I consider myself pretty adventurous, pretty flexible. I’ve traveled through Siberia and spent a month in northern Japan. I’ve done the traditional backpacking through Europe, and perhaps—most countercultural for an American—I live at the Cosmo House. (It must say something about me that I like living with 14 roommates from 11 countries!) But when my Spring break trip to Ecuador was approaching, I was getting really nervous. I had never been to Latin America. I didn’t (and still don’t) know Spanish (much less Quechua!).
And perhaps what was hardest for me, as an American, was the absolute lack of control. I was visiting friends, and they were in charge. I didn’t know where I’d be living, what we’d be doing, what cities we’d be visiting, what we’d be eating, or where we’d be sleeping. Could I trust this UIUC graduate from the jungle who didn’t wear a watch, was late for everything, and never caught on to American ways despite two years in Champaign? (One of my earliest memories of Fredy was answering the door at Sutton Place – next door to Cosmo – and finding Fredy looking for Cosmo House! He hadn’t quite figured out how American addresses work. In Summer 2007, when his wife—studying at the Intensive English Institute at the time—failed to show up at the designated place despite my detailed directions and writing down the address, I realized she didn’t either.)
I dreamt a few nights before leaving that I arrived in Ecuador and no one met me at the airport. Since I didn’t know their address or phone number, I didn’t know what to do or where to go, and I was really scared. And then I woke up.
Fortunately, my fears were unfounded, and my trip turned out to be probably the best vacation of my life. While they had an apartment in Quito, where Martha studies, we spent most of our time visiting their families. Martha’s family is from the Andes. While her parents live in a mountain town of 6,000 people called Pujili, what was really fun was the visit to her grandmother’s place in the mountains outside Pujili.
After driving for about half an hour into the mountains, we came to a parking lot and a playground – it may have been a school or a church, I wasn’t sure—and walked from there about half hour straight up a mountain until we got to her grandmother’s cabin. Needless to say, since I was not acclimatized to the altitude and the mountain was steep, this was the most difficulty half-hour walk I’ve ever taken in my life, but it was well worth it. It was beautiful!
Perhaps the highlight was eating cuy, a traditional Andean delicacy, which indigenous people raise for food. I watched as Martha’s mother snapped the head of the cuy, skinned it, and gave it to the men to stretch on a stick from a nearby tree, which they then handed back to me to roast over the fire. After about 20 minutes, they announced that the feet were done, which they snapped off and shared with me, just like we would eat roasted pumpkin seeds. And a while later, the cuy, which we ate with potatoes and corn, was ready. Although I was told that the brain and eyes were the best part, I passed on that, but I am a bit ashamed to admit that I really enjoyed the piece I had. It was really good! But I couldn’t help but feeling a tinge of regret as a glanced at the pen of twenty-some more cuy, some still babies, soon to become someone else’s dinner. Did I mention that a cuy was a guinea pig?
Two days later, Fredy and Martha took me to visit his family in the Amazon. While this was less than 100 miles away, given the terrain and road conditions, the drive was approximately six hours. It would have been ten hours by bus, but I was fortunate to have U.S.-educated friends with an SUV. While listening to traditional Andean music on the CD player, we drove first through the mountains, then through the cloud forest (a rainforest at a high enough altitude that it is always in the clouds), and finally into the rainforest itself.
Fredy’s family lived on what he called a “farm” outside of Loreto, although I would perhaps call it an orchard or ranch. They grew primarily coffee, until the prices became so low that it was no longer profitable. They also had 80 chickens running free around the farm (including in the kitchen), and a pig that wasn’t penned up and thought he was a dog.
This was an extended family, with grandparents, grandchildren, and an assortment of nieces and other relatives. I still haven’t sorted out who belongs to whom. There was the two-week-old baby Carlitos, the son of Fredy’s sister Lina, but she really wasn’t his sister, and the baby’s name really wasn’t Carlitos. They hadn’t named it yet. And there was Chaja, my 11-year-old partner in a multigenerational game of Monopolio, whom I think was Fredy’s father’s niece, whose name was really Isabel, and whose father wasn’t indigenous, I was told. (If you ever want to learn Spanish quick, I recommend playing Monopoly. You learn to count to about 700 really quick, or at least if you don’t, you lose the game!) And of course there was Naya, a 1½ year old who vigilantly protected her family from people she didn’t know.
