Vacay

There is a phenomenon that occurs when adventure seekers make travel plans whose explanation is still unknown to even the most dedicated of researchers.  Once we have purchased our plane tickets to that exotic destination, be it Ecuador, South Africa, or somewhere in the South Pacific, we see a white light.  Much like the white light one supposedly sees right before they check out for good, we have little choice but to walk into its mystical glow.  The difference is that while one white light leads to the other side (stay with me, skeptics, this is not that kind of entry), ours leads us directly to the nearest R.E.I.  Once there we are moved  to spend at least a quarter of our savings on assorted travel gear, much of which we never knew existed. 

"Oh!  Waterproof, flame-retardant, 100% wools socks guaranteed in temperatures as low as -20°F?!"

"Ma´am, didn´t you say you were traveling to Fiji?"

*hypnotic stare*

 "I´ll take.  The socks."

We walk out of the story not only with items on our packing list, but items suited to the packing lists the next two continents over - just in case.

   

I can only make fun to a certain extent as I too, inevitably saw the white light.  I bought the pack, the coat, the socks and the shoes, seemingly thinking that "moving to Ecuador" was synonymous with "scaling Mt. Everest".  Luckily, I got to country and realized that I was not alone.  There were other new volunteers who had joined me in my R.E.I. frenzy, though at the time, states away.   I don´t know what exactly it is that makes us feel that it will be a good idea to step off of the plane dressed like Boy Scouts, but it seems that a good share of us get the memo.

The great thing about Peace Corps is that as PCVs, we are given a considerable amount of time to take a step back, observe the situation, and adjust ourselves accordingly.  We become insiders, looking out at the new arrivals and wishing that someone had gotten to them in time.  Our objective slowly morphs from one of preparedness to blending in, as we discover that nothing quite says, "Sup?  I´m not from here and most things of value to me are currently on my person," than an outfit that a park ranger may find fashionable and a backpack large enough to tote a couple of small children.

I have a hunch that I will see quite a few people who fit the above discription in the next few days and so instead of filling up the backpack and dusting off the hiking shoes in preparation for my sola trip to Peru, I opted for flip-flops and a duffle bag in a hopeful attempt to blend.  This will reduce my chances of being express kidnapped, gringoed*, and forced into conversations about Paris Hilton and Britney Spears.  Yes.  I will put on a shirt with the same pattern as the wallpaper behind me, and nobody will see me coming or going.

   

Join me.  The trip starts here, in Guayaquil, Ecuador; the largest city in the country and unfortunately the most dangerous as well.  Jump in my duffle bag and let´s see how we do with a 600 dollar budget, 10 days of vacation, and 100 plus hours on various buses, as we head through Lima, to Cusco, and eventually to the Incan ruins of Machu Picchu.

*****

The trip gets off to an expected start when Cabbie #1 attempts to charge me 4 dollars for a 4 block ride to the terminal.  For those of you cynical math whizzes who are also big spendas, a cab ride in this country is not worth a dollar a block.  Knowing that he is ripping me off by at least $2.50 (which is worth fighting for when you make 300/mo.) I stay and argue in the cab, determined to hold my ground.  The cab driver refuses to budge and even gets a little nasty.  In the heat of the moment my coastal Ecuadorian accent, which I try to use as a shield against getting ripped off, begins to fail me.  The longer the argument goes on, the more accidental subliminal messages I send that scream, "I´M FOREIGN!" Cabbie #1 is all over it and since I much prefer getting ripped off to being express kidnapped (a concept I will only share with family and friends once I am back on U.S. soil) I begrudgingly hand over the 4 dollars and step out of the cab.  First attempt at blending: unsuccessful.

Ormeño is a Peruvian bus company that now connects nearly all of the major cities in South America.  Their terminal is located in the centro de negocios, el terminal bloque C oficina "C" 34.  It is its own terminal located very near the main Guayaquil bus terminal.  The trip to Lima from Guayaquil costs $70 (USD) and lasts between 24 and 26 hours.  The bus to Lima leaves daily anywhere between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m.  The company is safe.  It makes stops every 8 hours to change drivers and will help you across the sketchy Ecuadorian-Peruvian border without any issues.  Movies are played pretty much the whole time (notice that I never said "good" movies) and breakfast, lunch, and dinner are included in the ticket price.  Recommended. 

Liliana

After buying my bus ticket I was left with a couple of hours to wander before leaving for Lima.  I decided to fill part of this time shopping for food I felt appropriate for a day-long bus ride.  Once in the cracker aisle at the grocery store I made the decision that my cracker had to be salty and delicious.  My eyes fell on the Ritz.  I sprang for the ones with that awesome never-spoiling cheese filling which I am sure is everything but cheese.  But since "natural" fell nowhere near my criteria of salty and delicious, I grabbed 3 packs off of the rack.  I turned towards the checkout line to find a short, Latina woman in my path.

" Hey, you´re going to Lima, aren´t you?"

The woman was about a head shorter than me with wavy, long black hair.  She wore a sweater that screamed fashion with skinny jeans tucked into some even more fashionable boots.  Frankly, she was way too put together for my taste.

"I am.  How did you know?"

She introduced herself as Liliana from Colombia and explained that she had seen me walk out of the terminal after purchasing my ticket.  Her coastal Colombian accent was at first difficult for me to understand and I could tell that mine was for her as well.  For the first minute or so, we just spit out sentences and stared at each other, our ears taking time to adjust much the way your eyes do when you first open them in the dark.

"Hey do you know how to pay for this?"

Liliana held a water bottle in one hand and a handful of quarters in the other.  I did not understand her confusion.

"Uh, yeah...pay with one of those.."  I said skeptically pointing at a quarter.  As I watched her examine the quarters and turn them over in her hand, my skepticism began to take over.  Why had this woman followed me to the cracker line?  Why the over-the-top interest in quarters?  I observed her with growing suspicion, until my suspicion materialized in the form of Julieta, my Peace Corps safety and security officer, hovering over my left shoulder.  She begged me to snap out of it.  "Have you forgotten where you are?!" she almost yelled at me, "Trust NOBODY!"

Julieta was right.  This woman was suspicious.  I mean she just "saw" me come out of the terminal, just "ran" into me in the cracker aisle and now is confused as to how to use a quarter?  I imagined the following day´s headline:  PCV ROBBED BLIND AFTER SMALL COLOMBIAN WOMAN INQUIRED ABOUT THE CURRENCY AND THEN "OFFERED HER FRIENDSHIP" More on page 8.  Not this girl.  It was way too early in my trip to fall for some Colombian quarter scam.

Liliana followed me to the checkout aisle and asked me to join her for breakfast.  I lied saying that I had just eaten and had some more shopping to do.  Liliana looked hurt, and I felt a little bad, but Julieta was satisfied so I let it go.

About an hour later I was sitting in the terminal waiting for my bus to leave when I realized that I had forgotten to buy toilet paper.  Knowing that being caught in these parts without toilet paper can land you in situations that should be featured on Fear Factor, I got up to make a quick run.  I ran into Liliana on the way out.

