The Boy Crisis!!!

The way it usually happens is I'm standing at the intersection vaguely indicated by whatever fellow traveler I've asked, or by whatever driver was kind enough to charge "much less than the taxis with their gringo prices!"-- swaying under the weight of two overfilled backpacks, one big one small, passport, cash, and credit uncomfortably hanging from my neck under my less-than-clean T-shirt, dirt and sun in my eyes, enough bills and coins jammed in my pocket for fare and an empanada along the way. A bus rolls up within minutes, and out jumps the porter at a jog while it's still moving and he's yelling "Riobamba Riobamba Riobamba Ambato Ambato Ambatooo Ambato Riobambaaaa!" I so much as glance at him and he manhandles the bigger of my packs into storage while I hurry into the unassuming stares of a dozen people with clearer destinations than mine. I shuffle into a seat and hang up my still-damp towel on the rope above the window. Within a few minutes the porter comes down the aisle to collect two or three dollars. He has money in one hand, cell phone in the other, a neck tie, tattoos. He makes change faster than I paid him. The bus slows down and it's Riobamba-Riobamba-Riobambambatoambatoooo. A few more people settle in; he's at their seats to collect fare, always knowing who's paid and who's new. The bus starts moving before he runs and hops back in.

Every other stop picks up locals selling papas papas papas papitas papitas papitas papas fritas fritas empanadas empanadas aguitas aguitas un dolar un dolar un dolarita. They hop back off, baskets in tow, into the dust cloud as soon as the bus slows to a roll again. They cross the road for the next passing bus.

I look out the window and see the Andes; I look down and see an inch of dirt road at most, giving way to a million-foot drop into this or that village or farm. I doze off into half-dreams of earthquakes or, when my unconscious tends toward the literal, turbulent bus travel.

"Amigo, es Riobamba," says the porter, rushing past my seat. I hop off the bus as it creeps ahead, and the porter sets my bag in front of me, shouting Ambatoambatoambatooooo, eyes on the half-dozen people filing onto the ambatoambatoambato bus, already partway there and rolling closer. Before I can see anything through the dust cloud I hear taxi-taxi-taxi-taxi habitaciones-habitaciones-habitaciones empanadasempanadas papas fritas fritas Quitoquitoquitooo.

I really have to pee.

* * *

For some reason, the cheapest hostels I've slept in have TVs in the rooms. For a couple of nights in Baños I watched movies with Spanish voiceovers and movies in English with Spanish subtitles. The River Wild and Mission Impossible I had to turn off partway through. Meryl Streep and Tom Cruise are insufferable enough in their native tongue, and Kevin Bacon is greasy enough when he's not rolling his R's.*

I've watched Firewall twice, or at least most of it. They give Harrison Ford a sort of deep, frumpy voiceover, as if it weren't already bad enough how frumpy and ungraceful his character already is. His family's been kidnapped and he fumbles around grunting in the rain for two hours, making funny shapes with his facial skin. Sort of like Sylvester Stalone on horse tranquilizers. Hopefully I picked up some Spanish.

In Riobamba I happened to find a hostel with the perfect combination of seediness, noise, and local clientele, which seems to translate to a very cheap bed for the night. After a day in town I returned to my mattress, complete with someone else's bread crumbs and body odor, and numbed my senses with a two-dollar bottle of rum and In the Line of Fire with Spanish subtitles. "I know things about pigeons, Lilly."

I woke up to knocking at the door and a voice echoing in the hallway. "Mateo, something something registrarte." Had I slept until checkout? In pretty impressive Spanish considering the circumstances: "I've already paid. What happened? What time is it?" It was 5:30 AM and immigration officials were there to check documents. I stood blinking in the hallway as the knocking continued to echo through the creaky wooden atrium. I didn't feel presentable; I hadn't showered, what with the lack of running water. ("Claro, hay agua caliente," the clerk, who now stood there blinking next to me, had said.) The official copied my information, asked a few questions, gave me a long, searching look, and returned my passport.

I really had to pee.

* * *

The recommended "backpacker hostels," with their cozy dorms and terraces and maps and beers and stories and coffee and ashtrays, are another experience altogether. Dinner at the Hostal Cloud Forest in the village of Chugchilán sounded like a UN convention. Two older French couples sat at one end of the table speaking French and Spanish; Amanda from Denmark spoke Danish and Swedish and English with Amanda from Sweden; the two Germans volunteering in town spoke German and Spanish and English; Jose Luis, who ran the hostel, spoke Spanish with everyone regarding plans for the next morning (he got me a horse to the Quilotoa crater); Tony from Grand Rapids and I spoke English, in which we are both quite fluent. We were all variously sun-burnt and tired from hours of hiking or bus-riding or teaching English.

