the male boasting his greatest attributes. Which consists of some ritual waddling to feature those big, blue feet, intermittent wing stretching, followed by hollow whistling, as well as the male picking up twigs in his beak, presumably to demonstrate what a good nest he'll build for all those eggs she'll soon be laying. As was also evident in the Galapagos, here these birds pay no mind at all to the scores of babbling onlookers crashing their party. Indeed, this pair was photographed right next to the trail, worn well into the sand by the many tourists that have crossed it, and still the birds go on.

Here were also to be seen other, less famous sorts of boobies. The masked booby for example, so called for the black face it wears in contrast with its otherwise white feathers, is the biggest of the boobies. The red-footed, smallest of all boobies, is notable for its more conservative custom of nesting in trees, as opposed to the brazen nesting on open ground practiced by the other varieties, where any predator would have easy pickings.

Our tour guide told us all this in Spanish. Other than Nancy and I, though, our group consisted of Europeans and Asians who spoke English in addition to their own languages, but no Spanish. The guide nominated me as the unofficial translator as a result of these circumstances, which I was happy to do despite the lack of compensation. I was arguably able to absorb more of the information than I would have otherwise, having to think about it enough to render it into another language. Also, I suppose I'd heard it all before when I visited North Seymour the year prior. It also filled my head with the notion of someday returning to Puerto Lopez during whale watching season, getting a part time gig on a boat doing interpretation and otherwise digging on the beach lifestyle for a few months. Doesn't sound too bad, maybe it will even happen someday.

So, while we were given all this information about red-footed and masked boobies, we were also lured by the temptation of more humpbacks, and in the end our group opted not to follow the trail to these other birds but to get back on the boat, do a few minutes of snorkling, and then head back out into open waters for a chance to get another look at the whales.

After some time swimming with the tropical fish in the shallows around the island, we sighted up a few more whales on the way home. That night we took our dinner in the preferred way when we're on vacation, on a streetside patio with a deck of cards and a cribbage board. That's the kind of set up that can leave you for hours to take in the environment. Our meal was punctuated by a visit from a couple from Singapore who accompanied us on the whalewatching trip, and after awhile we learned they were staying at our hotel as well. The next morning we shared breakfast with them, after which we said our goodbyes to them and to Puerto Lopez.

We headed back up to the dusty main strip of the town and got on the first bus heading south. The road stayed close to the coastline for several kilometers, weaving along a few other small villages before it veered out of sight of the ocean. As will often happen on road trips of even short distances in Ecuador, the landscape began shifting noticeably from dry to lush. It wasn't long after this little change in climate that we were deposited alongside the road, at the intersection with the little dirt road into the woods that led to Ayampe.

So it is that we've ended back up where our story started, in this little town by the sea. There's an ecolodge situated on the outskirts of the town, right along the beach. It had quaint straw huts with well-appointed interiors and prices rivaling the more tourist-oriented accomodations back in Cuenca. It also had a restaurant in the main hall with a nice menu, and while we took them up on a few meals during our stay, when it came to sleeping we chose Cuatro Estrellas, a more modest set of cabins carrying a $5 a night price tag and a shower like a garden hose. But while the bathroom was less than ideal, our cabin itself was quite nice, and for that fee we had all two stories of it to ourselves, complete with a porch and balcony, each with their own hammocks. Cuatro, the owner and namesake of the lodging, was napping in the downstairs hammock when we arrived. He awoke as we walked up to him, and flashed us a grin which belied his name: four gold teeth, shining in a row. He obligingly gave up the hammock and left us be, after we had hammered out the details of our stay, and once we had gotten ourselves settled in, we went for one of many walks around the village and the sea.

Ayampe was settled along the banks of a stream that must have once flowed unobstructed across the beach and into the ocean, but as often seems to be the case in beach towns like these, at some point the locals engineered a sandy dam that created a freshwater wetlands suitable for their needs as a community. And as for our needs, it served as a fine place for skipping stones.




















It was on these walks that the reality of the imminent close of our extended vacation began to reveal itself, and a dull melancholy settled into me one night as I sat with Nancy on the sand, watching the evening tide. Here the ocean had been lapping the beach of Ayampe for countless days and nights, always, through the histories of all the people and cultures and civilizations unfolded near and far from this little place and then, with time, faded away. This particular night, we were there to see its centuries of motion all represented there, and the next night, we'd be back in our own bed, high up in the sierra. What is it about the last moments of a carefree vacation that can project one into time in such a way, backwards and forwards? That night in Ayampe a hundred memories flooded my mind, from all corners of my experiences, and I shared a few of them with Nancy before they receded once again into the darker depths of my mind, not to be thought of again, probably, until now. She listened, and witnessed the sort of mood that was washing over me, and after some time like that we walked in our bare feet back towards the town.