She asked if she could join me saying that she needed to make a phone call to Colombia.  This time I said it was fine, noting that my stride was the equivalent of at least one and a half of hers, making feasible a potential escape

We got to the store and I waited for Liliana to make her call.  When she came out her eyes were puffy and face stained from tears.  Since I possess the U.S. emotionally closedness that apparently not even 2 years in Ecuador could cure, Liliana´s tears made me uncomfortable.  "Everything okay."  I said as more of a statement than a question with deer-in-the-headlights-eyes.  She took a minute to gather herself, and then began to tell me her story.  She told me how her department store in Colombia had gone under and how she was struggling to raise two small children alone.  She explained to me that a girlfriend in Santiago, Chile, had offered her a job as a restaurant worker and how she had jumped at the offer in order to make money to send home to her parents and children.  She told me that this was her first day away from home - ever, and how everyone on the phone was struggling with the reality of her being away.  She started to cry again and I began to scold myself.  "Why do you think that she asked you to breakfast?"  "Why do you think she doesn´t know how much a quarter is worth?

Real nice.

Liliana´s tears seemed somewhat familiar now and so I began to explain to her that I also understood how it felt to leave familiarity.  I told her the story of this girl I knew from a reasonably small town in Minnesota who joined the Peace Corps and had just about made it out in one piece.  My story seemed to make her feel a little better.

Once on the bus was exchanged Ritz crackers, email addresses, and juice boxes as she explained to me that in order to get to Santiago within her budget she would spend the next 5 days on the bus.  One hundred hours didn´t seem so bad anymore.

Bus hour 1: Leaving Guayaquil.  We are welcomed aboard and dictated the rules.  Rule #1: keep your seatbelts fastened while seated.  Rule #2: no number twos. 

Sometime between hour 4 and 5 the bus attendant begins to come around with our Peruvian customs papers.  I see her approach a group of three young adults decked out in Chacos and convertible tan pants (the kind that turn in to shorts with a simple tug of the zipper) just a few seats ahead of me.  "USA?" she says to them in English? They nod.  Their backpacks were undoubtedly in storage underneath the bus. 

Fortunately, people rarely look at me, and say, "USA?"  This could possibly be where my mild obsession with blending in was born.  I mean, before I had even been in the country for 2 months, before I even had the opportunity to alter the way I dressed or pick up the accent, people were unable to put a finger on where I was from.  I think they looked at me and saw a rare breed.  A strange, Spanish-speaking, non skinny-jeans-wearing, boyfriendless creature, whose origins were still some kind of scientific mystery.  I would get Colombia, the Dominican Republic, and even Brazil before the United States so much as crossed the guesser´s mind.

I began to really like this, and even began to play off of it.  I mean, imagine a world where one day you were a quirky college student passing through from Colombia and the next, a sophisticated business woman from Brazil.  Maybe this didn´t have so much to do with blending as it had to do with messing with cab drivers´ heads and avoiding long conversations about U.S. politics, but I genuinely began to enjoy the game and found myself playing whenever the opportunity arose. I gave myself a point whenever I was not assumed to be from North America, because this just makes you a target, especially when traveling.  And though it does not make much of a difference where I am from while sitting on a day-long bus heading toward Lima, it is always fun to practice.

"Ecuadorian?" the bus attendant says in Spanish to the woman in front of me.

"Colombian?" she asks my new friend Liliana.

I´m next.  I look down at my jeans and t-shirt.  Okay there, but I could have done better.  I pull at my black fleece jacket.  Shoot.  This may just give me away; I have never seen a Latino in these parts donning a fleece.  I squint one eye a little bit, raise an eyebrow and purse my lips as if I were thinking of something really profound in an attempt to make up for the fleece. The bus attendant stops next to my seat and looks at me for a minute, probably trying to figure out why I am making that face.

"And where are you from, ma´am?

I smile.

Second attempt at blending: partially successful.

Hour 4: Nearing the Peruvian border.  Nature calls.  I walk to the facilities in the back of the bus only to find that someone has broken rule #2.  Mission aborted.

Bus Itinerary:

Guayaquil to Lima - 26 hours

Lima to Cusco - 22 hours

Cusco to Aguas Calientes - 6 hours (by van)

Aguas Calientes to Cusco - 6 hours 

Cusco to Lima - 22 hours

Lima to Guayaquil - 26 hours

Guayaquil to San Vicente - 6 hours

Hour 8: Peruvian border control.  Everyone is told to get off of the bus and our bags are searched for contraband.  The woman next to me seems a little too nervous about her bags making it through.  When I ask her what all she packed she replies, "oh, nothing."

The nervous woman next to me reminds me of an older woman we came across when crossing the same border last year on our way to Mancora, Peru, for Christmas.  And I used the word "older" to be polite because to be honest, this woman was elderly.  Apparently, it is fairly common for Peruvians and Ecuadorians living near the border to buy large quantities of clothes, food, and other goods from the huge market on the border.  They then take those goods across the border to their respective countries and sell them for a very decent profit.  This is, of course illegal (see: frowned upon in Latin America), and people caught engaging in this activity by border control will be subject to at least a considerable fine.  So, this old woman had taken all of her bags of clothes, shoes, and jewelry and distributed them throughout the bus: in the overhead compartments, in holes in the seats, under the seats, grandma was creative.  Since the thorough revisions of the buses crossing the border are random, you are basically playing a game of Russian Roulette with less severe consequences.  Unfortunately for our senior citizen friend, our bus was selected.  We did not realize what exactly what was going on until we saw grandma, who had been previously using a cane to help her get around, ditch her walking stick and take off, casually speed walking (oxy moron?) back across the border.

Hour 8½: Nervous woman´s bags make it through.  She lets out a sign of relief.

Hour 24: Two hours outside of Lima.  Rumor has it this city is home to a Starbucks.  First item on the agenda?  A tall caramel apple cider and two milk chocolate grahams.

Lima (Round 1)

I got into Lima at about 2 in the afternoon on Tuesday.

And now, a confession: for all of you who lifted one eyebrow at me and pursed your lips when I explained to you that I would be traveling alone, for those of you who flashed back to the time I was unreachable for a week because I had "misplaced" (read: lost) my cell phone or the time I made four consecutive wrong turns on my way to the local mall or the time over Christmas when I was a tad late to that get-together because I got halfway to St. Paul before I realized that I was suppose to be going in the other direction on I-94, I understood the eyebrow.  I understood and knew that it was merited, not for any other solo traveler, just for me as I can not count on one hand how many times I have had to change the pin number on my debit card or make a spare out of my spare set of keys.  It´s funny because as soon as I stepped out of the terminal in Lima, all of the locals stopped and gave me the eyebrow too.  Men set down their newspapers and newborn babies sat straight up in their strollers, raising their eyebrows in distrust, doubting that I could successfully navigate the next two days alone.  How the heck did they know?

I ignored the eyebrows and walked up to the first legitimate-looking cab driver.  Having dealt with my fair share of cabbies this side of the equator, and after having my memory refreshed in Guayaquil (and hearing a few horror stories about cab rides in Lima), I had devised a plan.  Though I had no idea where I was in relation to anything nor did I have knowledge of how much anything was worth (except for the exchange rate), I was going to act like I did.  I would assume the role of Esperanza, the South American philanthropist, who was just passing through Lima for the 5th...no 6th, time.