Unfortunately, I fit that category, and was the beneficiary of a punch or slap every time she noticed me walking by. Who needs a watchdog when you have a toddler? But we made peace when she fell asleep on my lap on the way home from the river, where the whole family had been bathing (with soap and shampoo). They all think city folk are dirty, because of our five-minute showers, while they fully immerse themselves in the river. Another bit of humorous cross-cultural misunderstanding came when Lissa, the 12-year-old, asked Fredy why it is that gringos never get married. I had to think about that one, but then laughed and explained that in fact, most gringos do get married, but once they got married, they generally don’t travel to Loreto on vacation!
Unfortunately (or perhaps for me, fortunately), we didn’t get to go deep into the jungle. Fredy’s family lived just outside the city, and the monkeys and parrots and jaguars kept their distance. We did go to Coca, the tourist center from which motorized canoes depart with visitors to jungle lodges. The city itself looked like any other remote town, albeit with temperatures in the 80s (Fahrenheit) year-round. The Indigenas of the jungle don’t wear the bright colors and beautiful shawls and hats of the Andean peoples. They don’t eat cuy, either.
But I did get to try an interesting culinary treat at the indigenous market in Coca, where we bought big thick grubs on a stick, roasted kind of like a kebab. If I hadn’t known what they were, I’m sure I would have enjoyed them. (Dare I admit that yes, even these tasted good!) But when Fredy told me, concerned, that I could spit out the head, I lost my appetite for them. I had a similar experience with the fish head later in the day—I’m sure it tasted just fine, but I couldn’t make myself put it in my mouth. And we drank chicha (I have no idea what that is), and ate yucca, and lots and lots of plantains. And yes, Stephen (excuse me as I settle a debate with my Ghanaian housemate), it is completely possible to eat plantains raw without getting sick! We did so virtually every meal. You Africans just don’t know what’s good!
Lest you think that all we did was eat, there’s not much I can say to demonstrate otherwise. We went to the historic center of Quito twice, but the first time we never found a parking place, and the second time it was raining. We did spend some time shopping; I bought souvenirs and gifts, and we drank fresh juice every day from tropical fruits purchased at the local market. (Have you ever tried a tree tomato? I highly recommend it, as well as a variety of other fruits I couldn’t name or recognize.)
And we spent a lot of time in the car, since everything was so far apart. That was no problem for me, since the scenery was beautiful! I even drove in the jungle. I let Fredy do the driving on the busy roads, where cars were passing from all directions and I never really figured out who had the right-of-way. But there weren’t many cars in the jungle, and they certainly weren’t going more than 30 mph. Unusual for me, we went to bed every day around 10:00 or so. Everyone else went to bed, so I did, too. But with the busy days we had, and knowing another busy day would be starting early the next morning, I certainly didn’t mind. In fact, I enjoyed it.
Needless to say, it was with sadness that I returned to the airport six days after my arrival (when you fly free on frequent flyer miles, you fly when they tell you that you can.). Despite what I had heard about the Latino laid-back lifestyle, it was American Airlines that proved late and unreliable. While I didn’t really mind getting the call at 4:30 a.m. on the day I was to depart from Chicago that my flight had been cancelled and I had been rescheduled for a direct flight later in the day (I went back to bed for a few hours!), it was interesting to watch the projected departure time change as I sat at the gate in Miami on my way back. First the flight was half-hour late. Then an hour. Then an hour and twenty minutes. Finally, it departed about two hours late.
But again, I can’t really complain. An extra two hours in Miami beat spending two hours at the empty terminal in Cincinnati, as scheduled on my original flight itinerary. When using super saver miles, you can’t be picky about your route. But I really can say that I enjoyed every minute of my trip. I’m already saving miles for my next visit in a year or two! Anyone want to join me?
Sharyl (the blond) with Martha and family in
the Andes highlands
Eating grubs at an indigenous market in
Coca, in the Amazon rainforest.