It All Comes Full Circle- Villcabama to Quito, Ecuador

It is now 5:41 in the morning. Molly and I have been at the Quito airport since 3AM waiting to begin our long journey home. I am tired; very, very tired. To tell the truth its hard to discern whether I'm awake or dreaming. Airports are funny like that. They have that indistinct quality that you get in dreams where all locations could be any location. (I was at my Grandma's house.. but it was also a movie theater) Like dreams, they exist between worlds. Dreams exist between waking and unconciousness and airports exist between where you are coming from and where you are going. Airports are also like dreams in that sometimes it feels like you are never going to get out of there.

When I look back on this trip to South America, it too seems like a dream. How else could you describe such an incredible, intense and, at times, utterly insane experience? The things that we have done on this trip are tattooed in my memory and will travel with me to the end of my days, and the last week really brought it all full circle.

After spending a few days surfing in the Pervian town of Mancora, Molly and I scurried through our final border crossing of the trip into Ecuador. Our destination was the town of Vilcabamba nestled in a wonderful green valley in the Andes mountains. The valley itself is known as 'the valley of longevity' because of the extremely long lifespans of its inhabitants. Many have pondered what special powers this valley holds for granting long life. The physicist in me loves the idea that time actually moves slower here.

One aspect of the theory of relativity is called time dilation. It states that the faster an object moves relative to an observer, the slower time appears to move for that object. Because of the shape of the earth and the direction of its daily rotation, objects on the equator move faster than objects closer to the poles, therefore time actually moves slower for people living in Ecuador than for people living in New York. (This idea is not hard to to believe if you've ever spent much time in Manhattan.) Although time dialation would only account for about one extra second every thousand years, its still something. 

There are of course other theories:

Molly and I arrived in Vilcabamba and started searching for a place to stay. As we were walking by a pub on the central square the grizzled old Brit behind the bar saw us looking a bit confused. He called us into the pub to have a drink and give us directions. When we got inside, who should come running up to us but the same Chilean flute player that we'd met months ago on the beach in Huanchaco, Peru! Small world, eh? He was VERY happy to see us again and quickly pulled us over to his table. We drank a couple beers and played some songs together before heading out.

We eventually took up residence at a eco-lodge called Rumi Wilco. It is a collection of cabins inside a nature preserve. Rumi Wilco is an thoroughly enchanting place run by an Argentine naturalist named Orlando who spent most of his life working with his wife on the Galapagos Islands. They fell in love with Vilcabamba while traveling through Ecuador and when the time came to settle down and raise kids they decided to settle there. They opened the eco-lodge and spent a great deal of energy getting locals and the government to recognize and protect the rich and unique biodiversity that exist in this small region. Today the preserve boasts 40 hectares and is home to 124 species of bird, 500 species of plants as well as a host of other organisms.  

We spent most of our first few days relaxing in the cabin and checking out the grounds. There are some wonderful paths that lead up the hill behind the cabins. Orlando, his family and other volunteers have carefully maintained the paths, using signs to point out plants of interest, geological formations and contemplation points where you are simply meant  to stop and soak in the beauty around you. We climbed for a few hours through dense sub-tropical forests until we finally reached a vista from which you could see the entire valley below. 

It is the begining of the rainy season here in Ecuador so that means that most days you have to put up with a shower or two. Scattered clouds roll over the green mountains thick and heavy with precipitation ready to drop their contents at a moments notice. Fortunately, it doesn't rain every day. Between rains the air is sharp and clear, cleansed of any dirt or dust and the ecuatorial sun shines brightly on the land below. We took advantage of one of those sunny days to rent horses and get up into the high country around the town. This was one of the best things we did on the entire trip.

Our guide, Wilson, was very knowledgeable about the land and brought us on a spectacular ride high into the mountains. We rode on narrow paths along the sides of a steep valley up to a wide green pasture. We left the horses to graze while we hiked down beautiful, hidden  waterfall and took a swim to cool off.

After leaving Vilcabamba we hopped back on the bus and started north. After a brief stop in at a volcanic crater lake called Quilotoa we reached the famous market of Otavalo. On Saturdays this small Andean town is over-run with peddlers from all over Ecuador hawking their wares. The streets are a veritable rainbow of fruits, vegetables, ponchos, blankets, masks, dyes, hand crafts and jewelry of every description. We stalked the vendors and honed our barganing skills as we loaded up on gifts for the folks back home.