Cabbie #2: Where to?

Esperanza: Hostel so-and-so in Miraflores, you know it?

Cabbie #2: Ah, of course!

Esperanza: Great, how much?

Cabbie #2: Just 15 little soles (sol-ays).

Do not be fooled.  The currency in Peru is not the "little" sol.  Fifteen little soles is about $5.50, not surprisingly the same value as fifteen normal-sizes soles, or fifteen large soles at that.

Esperanza: Fifteen?! *polite giggle* Thanks anyway.

Cabbie #2: Alright! Ten soles.

Esperanza: *still giggling and shaking her head*  No thanks, sir.

And then, Esperanza began to walk away.  The "walk-away", as I have creatively coined the term, is key.  Not only with cab drivers in South America, but with practically any stranger that wants to sell you something or offer a service.  It is all a big game of calling each other´s bluff and if you are seriously in it to win it, you will whip out the walk-away.

Cabbie #2: Wait.  Alright.  Eight soles.  Let´s go.

When you get off of the Ormeño bus in Lima, you will find yourself in a district known as San Isidro.  This is about a 7 minute cab ride from one of the most touristy districts, Miraflores, and about a 20 minute cab from the centro or downtown.  There will normally be men outside of the terminal ready to exchange your dollars to soles.  The normal exchange rate while I was there was $1 = S2.7/2.75.  A cab to Miraflores should cost you no more than 8 soles.  It is common for cabbies in Lima to tell you that the hostel you have picked out is dirty or in an unsafe area and then recommend a "better" one.  This is because the "better" hostel pays cab driverX a commission to recruit tourists.  It happened to me both times I arrived in Lima.  I did not make it to the downtown area, but if your hostel is located in Miraflores it is undoubtedly safe and clean.  You can find good, well-kept hostels for as low as 10 dollars/night.

Miraflores is a great area for people who have been known to get the eyebrow.  It is about a 20 block (maybe more?) sector that stretches from a main freeway (via expresa) all the way down to the boardwalk or malecón.  Miraflores is great because between the twin parks (Central Park and Kennedy Park, I wonder who they were marketing to), you can find artisan markets, art shows, impromptu theatre, and/or just a bench to spend an afternoon people watching on.  This entire area is easy to navigate and littered with police officers, making it safe even long after dark.  If you walk about 7 blocks down from the parks you will run into the malecón where, on a sunny day you will have a fantastic bluff-top view of the coast of Lima.

I found the people in this area to be extremely friendly.  I was approached a handful of times by locals who were just curious where I was from and where I was headed.  The most memorable of these was a mother-daughter duo, whose names escape me at the moment.  They joined me on a bench on afternoon in the park.  The mother, who was about 65 years old, and daughter, who was about 40, were spending their last day together in Lima as mom would be heading back to her smaller sierran town in the morning.  We exchanges pleasantries and when I told them I was on my way to Cusco and Machu Picchu, the daughter´s response was, "Cusco!  GREAT-looking men down that way."

The conversation inevitably turned into 20 questions about my impression of Latin American men and why I was currently without a boyfriend.  They congratulated me for traveling alone but explained that if I were to unexpectedly change my mind about livin´ la vida single at any point between Lima and Cusco, that Cusco was where it was at.  I thanked them for their advice and they wished me the safest of travels as they got up off of the bench.  I went to return to my book but was startled by a familiar voice, shouting in my direction:  "Hope you meet a hot Cuzqueño, at least!  So you can see what we are talking about!"  The daughter craned her neck to shout backwards and the mom just smiled and shook her head.

Me to older man: "Hey, can you take my picture on this bench?"

Older man: "No problem, but do you think you´ll be able to run as fast as me when I take off with your camera?"

At night I was faced with the task of choosing between all of Lima´s unique cuisine, but since all that had been on my mind since two Christmases ago on the Northern Peruvian Coast was the local version of ceviche, I made sure to make that my first stop.  I found a place just in front of the parks called Restaurant Café.  The picture on the outside menu of their ceviche combined with their witty, original name, had me seated at a table before I had even finished browsing the menu.  Peruvian ceviche is, in my opinion, the sexier, sassier version of its Ecuadorian cousin.  The raw fish is cut up in to bite sized pieces and not cooked but marinated in lime juice.  It is served on a bed of fresh lettuce with raw lemon-marinated onions and bits of hot pepper to taste.  All of this is usually served with camote (the local sweet potato), and garnished with sweet corn and warm, roasted corn nuts.  It sounds like a wacky combo but I will offer a money back guarantee if you try it and then do not want to eat it every day that you are in the country.  The ceviche will cost anywhere between 8 to 10 USD in touristy Miraflores, but it is definetly worth the price.  Seriously, try not to die until you´ve had this.

               Ceviche with chicharrón (fried sea-awesomeness)                                 

Lima left a great impression on me, granted I was only passing through and stayed in one of the nicest parts of the city.  (I´ve heard the downtown area is a must-see but a little rougher, namely why I chose to kick it uptown.) But alas, after two short days it was time to hop back on the bus and head to Cusco.

Here is the info for the hostel that I stayed at:

Lion Backpackers Bed and Breakfast

Grimaldo del Solar 139-143

Miraflores, Lima

A shared room costs S 33 (11USD)/night with internet and breakfast included.  Also, if you will be heading south to Machu Picchu and plan on stopping in Lima on your way back up, they will send a cab to get you at the terminal and bring you to the hostel free of charge!

Hour 27: Leaving Lima for Cusco.  There are a number of small children on the bus.  I graphic horror movie is inserted.  This should be interesting.

Paola

My new friend Paola from Bogotá accompanied me to the bus terminal in Lima.  Both of us needed tickets to Cusco, Paola for that day and me for the following day.  As luck would have it, Paola from Bogotá was my guardian angel for the day.  Her big city skills helped us maneuver our way around the city with ease and her savviness with the walk-away got us tickets for just $25 for out predicted 22-hour trip.

Paola insisted that I choose a seat in the front of the bus saying that the panoramic view was something I could not miss.  I considered it, but as I looked up at the cashier to confirm my seat, I noticed that Julieta was standing behind her.  I jumped.  Julieta reminded me that a seat in the middle of the bus on the right side was the safest.  She was right.  I have found that sitting in the front of the bus here is a little like being on that Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland.  Except you are not at Disneyland.  And it is not a ride.

I chose seat 24.

Hour 34: 10 p.m.  Nasca, Peru.  A mere 30% of the seats on the bus are occupied (which I feel is representative of the % of people looney enough to sit on a bus for 20+ hours) and yet middle-aged woman sits right next to me and proceeds to chat loudly on her cell phone.  I give her a fake, close-lipped smiled and move.

There are a bunch of bus companies in the San Isidro area that will take you to Cusco.  Civa, Cial, Ormeño, and Cruz del Sur are just a few that come to mind.  I went with Cial, which seemed to be the cheapest, and got my ticket for just 90 soles (≈ $25).  Bring your own food though, theirs is horrible.

Hour 46: Cruising through the Andes.  Ten a.m.  The middle-aged Peruvian woman in front of me complains of being hot.  She tries to open the overhead window but can not reach.  She asks for my help.  I get one open.