Indeed, the next night we were back home, clearing out all the funky things we'd left in the fridge and settling into our bed, many hours, hundreds of kilometers and several bus rides away from that little beach which we chose for the last days of our trip. After we had washed the last of the salt from our bodies and we drifted into the deep, long sleep that only your own bed will grant you after weeks on the road, I was there again for a moment, on the edge of the sea, in Ayampe.

Agua Blanca

The road into Agua Blanca. Seeing such a pathway, you might wonder just where it is, and to where it may lead. These are the just the kinds of questions I'll be answering, so you're in luck! Because this is part two of my recollection of last summer's trip along Ecuador's ruta del sol.

Where we left off before, Nancy and I had just climbed onto a bus which went barreling into the misty hills that constitute the northern reaches of the Cordillera Colonche, dividing the country's lush and prosperous agricultural land from its dry central coast. As diverse as Ecuador's many ecosystems are, places like these, for me, represent this country best. Green, steaming hills all around, covered by wild, relentless vegetation from top to bottom. I suppose it was a vision like this that filled my mind when I first dreamt of Ecuador, and first impressions such as these, even when conjured by one's own imagination, are hard to let go. I can also imagine that the first people who spoke languages like English and Spanish to land in the area were greeted by sights and sounds like those found here.

As the bus rolled along, en route to Puerto Viejo, we passed through several villages like Pichincha, El Progreso, San Placido, and Alahuela. The bus made a few stops in these little settlements, little more than strips of wooden cabins and shanties built along the narrow highway. So small are these towns that they share their schools between them, and at one stop what appeared to be the entire student body of the local high school piled on board, packed in tight until the next town over. Also boarding was a woman and her daughter, who had a small tropical bird in her charge. The bird, looking a bit over-handled and bereft of much of its original plumage, was nonetheless clearly the beloved pet of the girl, who kept it perched in her small hands, and did her best to protect it from the mob of people all around her, casting her eyes nerviously around at all the lanky teens looming over. Luckily for her, a young man gave up his seat in the front row, and the mother, daughter and bird all fit in snugly.

So it went until the next village. Nancy and I secure in our seats, surrounded by the sea of uniformed teenagers rocking with every curve, the boys doing their best to let the movements of the bus send them into the nearest girl. Nancy remarked how healthy and happy they all looked, and attributed it to the impeccable climate we found ourselves in. I pointed out that they probably don't look so happy when they're on their way to school rather than on their way home, but I couldn't deny how beautiful and undisturbed the land was, all around us, nor how alive the air felt. Neither too hot nor too cold, the humidity contributing a freshness to the air absent at the higher altitudes we were accustomed to, and the untouched surroundings themselves contributing a like freshness to our spirits.

When we arrived in Puerto Viejo, we changed buses at the terminal and were soon back on the road to Puerto Lopez, by way of a little town named Jipijapa. Passing through both of these towns, we got enough of a look to pique our curiosity about them, but not enough for us to actually get off the bus and spend any time there. Puerto Lopez and the beach were definitely much more on our minds, and these two places were too far inland to tempt us into checking them out, despite the obvious intrigue of a place called Jipijapa.

By the time we got into Puerto Lopez, the sun was going down and we were on a bus with standing room only. Tucked into the aisle, hanging on to the luggage rack with every curve in the road, I did my best to get a look at the landscape, and maybe a look at the ocean. I had noticed on the previous bus how our surroundings had quickly become dry and sandy upon leaving the mountains, but now, ducking to get a look out the low windows, I saw the trunks of trees girding the road on both sides.

Finally the bus pulled to the side and a lot of the people onboard got off, the two of us included. We found ourselves on the curb of a wide, dusty road with low buildings on each side. In the dusk, it looked like a scene out of an old western. As you might expect upon disembarking from a bus in a small, tourist town like this one, a few locals approached us and started trying to sell us stuff. In this case, the offer was for lodging, and the prices were plenty cheap. But we reckoned there was still enough daytime to wander around a place as small as this, and take a look at our options for the night on our own.

Indeed we did find ourselves a nice place, and after a walk along the shoreline and something to eat on the beach, we retired to our room and watched Ecuador's own Jefferson Perez earn Olympic silver for his speedwalking prowess.