Our last bus ride of the trip was a short, two hour jaunt back to Quito where it had all began. The city seemed so different from the one that we had arrived in just four months ago. We had truly come full circle, but we were not in the same place. All in all we'd traveled 10,337 miles in 127 days while visiting 5 countries. We met people that we will always remember and saw things that no one could ever forget. We learned a new language (Hola!) and tried some of the most bizzare foods you could imagine. When we got off the plane in August we couldn't even order soup in a restaurant, now we were having political discusions with cab drivers as they whizzed through the busy streets. It was exhausting, exhilarating and above all extraordinary. I am so thankful that I got to have such an experience with my best friend, my wife. I am even more thankful that I get to come home and share the stories with the people that I love.  I am the most thankful that in a few weeks I am going to get on a plane and start the whole cycle over again.

Of Buses and Beaches: Quintay, Chile to Mancora, Peru.

I guess it happens to everyone. You make a plan that seems like a great idea at the time only to have the ramifications become plainfully clear upon closer inspection. Like General Custer at Little Big Horn turning to his troops and saying "Oh, come on men, there are only a few Indians down there" or Napolean's idea to invade Russia in the winter (They'll never expect it!), your intrepid travelers also fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most well-known of course is never get into a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well known is never try to make a four day, three thousand mile journey up the coast of South America  BY BUS!

Ah, the best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft angley. But, as many of you may know, the key to traveling is adaptation and improvisation. Fortunately, we are masters of both and everything turned out alright in the end. The solution, as it is so often in life, was to head to the beach.

Whale loading ramp in 1944

We spent one of our last days in Chile in the small whaling village of Quintay. Thankfully the whaling industry has been long since shut down leaving only a few rickety buildings on the outskirts of town as a reminder of the slaughter that was once an everyday occurrence. 

Whale loading ramp today

Nowadays, the town is home to waterfront restuarants and international diving schools. The small harbor of Quintay is quiet and relaxing. We stopped for a while to enjoy one last bowl of camarones al pil pil and revel in the spectacular views of the jagged coastline as it was pounded by the mighty Pacific. It was the deep breath before the plunge.

With the date of our return flight from Quito to New York rapidly approaching, we were feeling the pinch to get north as fast as we could. Our original plan, which was to fly from Santiago to Quito, had been scrapped due to cost so we were left with only buses. On the map it was only 4 small inches from Santiago to Mancora, Peru. How bad could it be? We were about to find out.

We left the bus terminal in Santiago at 7:30 pm and got into Copiapo in the Atacama desert around 6 the next morning. Copiapo is a mining town without much to do and we didn't want to spend the night there. This meant that we also didn't have a hostel and were, in effect, homeless. So we did what most homeless people do, we went to the park. Along with the usual vagrants and stray dogs, it seems that Copiapo also has a sizable population of Gypsies. I know that is not the politically correct term but that's what they were, right down to the long flowing skirts and tarot cards. We spent 17 hours in Copiapo turning down offers to have our fortunes read while fending off overly friendly dogs and keeping all our packs directly under us so that nobody could steal them. The life of the homeless is not all it's cracked up to be. At least the park was nice.

Around midnight we boarded a bus to Arica, just south of the Peruvian boarder and a mere 18 hours later we arrived. It was time for a break. We spent the next two days running on the beach, sunbathing and trying to gear up for the next part of the journey. Those two days, incidentally, included Thanksgiving so we went out for the most American meal we could find; burgers.

After a short one and a half hour train across the border we arrived in the Peruvian town of Tacna only to jump onto the bus for a 19 hour haul to Lima. The capital city of Peru actually has some of the best food in all of South America. It's placement on the ocean makes it home to some of the best ceviche in the world and the intermingling of the indigenous, European and Asian cultures that thrive there make for some top-notch cuisine. We spent the night and refueled our tanks on the ocean's bounty before starting the final 18 hour leg of our sojourn to the surf-town of Mancora on the Equadorian border. 

Yes, the even deep fried the shells

This is all Molly ate for 3 straight days

Luckily, the bus gods took pity on us that night. Some of the buses in Peru are really nice and actually have stewardesses that come around and give you snacks and drinks. Now it's not an easy task to pour and carry a tray full of drinks on a bus that is knocking down the highway and around curves at 100 kph and I noticed our girl was having a little trouble. I offered to help her with the service and she was very grateful. ln fact, a little later she noticed that the overhead lights on our chairs were not working while we were trying to read. She said that that wouldn't do and took us down to two empty seats in the first class cabin. Some good deeds really are rewarded. We spend the remainder of the bus ride lounging in double wide leather recliners as soft as clouds while watching badly dubbed Wayans brothers comedies on flat screen TVs. I really didn't want the bus ride to end.

We arrived at our destination the next morning and stumbled off the bus into the bright sunshine of northern Peru. All in all, we'd taken 67 hours of buses in a little over a week, and traveled about 2,995 miles. Needless to say we needed a break and Mancora was just that. It's really just a tiny surf town right on the edge of the desert but it is all we needed. It has palm trees, white sands and warm, blue waters. We spent the next few days surfing, sunbathing and eating ceviche. Not a bad way to start the month of December, but I really feel like we earned it.