Hour 47:  The bus attendant lady comes up and asks who opened the overhead window.  I do not like her demanding tone.  Time to lay low.

Cusco

I was surprised to see Paola, Thursday´s guardian angel from Bogotá, waiting for me at the bus terminal in Cusco.  She had gotten in exactly 24 hours before and wanted to make sure that I found a good hostel and got everything in order for my trip to Machu Picchu.  Paola and her native-Colombianess helped really helped to keep me from being gringoed.  Boy, did this woman like to haggle!  After checking out three hostels she got me a private room with a private bathroom, cable TV and breakfast included, all for $8.00!!

                                                    Chyeah!

Cusco is cold.  Especially at night.  There was a time in my life when I only used the word "cold" to describe things like ice, snow, and liquid nitrogen, but two years on the Equatorial Pacific has a way of altering one´s perspective.  In my defense, however, temperatures got as low as 40°F, which is still considered legitimately cold in some of my old circles.

My second impression of Cusco was that fact that the city was being disturbingly overrun by tourists.  Of course the voices in my head and I convinced myself that I was not one of them, but man, these other people were really talking over the place.  Everyone is on their way down to or back from Machu Picchu and there literally seemed to be a tourist for every local.  Luckily, local Cusqueños welcome the masses of tourists as income generated by tourism is what the Incan capital thrives on.

The city is beautiful (albeit cold and touristy).  It is centered with a plaza in the middle of a valley with orange-roof topped houses built all the way up the mountains around it.  I was lucky enough to be invited to lunch at Paola´s Argentinean boyfriend´s house (what this woman saw in me is beyond me) which was about a ten-block walk up a mountain.  Upon arriving to his place, I stood at the top of the steps doubled over and wheezing, thinking about how hunting down my own lunch would be more enjoyable that ever having to walk up those stairs again, when Paola told me to turn around.  (Photo)  Flippin sweet.

It would have been ideal to have been able to stay in Cusco for a few more days; there is just so much to see in this area.  But Machu Picchu was calling, my vacation days were becoming fewer, and my budget was shaking its head and waving its left index finger at me.  So by 6 a.m. the next morning I was packed up and ready to make the 6 hour trip through the Sacred Valley, and up passed Mount Victoria to Aguas Calientes. 

I chose to take a van service from Cusco to Aguas Calientes.  There are a few ways you can get to and from, bus and train among them, but Paola showed me that taking a van much more suited by budget.  Where as the train will set you back about $120 roundtrip, taking a van ended up costing about $30 roundtrip.  The van service is also a Machu Picchu tourism company that will arrange as much or as little of your tour as you would like.  I opted to throw down 3 more dollars for them to have a hostel ready and booked for me once I got to Aguas Calientes, but if you would like they will book your tour guide, entrance to the park, and even your train ticket back from MP.  I would recommend having them work out your entrance to the park, hostel and train ticket (I´ll explain in a minute), so that you are not running around like a chicken with your head cut off like this one really desperate girl I saw scrambling around that day.

The van seated 14 people and since I was the last one to make it to the meeting point I was rewarded with the very front seat between the driver and shotty, side straddling the stick shift.  My van was filled with people from all over the world, which is why I find it so amusing that I experienced the most communicative misunderstanding with the girl from England.

"What´s your name?"

"Jennifer.  And you?"

"Addex."

"Addex."

"No, AH-ddex."

"Oh, Ah-ddex."  I pronounced the "ah" with my most refined voice, as if I were holding a tea cup.

"AL-EX."

"Oh! Alex!  Nice to meet you..."

"Yeah..."

I like to imagine that at this very moment, somewhere across the pond, that Alex is recounting our little miscommunication to someone back home.

"...so then, mother, she called me Addex," she would say in her British accent, emphasizing "Addex" for effect.

"Addex?" would be her mother´s concerned reply, "why, what kind of a name is Addex?"

"Exactly.  I would say, ´Alex´ and she just kept on asking, ´Addex?  Addex?´"

"Oh dear." would be the Alex´s mother´s worried response, genuinely concerned about the silly American girl who just could not quite grasp the concept of simple English consonants.

The view through the mountains easily took my mind off of Alex´s accent and the stick shift in my left thigh.  That, and the fact that we were at 10,000 ft on the side of a moutain, on a one-lane "road" with no guardrails.  Our driver had a sophisticated system of warning oncoming traffic of our approach which consisted in laying on the horn seconds before entering every blind curve.

                            Dear Peru. How about a guardrail?

                                          

We eventually got up to 14,000 feet where the driver stopped, and we al jumped out to snap some pictures. 

                                                    14,000 ft.

Aguas Calientes

The van was only able to take us as far as a town called Hidroelectrica; the path between there and Aguas Calientes is inaccessable by car.  We were instructed to get out and walk along the train tracks and it´s a good thing because this walk is gorgeous.  There is also an option to talk the train into Aguas Calientes but I wouldn´t do it if you can help it.  The trail is surrounded by green mountains and crossed by two rivers.  It is green and beautiful and if you are like me you will feel like you are getting your first little taste of Machu Picchu.

It was around 7 p.m. when we finally walked into the town of Aguas Calientes.  I ran to buy my entrance to Machu Picchu (the ticket office closes at 9pm) and then the train ticket from Aguas Calients to Hidroelectrica (the train ticket is to take you back to HE from AC after your day at MP, because odds are, pretty as it may be, you won´t be up for the 2-hour walk), checked into the hostel and set my alarm for 3:30 a.m.

Yes, 3:30.  You read that correctly.

Wayna Picchu (also: Huayna Picchu) is an additional set of Incan ruins built on the peak of a mountain that looms no less than 1,000 ft over Machu Picchu.  In order to be allowed access to this peak, you have to be one of the first 400 people in line that day to enter the park as 400 is the daily limit of guests to Wayna Picchu.  Since the first set of gates are opened to the public at 5 a.m., people roll out of bed and start to head that way as early as 4 in the morning.  I set my alarm for 3:30 not only because I was told that the view from the top of WP was spectacular, but also because I am mysteriously drawn to any event that has a cut-off limit for entrees.  In high school it was usually sporting events, in college it tended to be bars for drink specials, and this time I was going to channel all of my efforts into being one of the qualifying on that mountain.

Three-thirty came just as early as expected and I hurried to throw on my clothes and get out of the hostel.  It was obviously still dark outside but the trail to the entrance was marked with little beams of light from people who had committed to getting the early start.  I, of course, being the stellar planner that I am, did not have a flashlight (stop with the eyebrow).  Instead, I chose to nonchalantly walk 5 or 6 paces behind a group with a headlamp, hoping that they would not notice the lurking girl mooching off of their light.  They, of course, did.

"Are you...alone...?"

"Yeah..."

"You should join our group.  You were following us, weren´t you."

"Yeah..."

So much for being inconspicuous.

Their "group" consisted of a girl from Madison, a boy from Mexico, and a girl from Slovakia, all exchange students studying in Lima.  The four of us were among the first 50 people in line.  Success.  I expressed my relief to my new friends.