In the morning, we got a better look at our choice of lodging:




















And then we went back down to the beach for breakfast:




















Thusly fortified, we decided to make a trip for the day to a place in el parque nacional Machalilla we had heard about, called Agua Blanca. We didn't know what to expect from it, other than that it was in a national park, and so ought to afford us a walk in nature, and that the road in was just about 10 minutes outside of Puerto Lopez by bus.

And so we walked back over to the town's dusty main strip, bought some fruit in the market there, and hopped on a bus heading back the way we had come. We told the bus driver where we wanted off, he charged us a quarter each, we saw the first ten minutes of a Van Damme movie, and just like that, we were there.




















Here you can see the peculiar landscape that is inland Machalilla. The dry riverbed, while not actually conveying water along the surface, still bears it underground. Hence the green riparian area seen all along its wide flood basin. As I discovered in New Mexico, even dry rivers are still wet, as can be divined by the presence of big cottonwood trees lining the intermittent streams of the high desert. While there are no cottonwood groves to be found in Ecuador, the principle is the same, where this lush greenbelt is thriving amidst the desert. Also like the mountain drylands of the southwestern U.S., higher altitudes bring more precipitation down to earth, and so you can see the desert sandwiched between subsurface moisture and thick cloud cover above. The higher reaches of the surrounding hills, smothered as they are by these nimbus banks, harbor yet another ecosystem, a cloud forest perennially hidden from below.

Our hike brought lots of cacti, donkeys and songbirds onto our path. The cacti and birds were no surprise, but the sight of donkeys made me wonder just why there was grazing going on in this national park. The answer soon began to reveal itself:




















This wooden hut with a banana plantation for its backyard was one of many dwellings we came upon as we entered the comuna de Agua Blanca. Here we had found an intentional community of sorts, dating back to the early 20th century, before this area's designation as a national park. We soon learned that the people of Agua Blanca, which proved to be a thriving village of several hundred residents, were organizing tours throughout their portion of the park, and had also turned some of its land to their own use, including agriculture and herding of donkeys and pigs. Living in the desert as they are, they also were diverting water for irrigation of their small scale farming. This water was high in sulphur and thus unsuitable for drinking, but it looked like it brought up their produce just fine, and also provided one other benefit for the villagers, and for visitors like ourselves:




















A sulphur spring. Good for swimming, even if it turns any metal you might be wearing an amber yellow. Also good for the skin, apparently, as a number of people dove to the bottom of the shallow pond for fistfuls of brown-black mud which they spread all over their faces and entire bodies. Near this place, considered sacred to the people of Agua Blanca, as our guide told us, they also hold temazcal ceremonies, which I've described in previous stories.

That leads me to the spiritual, and political, side of this community. First, I ought to mention that the current residents of the area are far from the first.




















Here lie two people buried together in a funerary urn. What is known about these people? According to the description card, these two might have died anywhere over the span of more than 700 years. But the culture lived on until after the arrival of the Spaniards, and it was the people living here who were among the first that Europeans met in the area. This particular civilization, however, was the last of at least a half dozen cultures who had influenced this area before the modern era.

The people living in Machalilla today have endeavored to portray a connection between themselves and the ancient cultures of this place, from comparisons of photographs of the present day residents to faces on ceramics that they've discovered, to a true reverance for the ancient people's traditions and ruins. Having now visited Agua Blanca, seen some of its practices, and spoken with a few of the villagers there, I can say that I have a respect for the way of life they have cultivated. That said, I can also see the conflict that exists by virtue of a modern village operating within a national park.

The interesting mix of ecosystems I described above is peculiar to this park, which contains the overwhelming majority of these types of forests. In fact, of all of Ecuador's coastal area, only 1% of that area is dryland forest like this. However, this range of forest once encompassed one quarter of Ecuador's western lowlands, and it is probably by virtue of its protection as a national park which has allowed it to remain here in the midst of encroaching agriculture and development on all sides.

It can't be denied that the activities of the village of Agua Blanca are also impacting what's left of this ecosystem. Having been in the area before it became a protected zone, they've got a right to be here, but it's to their credit that they've worked as actively as they have with a worldwide coalition of NGOs and governmental organizations alike in order to assert their presence in a positive way. Amongst the inevitable effects of humanity existing inside of a place meant to be wild, there is a palpable sense of conservation to be found throughout the village. One that is bolstered, in my view, by the naturalist philosophy inherent in this community's own brand of spirituality.