My life in a Corona commercial

Art and Artistry- Valparaiso, Chile

In its heyday, the city of Valparaiso was the pride of Chile. It was one of the richest ports along the Pacific Ocean, growing fat of the wealth of merchant ships sailing around Cape Horn. The natural amphitheater shape of the coast and deep water port made the city an ideal stop-over for southern whaling ships and Chilean exporters, and gave it an excellent defensive position against maurading pirates.

The steep hills of Valparaiso were decorated with mansions built on the fortunes gained from the goods of foreign vessels that anchored in its tranquil waters. But sadly, this golden age was not to last. 

The beginning of the end came in 1906 when a powerful earthquake ripped through the city. The event was immortalized by Pablo Neruda in his poem Ode to Valparaiso:

"...the earthquake gripped you and you ran about dementedly, you broke your nails, everything shifted, the waters and the stones, the sidewalks, the sea, the night, you were asleep on the ground, jaded from your voyages, and the earth, raging, raised up its surf stormier than a south sea gale, the dust was blanketing your eyes, the flames were scorching your shoes, the sturdy homes of bankers were quivering like wounded whales, while higher up the homes of the poor were leaping into the void as if fledgling birds proving their wings, but crumpling down." 

The second and more punishing blow came in 1914. Like so many towns along America's Route 66 that withered in the hot desert sun after the opening of the interstate freeway system cut them off from commercial shipping, Valparaiso was now cut off from its life blood, not by a highway, but by the world's richest palindrome: A man, a plan, a canal; Panama.

Nowadays Valparaiso is a study in contrasts. In fact, it is perhaps those contrasting elements that make it such an interesting, confusing and vibrant city. It is a gritty seaport but it is filled with artists. It is a huge shipping center but it has some of the highest unemployment in all of Chile. It is crumbling and covered in rust but it is still breathtakingly beautiful. 

We arrived in "Valpo" by bus on a chilly, cloudy afternoon and immediately set out to find a place to stay. The city is arranged on a series of steep hills overlooking the ocean. This means that navigating the twisting streets with a 40 pound backpack is no easy task. Sidewalks widen and narrow and then suddenly end, forcing you to walk out into traffic. Roads meander left and right before dead-ending in a hundred foot cliff or else rise at a nearly vertical pitch with sharp switchbacks snaking their way up the houses above. 

Fortunately the second hostel  we stopped at,"La Bicyclette," is run by a bald, elfin Frenchman who we have dubbed "The Nicest Man in the World". (We've actually run into quite a few of those in our travels). He smiled and laughed the entire time we spoke to him. His eyes twinkled with joy as we told him we were going to stay for a few days. He practically skipped down the steep staircase to show us our apartment. That's right, apartment. No dorm rooms packed to the gills with bunkbeds and German backpackers, no cramped hostel rooms with one naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling to give the roaches some light while they tap dance all over your belongings, this was a proper flat. It had a full kitchen, livingroom and private bathroom as well a wonderful view out onto a pretty little winding street. I could have stayed there for years.

We spent the next day exploring the town. Our flat was on a hill called "Conception" which is where the Unesco World Heritage part of Valparaiso begins. This section is right next to the port and is probably one of the only world heritage sites that contains multiple brothels (this is a working seaport, remember). It is also home to some of the most striking vistas overlooking the city. Even though most of the houses are old, crumbling and tinged with rust, each one is painted a different bright color. The town, with its steep hills and valleys, looks like a giant technicolor patchwork quilt fluttering in the breeze. I doubt if even Joseph and his so called "Amazing" dreamcoat could ever match the dazzling array of hues that dot every inch of this city. Almost every where you look could be a painting.

In the late 19th and early 20th century Portenos (as the city's inhabitants call themselves) constructed a series of elevators or ascensores to schlep you up and down the steep hills. Apparently we weren't the only who got a little tired of the constant ups and downs.

We rode one of these to the top of Artilleria hill to visit the naval museum and then took a gravity assisted walk back down into town. While walking through the gritty streets you are struck by a second unique facet of this city, while the whole place looks like a painting, almost every inch of it is actually covered in paintings. I have never seen so many murals in my entire life. On the exposed walls of buildings pictures run the gamut from abstract, to impressionist to vivid realism and back again. Some of the murals are political in nature, some purely asthetic and some are just there to make you laugh.