"Oh, this is not where they start to count," the Mexican student explained to me, "once they let us in here we have an hour-and-a-half walk up this mountain to the actual entrance of Machu Picchu.  THAT´S where we have to be among the first 400."

I turned to look at the line of what seemed to be at least 200 people behind me, and it was growing.  I had not been prepared for a sprint up a mountain at 5 in the morning, but what the heck.  There is nothing like a little friendly race between tourists.

I turned around again to see people double-knotting their shoes and taking final swigs of water.  Have they done this before?  As soon as the officers opened the gates and started checking passports, elbows were out and people took off.  In our own mini version of the Amazing Race, my Slovakian partner and I going by the title of "recently aquainted transcontinental friends", tourists sped-walked and jogged to the first set of big stone steps.  There, the path got too narrow for more than 2 people to walk side-by-side, so my group of new friends and I split in to two.  The Slovakian girl and I fell behind as she apparently had not yet become accustomed to the altitude.  I, on the other hand, well, I didn´t get tired until after at least 8 or 9 steps.  After that, my lungs started to burn in that special way that only 7,000 ft. can make them burn, and my legs started to feel like large slabs of rubber.

We kept on though, both of us seemingly finding our second wind, but not until a good crowd of people had already passed us.  We kept on climbing up, some of the windy stone steps coming up as high as my knees.  About 20 minutes into the hike though, my climbing partner misplaced her second wind and we were forced to stop and rest.  As I took her water bottle off of her hands hoping it would get her to the top a little faster, I started to count the people passing by us as we rested.  I guestimated that we were somewhere in the low hundreds of the pack due to our first stop 20 minutes earlier.  I started at 117 just to play it safe.  118...119...120...red-faced, sweaty tourists worked their way passed us.  121...122...they gave us courteous nods in between deep breaths as if to say, "Nice day for a climb, ay?"  But I understood their nods to really mean: "Dropping. Like. Flies.  Stay right where you are, ladies."

130...131...I told my climbing partner in the nicest way possible that it was time to move.  She nodded in agreement.  Luckily for us, we too passed our fare share of bright-red, wheezing faces parked along the side of the trail.

We continued like this; climbing mostly at 15 minute intervals and then stopping to rest.  As we stood there I would count the people passing by and give them a wink that said, "Hopefully see you before the finish line."  They would smile back as if to say, "In your dreams, sister."

We followed the masses of people up the steps and by minute 60 the lower levels of oxygen reaching my brain due to the altitude caused it to wander into elaborate daydreams.  I fantasized about my friend and I falling back to tourists #300 and 301, and then, just before the finish line, to #399.  We would stop and look at each other, at first conflicted with the potential implications of our predicament, but then realize that we had only met 90 minutes earlier and would more than likely never see each other again.  The two of us would break into a dead sprint towards the cashier at the ticket counter, exchanging the lead with every step.  I, of course, would win by inches with my head first dive into the entrance gate as if it were home plate.  The cashier and I would turn and shrug our shoulders as if to apologize to my former friend as I disappeared into the fog.

"How are you doing?" Ms. Slovakia asked me trying to catch her breath.

"I´m good, you?"

The end of our trek was signaled by a cheer from somewhere above us and 5 short minutes later, we had reached the entrance.  The view was already remarkable, and we hadn´t even entered the park.  Oh yeah, and we finished at #115 and 116.

                The line at the entrance to Machu Picchu

Machu Picchu

And now, though I know I have already written your eyes off (I know that you are still with me, Mom), I must tell you about Machu Picchu - the main event.  This is the view I was met with first walking in.

The city had a building for almost every function any modern day city would need. There are houses and huts, temples, commercial centers, plazas, and even prisons.  One of the coolest things about MP to me is that the whole city was contructed without a drop of mortar.  All of the stones were sculpted to fit perfectly together and have remained that way for now more than 50 years.

"Wait, a second, Eik, did you have a guide?"

Thanks for your question.  The funny thing about guides is that you can hear them even if you didn´t "pay" for them.  Persay.

"Well, that´s not very honest now, is it?"

Excellent point.  But I find few things dishonest with standing in an area minding my own business and just happening to overhear the explanations of somebody else´s guide.

I´m joking.  Kind of.  I say that if you are with a group a guide is definitely worth the 30 or so dollar investment for the day, but if you are flying sola with a tight budget like yours truly, keep in mind that eavesdropping is free.

The Incas had effective social welfare systems where food and clothing were stored and later distributed to the most in need, a slick courier system that got messages all the way to Quito in no more than 7 days, and a community service system that was responsible for the infrastructure and upkeep of the city.  There are more than 100 structures to walk through and learn about all while taking in the fact that you are witnessing an incredible view at 8,000 ft.

After wandering around MP for a couple of hours, I decided to cash in my golden ticket and head across town to Wayna Picchu.  When you get to the "Wayna Picchu control" as they call it, they check your ticket to make sure you are one of the people who busted their @$$ at 5 a.m. and then they ask you to sign in.  Once you are let in you can look forward to another 90 minute hike uphill, only this time it is at your leisure; getting to the top is no longer a race.

I got to the top of WP at around 9 a.m. and it took a good 30 minutes for the clouds to part.  Once they did, I understood what all of the rave was about.  Not only do you get to check out another set of ruins and experience a city that is literally built in the clouds, but you get a unique aerial view of Machu Picchu. 

Also, if you are like me, the large boulders and little caverns on Wayna Picchu will have you running around like it´s an adult jungle gym.  Actually, I take that back. "Running" is not an appropriate verb at all.  I think that I mentioned that this place is high, but I don´t know that I mentioned how narrow the steps are, how few railings there are, and how one misstep on this mountain could send you back down it a little faster than you would be comfortable with.  I am not exaggerating, by the way.  I was climbing down some windy, narrow steps with a huge rock face on one side and 6 inches to a half-mile drop on the other, thinking that I was going to discover a cool little cavern or something, only to find that the steps lead to nothing.  Well, except certain death, I guess.  I literally got to the bottom, waited for my heart to return to its rightful position in my chest, and inched my way back up.  Those with fear of heights need not apply.

Here are a few more pics!

 

 

If my van tour people hadn´t have told us to be back down to meet them at 2 p.m. in Hidroelectrica, I probably could have stayed at MP until dark.  But I did, in fact, have a van to catch. So, I caught the bus ($8.00) from MP down to Aguas Calientes, and hopped on the train ($12.00) back down to Hidroelectrica.  Once in the van, my 3:30 a.m. start to the day got together with my 5 a.m. race at 7,000 ft. and convinced the day´s adrenaline to finally chill out.  I was out cold within 20 minutes and in and out of consciousness throughout the entire 6-hour drive back to Cusco.

Hour 50: Nearly full bus heading back to Lima.  Fidgety seatmate.

Hour 72: Tuesday the 24th.  Just rolling back into Lima.  Looking to spend the night and finish some unfinished business I have with a ceviche and a Pisco sour.

