New Pictures Available for Viewing at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch
This trip is different. Despite the obvious. It is different from the last time I flew off to Ecuador. My approach this time, and thus my experience, is different. It is not at all how it was two years and some months ago. My intentions, different. My time frame, different. My goals, different. My route, different.
Last time I arrived I checked in to a "party hostel." A backpacker haunt full of other seekers. I met people instantly, and those I met that first night would factor in again and again throughout my two months in this tiny country. It began a link--the Gringo Trail was more than a route, it was a network. I would meet people who would lead me to places where I would meet other people who often knew the first group. A reccomended hosteria in the hills would turn into a gathering of friends who had met at one time or another throughout the country or the continent. Then I would meet the old friends of my new friends, and so on. It was amazing. My 3 weeks volunteering in the jungle left weekends free for exploring, and the 4 or 5 great people I'd met there would accompany me on a 2 day adventure away from the planting of trees and the silent racket of jungle nights. I had company the entire time.
Now, a full month into this trip, other than Cherie at the Hippie Den, I have been pretty much alone. Blazing a gringo back road, not a well traversed trail. Part of this happens to do with the "season." Traveler infestation is at its peak during our summer months. Now I observe lots more couples and, quite unexpectedly, many middle aged or genuinely O-L-D people. Many are on tours, but regardless, it warms my heart and makes me smile to see the 70 year old French-Canadian with his 27 friends, huffing up the steep climb from the tour bus to the lodge in Cotopaxi Park, all kitted out in his brand spanking new khaki, convertible, waterproof hiking pants--not a speck of dirt on them! But hey, at least he's prepared.
The other part of this lonely equation is that I have sought solitude, partially with the intention for it, and partially because something unconscious pushed me in this direction. I chose the cheapest, shittiest hostel possible in Quito upon arrival, and then I went out to a lodge that is written up in only one guidebook, and it's the guidebook rarely used by the "typical" backpacker (Lonely Planet is the most popular choice, but I prefer Rough Guides, for the obvious reasons I suppose.). And then I went for a whole week, whereas most stay for one or two nights. Tambopaxi is most popular with tour agencies and climbing guides. It serves as a luxury luncheon spot where there are no other choices but for brown bagging, and other than the mountain refuge, it is the only acclimitization lodging option. It is a departure point for those ascending the Volcano. As I have zero budget for alpine climbing, and a terrible fear of those icy heights, I was alone at Tambopaxi--no guide, no plans except to wander. I watched many a group come and go, while I bonded with the staff! Well, there was Matt, but he was 20, and could talk of nothing but his iPod and climbing the Volcano and he complained that no one spoke English. Not my first choice in company.
In Otavalo I met Marco, the sexy Swiss. He was staying at my hostel with me, but then I only stayed for 3 nights before moving in with Cherie. I loved her. I loved my time there, but mostly, if I wasn't hanging out with her, I was studying or in class, or, you guessed it...wandering some more. Otavalo is "dead" midweek, as the typical traveler only comes for the Saturday market. Having spent 2 and half weeks there, I can tell you this is a shame. I purposefully chose to study Spanish there and not in Quito, even though prices were slightly higher. Why? Because Quito can be a madhouse and distractions abound. (I am very easily distracted.) And I had just left the mad, distracting house of NYC! Quito and its bars and parties and people were the last thing on my mind. Otavalo was perfect. And I did meet Jan, a 64 year old Alaskan who had studied indigenous "Eskimo" tribes for the last 2 decades and was here scoping out a place to retire. I met Deb, a friend of Cherie's, who was a retired adevertising big wig from New York. She and her husband Tom moved here permenantly 2 years ago. They bought property in a "development," yup, a white adobe suburb outside of Otavalo, close to Laguna Cuicocha, reputedly a portal to the center of the world. We went to the Chachimbiro baths together, got stoned, and swam and talked about the energy of the equator. She's invited me to visit her at her home when I head back up north, and I plan to take her up on it. How she ended up here, the story of her life, it fascinates me!
Then, as soon as I completed my lessons, despite Cherie's pleas for me to stay with her (for free!) I left for this first farm--The Tungurahua Tea Room--where I am, for now, the sole volunteer. Always budgeting, I stayed farm-bound for the first 6 days, spending a total of $12 at the local tienda on eggs and milk and things we don't produce. I`ve only just ventured into the town center this weekend. I have spent my time with Mario, the head worker, and even more time with just the dogs, Ellá, Leo and Princessa (the Lady, the Lion and the Princess). Carol, the Dueña, or owner, is rarely there, and though our few encounters have been full of incredible conversation, they have been brief.