When we got back down to the flat area near the port we ran into some living works of art. Valparaiso is a huge shipping center so shipping containers are ubiquitous. Like all great artists, Portenos work with what they have, and what they have are a lot of containers. The day we arrived was the first day of a week-long shipping container street theater festival. All over the city the giant metal boxes had been converted into mobile stages. Artists, young and old could be found performing everything from Shakespeare to modern avant-garde performance pieces.  We arrived in the central square to find to find 3 containers transformed into a giant human cuckoo clock. People on swings and ropes represented the weights and pendulums while another person turned giant wooden gears to spin the hands on the clock. We got there at precisely 4PM and the whole thing started going nuts. A band in the back ground was playing a kind of formless improvisational jam as singers repeated "tick tock" into microphones at various rhythms. People in burlap coats and tinfoil crowns slowly processed to the front of the clock and banged huge planks of wood against the ground while high above stage-hands swung open the doors of the containers. Attached to the doors were people waving their arms around shouting "Cuckoo" and "Son los quatro" (It is four o'clock). I'm not sure if it was art but it was damned interesting. 

All that walking and visual art appreciation works up an appetite, which brings me to the most satisfying kind of art, the kind you can eat. We gorged ourselves in Valparaiso. The food here is as varied as the people so I will just give you a few of the highlights. On the first day we stopped at no nonsense seafood place near the port called "Los Portenos". This place does it right. They literally shove fistfuls fresh shellfish on to your plate until it is overflowing. 

It was here that we were introduced to what would become a staple of our diet over the next few days, Camarones al Pil Pil. It is basically a ceramic bowl heated on a gas stove until it is scalding hot then filled with shrimp, butter, garlic, a little white wine and some pepper. It arrives at your table bubbling like a witches brew of un-kosher delight. 

That night we dined at our first fine dining establishment. It was called "Color Sabor". We started out with ceviche served with a shot of "Leche de Tigre" (basically the juices used to marinate the ceviche) and a grilled octopus. Molly had salmon and polenta that was divine while I had rock fish wrapped in chard with barley rissotto. Hear me now and believe me later all of you food lovers. MAKE YOUR RISOTTO WITH BARLEY. It was amazing. It had the smooth creamy consitency of arborio rice but the barley has a slightly firmer build to it. It bursts almost like caviar when you chew it.

Valpo is known throughout Chile for one dish in particular; Chorillana. It is essentially a huge plate of french fries covered with scrambled eggs, onions and chunks of stewed beef. Sound gross? Well, it wasn't. Along with Scott Majeska, (the third member of our new band "The New Rudas") we polished off about five pounds of the stuff.

As we are wont to do, we headed down to the central market to get the food of the people. After fighting our way through a cloud of tear gas that was left over from an earlier demonstration (they still haven't settled the education debate), we made it to the market. Dozens of eateries pack the second floor of the market. They all get their food from the fruit, vegetable and fish stands right downstairs so it is all extremely fresh and cheap. Molly got Machas al Parmasean which are basically clams baked with garlic, spices and cheese. I decided to dine on Caldillo de Congrio, conger eel stew. Like Camarones al Pil Pil, this stew comes out bubbling in a heated cereamic bowl, the broth is light and delicately spiced with a hint of hot peppers just to make it interesting. Large chunks of still-on-the-bone-eel are added so you have to be a little careful when you eat it, but the flavor is just wonderful. I had it four more times before we left Chile.

Caldillo de Congrio was, incidentally the favorite dish of Valparaiso's most famous resident, Pablo Neruda. On one of our last days in the city we made a pilgrimage up to his house in the hills. Dubbed "La Sebastiana" by the poet, it occupies a commanding position over the town and the port. Of all the magnificent homes I have ever been in, this is the one in which I could most see myself living. It is not large, but every inch is meticulously decorated with tiny treasures that Pablo collected from all over the world. The main living room is filled with windows and gives a 220 degree view over all of its surroundings. 

Neruda would spend his time seated in his leather recliner which he called "The Cloud" and watch the city while saluting the distant ships as they sailed out to sea. He used to tell his guests of a certain house on the neighboring hill where each day a woman would appear and sunbath naked on the roof. Although his friends would spend hours scaning the houses, searching for this damsel, she never appeared, save for the poet himself.

Sadly "La Sebastiana" would be the scene for the final, dark, chapter in Neruda's life. Having been a political activist and champion of the poor all his life, it was inevitable that Neruda, a well-known communinst, would eventually run afoul of the often conservative govenment of his country. It was here in Valparaiso that the poet,  already dying of cancer, was continually harassed by the military. Like thousands of other victims of these barbaric regimes, Neruda suffered under the hardships of conservative facist governments. After his death, despite a decree by Chilean dictator Pinochet banning a public funeral, thousands filled the streets to show their support for the poet. His house in Valparaiso was ransacked and left deserted. After the downfall of Pinochet, the new government declared the house a national monument and had it restored. It now stands proudly, high above the port of Valparaiso, watching the ships sail out to sea. It is a constant reminder of the courage and conviction it takes to speak the truth despite the consequences. It is also a monument to the fact that while an artist may be imprisoned, exiled or outlawed, his art and what it says can never be silenced.