Lima (Round 2)

While wandering around my last night in Lima looking for the perfect ceviche, came across a five star hotel.  In front of the hotel were two gentlemen.  An older guard gentleman and a younger, greeter gentleman.  We made eye contact which opened the door for the whole "where are you from and what are you doing here" conversation.  When I confessed to them my addiction to the local ceviche they asked me what else I had tried in Lima.  When I had a hard time thinking of anything else they laughed and suggested that I try a traditional dish called anticuchos.  The younger boy, we´ll call him Andres, explained that anticuchos were cuts of cow heart and a must-try before leaving Peru.  I decided that Andres was right and accepted his invitation to join him after work to go get a plate of anticuchos.

                                     Do NOT knock it ´til you try it!

So that is how I found myself on my last night in the country: sharing a portion of cow heart (grilled which was a pleasant surprise and served with french fries, bonus!) with a new friend, while telling stories about where we came from - all the while joking about how ridiculously unromantic it is to share a plate of grilled animal organs on a (very hypothetical) first date.

 

Hour 73: Last leg of the trip.  Currently eating: leftover anticuchos.  Current movie: the one where Vin Diesel shoots everyone but never seems to get hit himself.  

*****

Once safely back in my apartment, I throw down my duffle bag relieved not to have to haul it around for another minute.  My backpack, on the other hand, sits in the corner looking deflated and even hurt, seemingly wondering why the duffle bag is always included in on the fun.  I would explain to him that he makes me too conspicuous; that there is no way I could travel under my other identities with him always peeking over my shoulder, but he would never understand.  My hiking shoes seem to read my mind, and also feeling left out, sassily explain to me that lugging around the dufflebag instead of the backpack and pretending to be from the area is a lot like putting on one of those masks with the glasses, big nose, fluffy black brows and mustache**; I am not fooling anyone and I look silly trying.  Maybe my shoes are right. But if I can keep people guessing, or if takes just a split-second longer to figure out what is behind the mask, I´m all for it.

* (To get) gringoed  -verb (green-goed)

1. to be charged unfairly high prices of based on the fact that one hails from a different country and is assumed to be on vacation 

2. to be taken advantage of

You paid how much for that shirt? Boy did you get gringoed.

** (see: Groucho mask)

Home Sweet Home

Fact: It has been over 2 months since I last blogged.

Fact: Each year 56 to 100 million cats and 54 million dogs are born in the United States.*

The blog doesn’t seem like that big of a deal now, does it?  Alright, I have a good excuse.  I was so busy spending 3 fabulous weeks in the States over the holidays that writing really was not much of a priority.  But lucky for you, I am back in Ecuador with nothing but taaahm (southern accent).  So, as somebody very wise once said, “Let’s get it started, in here.”

Ah, the United States.  Land of the Chipoltle burrito, The People’s Court, and Tivo.  Home sweet home.  Some friends and family were curious to see how I felt being back in the States for the first time in over a year.  I have to admit I was pretty curious too.  That said, I am not even going to use the phrase.  You know the one: it starts with an “r” and rhymes with schreverse scrulture schrock.  I won’t use it because I think that it is something that should be reserved for much more extreme cases than returning to the States after living in Ecuador for 18 months.  Like, say I were to move to an island with only 12 inhabitants whose diet consisted of iced tea and baked potatoes and who only communicated through song.  I could see how going home to the States after a stint with culture X could cause one to experience: “psychosomatic and psychological consequences of the readjustment process to the primary culture.” **

So no, I was not so overwhelmed with United States culture upon reentering the country that I retreated to a corner and refused all attention.  That said, I did realize that I had developed a few habits that I found especially hard to break.

1. Mumbling in English

The nice thing about living in a country whose national language is different than your own is being able to spout off in your first language whenever somebody crosses you the wrong way or gets on your nerves.  Take the following hypothetical situations for example.

Situation #1: Woman cuts me of in the market on our way to the last mango. 

Me (In English): Oh, right.  Real mature, lady.

Situation #2: Guy headed the wrong way on a one-way narrowly avoids clipping me with bike.

Me: Hey! Watch it, bucko!

I have found that mumbling in English in such situations does a couple of things for me.  First, it lets the offending party know that I am irritated, without allowing them the opportunity to rebut or defend themselves.  And second, it allows me to express myself in a way that even after almost two years here, I am still unable to do in Spanish.  The best snide comment I can think of in response to situation one is something that would roughly translate to, “Hey!” and “Careful!” for situation two.  I have tried to spice these up by following the comments with a fist shake or disgruntled glare, but have found that it doesn’t quite do the trick.  Letting out my frustration in English is much better for mental health. 

What is not so good for mental health is drawing attention to yourself because you become so accustomed to doing this that you continue to do it upon return to the States.

Situation #3:  While patiently waiting for my luggage at baggage claim in Minneapolis, text messaging man nudges passed me and scoots his way between myself and the carousel. 

Me: (under breath) No, don’t even worry about it. You’re clearly the only one who needs his bags anyway.

Man: (turns around*surprised look*)

Me: No, heh…what am I even doing here? *Looks around, pretends to check watch and retreats to other side of carousel*

2. Throwing the toilet paper in the trash can.

In Ecuador (and many other South American countries), toilet paper is not to be flushed down the toilet.  If you ask people why this is, they will give you some long, drawn-out explanation about the plumbing system but I don’t buy it.  My theory?  Flushing the toilet paper down the toilet will cause it to self-destruct with you on top of it.  Not only would this be a messy and painful situation, but somewhat embarrassing as well.  That’s why it is in your best interests to just make a habit of throwing the TP in the trashcan that is conveniently located alongside the toilet. 

The good thing is that these self-destructing toilets are only located in South America and on select islands in the Pacific.  Since in the U.S. it is perfectly acceptable to flush the paper you would think that I would have had no problem returning to the bathroom habits I had before joining the Peace Corps.  No such luck.  I realized that this was no easy habit to break.  Living on the verge of catastrophe for over a year had turned something routine like using the bathroom into an all-out internal struggle.  It’s like when something really traumatic happens to you.  Say, you go swimming with sharks and one bites you.  Are you just going to jump back in the ocean try to make nice with those big fish again?  Maybe.  If you’re an idiot.  “Just a second,” you say, “you are not making any sense.  And you’ve never had a toilet explode under you anyway.”  Maybe not in “real life” I haven’t, but I have in my imagination and let me tell you, it is not pretty.    

3. (Not) driving.

Something else that proved to be quite habit forming was relying solely on public transportation.  Not only do we not own cars or any kind of motorized vehicle here, we are simply not allowed to drive.  Anything.  Ever.  So was I a tad nervous when on my second day home my sister tossed me her car keys and told me she would not be able to drive me to my hair appointment in Minneapolis?  Yes.  Yes, you could say that I was.  But I caught the keys and told myself that it couldn’t be any more difficult than getting back on a bike.  I mean, right?  Note: Driving in downtown Minneapolis in the middle of winter for the first time in two years is not like getting back on a bike.  Though maneuvering through the cities proved to be somewhat challenging, I think my time on the freeway was the biggest nightmare of all.  I received honks and obscene gestures from the elderly and visually challenged and shot them terrified, wide-eyed looks in response as I thought about what kind of car I would be repaying my sister with once it was all said and done.  Minnesota Nice was thrown out the window as it seemed that everyone on the road was at least two hours late to surgery.  Here’s my defense:

a)      it was snowing

b)      the roads were slick

c)      keeping your speed around 50mph (even on the freeway) is good for the engine

d)     I was lost

e)      my feelings were hurt

      That said, I would like to offer my deepest apologies to anyone in the far right lane on I 94 between the hours of 10 am – 10 pm on December 9^th.  Yes, I understood that speed limit was 70 and no, there was nothing wrong with my car.