On the previous day I met Peter, a German who owns an endlessly recommended backpacker's hostel hundreds of kilometers south of Chugchilán-- in Vilcabamba, a haven for gringos, hikers, and people who believe the city will be protected from the apocalypse in 2012. (He hesitated to call them "crazy.") When the conversation made its inevitable turn toward US politics, Peter mentioned that the one thing he liked about the 2000 election was that, in the years following, people stopped asking him about the Third Reich as the world focused its collective scorn on the United States. I reassured him, in English, that the Tea Party was gaining momentum back home.

* * *

*I don't find rolled R's greasy in themselves. I think they're pretty cool and sexy. (Kevin) Bacon is decidedly greasy, with or without them.

Inside the cavernous gothic Basilica del Voto Nacional lies the tomb of Don Gabriel Garcia Moreno, an Ecuadorian statesman and president who was assassinated in Quito in 1876. Here’s the inscription, quoted in full:

“Don Gabriel Garcia Moreno acto recordatoria por los 134 años de su muerte. Email: garciamoreno1876@yahoo.es”

In the Secret Garden, a hostel in Quito, the first of many flights upward to the unforgettable terrace has a word painted on each step: “I never think of the future. It comes soon enough. –A. Einstein.”

In El Hostal Belmont, a few doors down, there’s a sign over the computers: “Please close all computers at 11 PM. Otherwise there are problems with the Reuter and server.”

The owner there, Mayurisio, provided me with a Chicago Bulls towel, circa the late-90s threepeat. It smelled subtly like the North Carolina shorts must have smelled under Michael Jordan’s uniform after several hundred games without washing.

2000 meters above all this, I met a Spaniard named Sergio as he descended alone from the peak of Rucu Pichincha, altitude 4700 meters. He was kind enough to take some pictures. While we hiked back down through the clouds, I taught him some American English and he taught me some Spanish Spanish. I tried to tell him about Cincinnati in Spanish: “In Over the Rhine, they have made the beer.”

As a tourist, one should try to avoid getting ripped off, especially by taxi drivers in major cities. It never hurts to bargain beforehand, they say. My first attempt in Quito went pretty smoothly (translated from the original Spanish):

“How much to go to La Mariscal Sucre?”

“Five dollars.”

“That’s too much. They say three.”

“Five.”

“OK. Four?”

“Five.”

“OK.”

In a later attempt at haggling, there was much more at stake. I needed to buy a camera because the one I had brought had stopped working. The salesman brought me to the camera display. The price listed was $359 plus tax. I said, “eh… es muy caro.” The saleman asked if I would be paying with credit. I said yes. This brought the price down to 270 plus tax, which he showed me on a calculator. I said “eh…” and asked to try out the camera. After trying it out, the price dropped to $180. I agreed to buy the camera, even though it was still more expensive than in the States, but I was told that that was to be expected. When they sat me down at the table where one pays, I asked the manager to confirm the price, just to make sure there was no funny business. “Cuesta 180, si?” “No, 160.” Fair enough. I presented a photocopy of my passport with the credit card. They needed the original. I told them I’d be back in twenty minutes. When I came back with my passport, they finally started filling out all the paperwork and calling in the charge to Mastercard, a process that took about twenty more minutes. I watched and waited and signed. The price was $141.

Before I left, the salesman asked me to wait a moment. He returned with a red backpack adorned with the likeness of Tweety Bird. “Un regalo por su compra.” A gift for my purchase!

It’s considered impolite not to offer a good afternoon or a how-are-you when initiating a conversation, even when simply asking for a beer or whatever.  Como estas, muy bien gracias, y tu, seems to be the most common exchange. But I can’t shake my tendency to say “bueno,” instead of “bien,” which, I’ve been told by a reliable authority, can be taken to mean “sexy” rather than “well,” at least in this situation. How are you, sexy, thank you, and yourself.

Quito’s bus station was closed for renovation, so Mayurisio asked Antoli, a Russian staying at Hostal Belmont, to drive me about 45 minutes to the bus terminal in the neighboring city, where I would catch a bus for Latacunga. The only language Antoli and I have in common is broken Spanish, laced with our respective mother tongue. We have other things in common, too. For instance, we’re the only sane driver on the road, and cannot fathom why everyone else drives like such an idiot. Antoli honked his horn only when absolutely necessary, like when an old women was about to be run over by his car. Other things we don’t have in common. Unlike Antoli, I have never worked in Dubai. He explained to me the shift that occurred about ten years ago (translated from the original Spanssian): “Before 2000, not much anybody. After 2000, the Chinas came to Dubai. And the China mafia. Before 2000, you drive without much problem. After 2000, Chinas, Chinas, Chinas, Chinas. Es problem.”

I’ve had several momentos embarazados, which means “pregnant moments.” For instance: I noticed a few young kids running around when I arrived at La Residencial Amazonas in Latacunga. Later on, I asked the woman at the desk if her kids needed a backpack. I have two, but I only need the one, so I want to… if they need. It took me awhile to effectively communicate this idea. She thought I was trying to sell her a Tweety Bird backpack.

And in case anyone is wondering: the equator has gravity.