Leaving home was bittersweet; saying goodbye to my family again was tough, but I was more than ready to get back to unlimited seafood, tropical weather, and TP in the trashcan.  Today Avelina invited me over for lunch.  I sat down at the table and she served me a big, steaming bowl of cow hoof soup. 

Ah, Ecuador.  Home sweet home.





* Animal testing statistics: buzzle.com
** Reverse culture shock: Wikipedia

Chuuuta

“Chuta ” is a regional term used to express the acknowledgement that one a) is disappointed, b) has made a mistake, or c) neglected to do something. I have found that the length of time that you hold out the ooo (like snooze) sound directly correlates with one´s level of disappointment. For example, lets say someone is headed to get groceries, but halfway to the market realizes he/she has forgotten the grocery list. A simple chuta in this situation would do just fine. Now lets say that same person, now halfway home from shopping realizes that he/she has forgotten oh, say... a child at the market. A more prolonged chuuuuuta would be an appropriate reaction. I, for example have recently realized that it has been more than two months since the last time I blogged. On the chuta scale this would probably fall somewhere between the forgotten grocery list and the neglected child. Granted I am sure few people besides my mother have noticed how long it has been since I have written, the fact that you are still reading tells me that you are at least slightly interested in what has been up down here. That, or you’re just really bored. Either way, let me get you up to speed.

Nothing rings in your one-year in country celebration like an attempted coup. As I mentioned in a previous post, September was my training group’s mid-service conference. The conference itself was a pretty good time. There was a lot of time to catch up with volunteers, discuss projects, and brainstorm about ways to make our second year of service successful. Once the three-day conference had ended, many of us were instructed to hang out in Quito for an extra day or two for annual health checkups. So as we were kickin it in the hostel enjoying hot showers and cable TV, we got a call from the Peace Corps office saying that there had been some rioting in Quito and that we were not to leave the hostel for any reason. We flipped on the news to see somewhat of a situation developing miles down the road from us. It had been said that earlier that day the president, Rafael Correa, had passed legislation taking away police bonuses and making it significantly more difficult for them to become promoted within the force. So, the cops went on strike. No big deal right? I mean, people strike all the time. Well what made the issue a big deal is that when the police strike some pretty important responsibilities go unfulfilled. Like the security of the country, for example. The airports were closed, department stores were looted, and the president was held captive for the day in a police hospital where, while hanging out of the window, he made dramatic speeches challenging the cops to take him on. No president plus no cops equals raised safety concerns in a country whose two largest cities can be pretty sketch under completely normal circumstances. Not to mention that a coup, if successful would have meant that instead of packing up to head back to site, we would be packing up to head to the airport and back to the United States. The whole ordeal came to a head at the end of the day when the police and the military opened fire on each other. Five officers were killed and about fifty injured as a result. After a day of chaos, however, things just about went back to normal about as fast as they had gone sour. The military took charge of the nation’s security and Correa returned to his presidential palace. We were relieved to receive the news that we would be sent back to our sites early the next morning. Happy mid-service to us!

I also found a puppy sometime around the end of September. She and her brother were up for grabs outside of a school in a friend´s site. She was filthy and flea and tick infested and too adorable not to take home with me. Here is her profile:


Name: Viche Marie
Alias: Viche Maria
Age: Fourish months
Breed: Yes
Nicknames: Princess, Baby Love, Vichecita Mi Hijita Chiquitita
Likes: Dumpster diving, bike rides, the neighbor puppy
Dislikes: Baths, bedtime, leashes



In local news, the bridge that had been being built since I got to site last year is finally finished. It now connects my town with Bahía de Caráquez, the more developed city across the bay, and let me tell you, infrastructure is exciting. There was plenty of hoopla surrounding the completion of the project. The president came out, there were fireworks, as well as an all-night party on the beach. Ecuadorian tourists have been coming in from all over the country to walk the bridge and get a couple of pictures on it. Though this seemed a bit silly to me at first I tried to think of a bridge that I would be excited enough about to take a picture with. The Golden Gate Bridge came to mind which made me think of Full House. Which made me think of that episode when Michelle climbs up on the jungle gym at school to prove that she isn´t a baby after Danny puts her in an embarrassing hat and kisses her goodbye in front of everyone. Once she got up there though, she realized that she really was a baby and needed help down. I think they should have left her up there. The point is I think now I understand the hype. I would totally take a picture on the Golden Gate Bridge. The new bridge is the longest in the country (just over a mile) and connects the entire northern coast of Ecuador making about a two or three hour difference in travel time from before it was built. Here are a few pictures of the bridge festivities:

In just under three weeks I will land in Minneapolis and embark on a 21-day Minnesota vacation. It is hard to stay focused here having home in my sights for the first time in a year-and-a-half. Especially when certain people Skype you eating chocolate pudding saying that you can have some when you make it out to visit them. I mean really? Chocolate pudding? How am I supposed to focus? It’s all good though. For the next 17 days (not that there is a countdown or anything) I will keep my schedule as busy as possible in an attempt to keep my mind off of chocolate pudding and all of the other wonderful things I will consume and fabulous people I will see the beginning of next month. Won’t be long now!

Rodrigo, my bike, was stolen on Friday. Unlike the majority of the time when I lose things, I can’t really kick myself about this one. I had put the bike in my friend’s yard, closed the (lockless) gate and headed to work across the street. When I came back to get it about 4 hours later, the gate was open and Rodrigo was gone. I mean, it was broad daylight and there were people in the house, so whoever took the bike really flippin wanted it. I could not count how many times since I bought the bike last November people warned me that somebody was going to try and steal it. Without knowing it, I had even warned myself in a letter we were told to write to ourselves in training: “…and even though you are a year in don’t get too comfy with your $, camera, etc. because you know that’s when they get jacked.” I think my bike fell under etc. Rod and I had a great one-year run and all I have now are the memories of the places we saw and the time we spent together. So cue P.Diddy’s “I´ll be Missin You” and roll the picture montage of the good times. Here’s to you, Roddy.

Rodrigo Bike, November 2009 - November 2010

                               

More Bizarre Foods

I can not eat anything new without thinking about Andrew Zimmern. I mean, that time he ate bull testicles? Classic. Or what about the beating fish heart? So good. After seeing just about every episode of his show (pre-Peace Corps), there is no way I could turn down anything that I am offered here without feeling like a huge loser. I mean, how can you say no to a little grilled cow intestine when someone out there is eating maggot infested cheese? That’s right. You can’t.

Ecuadorians eat a fair share of rice. And when I say “fair share” I mean that here, rice is not the side dish. Small pieces of meat and little portions of salad take second and third place to steaming heaps of rice. With so much of their diet depending on rice, it’s no wonder that Ecuadorians have given the different states of cooked rice different names. As you probably know, arroz is the Spanish word for rice. Here in Ecuador, there is arroz, and then there is cocolón or pegado – the hard layer of overcooked rice that sticks to the sides of the pot. I know what you’re thinking: Yeah, overdone rice…real bizarre… And you’re right. Hard rice is not the most exotic of dishes. But what makes cocolón so strange to me is that where in the States we generally avoid whatever is left sticking to the side of the pan, many Ecuadorian prefer this part of the pot of rice to the soft, easily digested part. The colcolón is favored to the point that I have seen pre-dinnertime arguments break out between siblings over the last piece. It is favored to the point that when eating out, it would not be uncommon to hear someone order their meal with an extra slab of cocolón.

When I lived with a host family it took me awhile to understand why my host mother would serve me my dinner with a big chunk of overcooked rice. Did I do something wrong? I would ask myself. Is she angry with me? It didn’t take me long to realize, however, that I was being served the cocalón because as the “guest” I was being given what she considered to be the best portion of food. My mother too would always scrape herself out a large piece of hard rice. I marveled at how, despite all of her dental work, she never hesitated to work through those big pieces of tough rice. And after a couple months of always being served cocolón with my meal, I developed a taste for the overcooked part of the rice as well. I mean, it’s tasty and a great option for the modern individual who is craving rice, but on-the-go. My relationship with cocolón ended abruptly though, as I have discovered that eating it is also a great way to detect cavities. My friend Avelina swears that munching on overcooked chunks of rice twice a day does no damage to teeth, but I have to beg to differ. For the time being, I am laying off the cocolón. At least until my next dentist appointment.

If I eat something strange in site, it is usually prepared by Avelina. Avelina is a 54 year-old mother of four (in addition to two young grandchildren) and definitely one of my best friends in San Vicente. She usually keeps her meals simple – lots of soups, fried fish and plantains – but surprises me every once in awhile with something that I never expected to see on the menu. On this particular day, the surprise was in the soup.

“What’s in the soup?” I asked, leaning over the pot.

“We’re having mondongo soup, have you had it before?”

“Don’t think so, what’s modongo?” I asked, mispronouncing the word.

“Mondongo,” she corrected me, “is from the inside of the cow,” she explained motioning towards her stomach.

“Oh right. What part though?”

“The inside!”

I realized that either Avelina was being purposely vague for my sake or I just wasn’t meant to know what was in the soup of the day. I left the conversation there. Avelina moved the large piece of mystery innards from the pot to the cutting board and chopped it up in to bite-sized chunks. As she chopped, I speculated about where inside the cow the mondongo had been taken from. It was long and thick, pearl-colored, and almost cylindrical in shape which automatically made me think intestines. But I know the word for intestines, and it´s not mondongo…it´s tripa…which means tripe…I thought. Tripe is intestines…isn’t it? Dangit. Where is Wikipedia when I need it. I gave Avelina my best “can’t wait to dig in!” smile as she returned the chopped up pieces of mondongo to the pot.

Once lunch was ready all of the kids were called to the table and we said grace. While the rest of the family thanked God for the food in front of them, I said my own prayer asking God to please reveal to me what was in the soup. I squinted one eye open half-hoping to see a message written in salt or the name of the soup floating in the peas. No such luck. We all dug in. As usual when someone is a guest in an Ecuadorian’s home for a meal, I was given an extra healthy serving of mondongo in my soup. The consistency was chewy, kind of how I would imagine pencil erasers to be if boiled for awhile, and I was happy to discover that the mondongo itself didn’t have too much of a taste – it had basically just absorbed all of the flavours in the broth. Hallelujah. This was not going to be so bad.

Halfway through the soup, my cell phone rang. Seeing that it was a good PVC friend, I excused myself from the table. Maybe she knew what was in my soup.

“Hey.”

“Hey, what are you up to?”

“Lunch with Avelina.”

“Oh yeah? What are you guys having?”

“Caldo de mondongo. Do you have any idea what that is?”

*Long pause*

“Yeah…isn’t that cow rectum…?”

*Long pause*

“I mean I could be wrong,” she continued, “but, I’m pretty sure it’s the rectum. Don’t worry though, they wash it out really well with lemons and laundry detergent.”*

We hung up, I returned to the table and picked up my spoon. As I looked down at my soup the pieces of cow insides still floated around, but not innocently as they had been before. Now they bobbed up and down maliciously; laughing at my ignorance and reminding of all the good reasons to brush up on my animal anatomy in Spanish.

                   Avelina displying the mondongo for a picture.

There are some times though, when knowing all of the Spanish vocabulary in the world will not help you identify what you are about to eat. Sometimes, when you are out in a small town in Ecuador, without your dictionary, no Wikipedia or high school Spanish teacher in sight (What up, Ms. Fischer!), with a new, unrecognizable entrée in front of you, the only way to learn is to eat. The word rellena in Spanish can be translated to mean “filled” or “stuffed” in English. “Filled or stuffed with what?” you might ask. Great question.

It was another quiet afternoon at Avelina´s and I had shown up à la Eddie Haskell, just in time for lunch. Avelina told me that today for lunch we would be having rellena and rice. I snuck a peek at the frying pan to see what looked like some variation of sausage sizzling on the stove.

We sat down to eat and it took me about a third of a bite to realize that the sausage I had in front of me was a little different than what you’d find in your grocer’s freezer. The consistency was much grainier than I expected and pieces were falling out of the casing. The taste to me was a little bit of a cross between cooking oil and metal.**  I tried really hard not to make the face that you make when you take a big sip of your Sprite thinking it’s water, but I must not have tried hard enough.

“You don’t like it?” Avelina looked concerned.

Busted.

“No, that’s not it. I’m just a little surprised. What is this again?”

“It’s rellena.”

“Right. Filled with what?”

Avelina explained to me as everyone else ate that rellena is made when the blood of a cow, pig etc. is chilled to the point of coagulation and then mixed with pieces of rice, plantain, and meat. The mixture is then used to fill sausage casings, fried, and served with rice.

I have to say that as usual, Avelina´s explanation made it a little more difficult for me to get lunch down. But by keeping in mind that there are few gestures ruder than not eating the food that is offered to you, I was just about able to finish it all. I helped with the dishes and headed to the internet to do some research.

I found that as strange of an idea as rellena seemed to me, the dish is not so bizarre to the rest of the world. Nearly every continent has some version of blood sausage, and of course in some cultures it is considered a delicacy (I feel like they can say this about anything though. I mean, who’s really going to know?).

Andrew Zimmern has a motto. At the end of every episode he signs off saying, “And remember, if it looks good, eat it!” I think that it’s a great motto and it obviously works for him. But in some cases (read: cow rectum soup, blood sausage, etc.) what is put in front of you is not always going to seem super appetizing. For those situations, I would like to leave you with a motto of my own that has yet to let me down:

“If it seems edible and you are decently acquainted with the person who prepared it, try to make conversation until somebody else takes the first bite, watch their reaction intently for at least fifteen seconds, and then politely get as much of it down as you can!” 

*The mondongo can come anywhere from the stomach, all the way down to the end of the digestive tract.  The possibilities!

**But don´t just take my word for it!  Get out there and try it for yourself!