Baños, the town I'm closest to, is the place in Ecuador from which to base outdoors-ing adventures. And so what I have observed this weekend are groups of tourists all on 4-wheel, ATV contraptions or bicycles or atop garishly colored tour busses blasting music, bounding off on their way to fun. Anyone who has traveled alone will confirm that you are much more open and willing to meet people than you are when you're ensconsed in the safety net of friends. You are much more willing to engage with the local population, much more open to being open, much more likely to look in windows or explore doors to nowhere. You have a quiet in your head that gets drowned out by company. A bus ride becomes a tour, or time for refelction. You are looking out the window, not gossiping about life at home. You ask questions of yourself, not of your seatmate. You read the map. You figure out where you're going. You lead. You don't follow. What you are not more open to are group activities, or chatting up tightly knit circles of other travelers. At least I 'm not. I remember Africa, and being in Bolgatanga, the northermost town in Ghana, at the border of Burkina Faso. I remember how desperate I was for some companionship that I perservered and pursued this very unfriendly girl who I met while we were both on seperate guided hikes to visit some sacred crocodiles. I was determined to hang out with her, friendly or not, because that was near the end of my trip and my only other alternative was more conversation with prepubescent boys who all wanted to "guide" me further or become my "friend." My determination paid off and Kate and I had a dinner and a few beers and it turned out she wasn't horrible--just not as desperate as me, at least not yet.
Ecuador is completely different in this regard to Africa. No one here is desperate, not even me. I am relishing this quiet for I predict it will change soon and I will be again wishing for solitude. This is me, trying to enjoy exactly where I am while I'm there. Already a month has passed. Too soon it will be over, I know.
On Tuesday, 2 new volunteers are scheduled to arrive at TTR. I look forward to it. People my age, on a similar mission if you will. I will have company while I fertilize the mandarin orchard and weed the broad beans. We'll be cooking for 5 and the kitchen atmosphere will be livlier, and messier! Tomorrow, my last day alone, I will pay close attention to the silence, a quiet broken only by the rumbling volcano, the rustling of the cane grass, the flapping of the tattered banana palms as the wind whips up the canyon. I will head to my mosquito-netted bed around 7:30 , just as the rhino beetles begin to descend in earnest, and I will read myself to sleep after a cup of freshly picked peppermint tea. At 6 am I will hear Mario arrive and unlock the shed, turn on the radio and begin boiling the kettle for coffee. I will rise, and share coffee, pull on my rubber boots and smelly socks, and prepare to meet, at some point in the day, my new compatriots, who will break the silence but offer me new stories and a new path to follow, for however long it lasts, until I pack up and happily move on to the next place, alone.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
Listening In, and Learning Spanish
New photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch
"Confronted by the foreign we grow newly attentive to the details of the world." --Pico Iyer
Tomorrow I leave Otavalo after 2 and half truly wonderful weeks in this mountain town, center of a certain kind of world. I have had to change my original plans to farm outside of this town, and so I will head south to a farm in a small village near Baños, a major tourist center situated in yet another valley. But whereas Otavalo is dropped down in the middle of the two parallel strips of Andes mountains (the Eastern and Western Cordilleras) Baños borders the eastern Andes range and the Amazon basin. It's subtropical, so it's lush and green but still hemmed in by some of the largest peaks in the cordillera, including Volcan Tungurahua, which last erupted in 2006. Mom, Dad, don't worry. Right now, she just belches bunches of tourist-thrilling smoke. (There is no current concern regarding the danger of Tungurahua, promise.)
While here I have been living above a cafe, La Casa de Fruta, with a woman named Cherie and her daughter, Sasha. Old School Hippie and Hippie Nuevo. They have made me so welcome and have opened not only their home and their kitchen to me, but their lives as well. And while I have had so much fun here with them, it is time to go and begin the sweaty, muddy labor of love that is the farming. The question remains: will I love it?
The most important thing I've been doing in Otavalo is studying Spanish. I've had lessons for two weeks, 4 hours a day, one on one with a woman who speaks zero English. I have come away from these classes with more than just a larger Spanish vocabulary and the understanding, finally, of what the Present Perfect Tense is. Learning a new language is an exercise in humiliation, frustration, and well, it can make you feel like a total elementary idiot. However, if you let it, it can change the approach to and the experience of traveling.
One can choose to travel and hear nothing, or one can choose to treat it as a constant exercise in becoming a better listener. We get so used to anticipating what someone is going to say that we often answer without having listened to the question. I find myself newly attuned to everything going on around me. As an English speaker in this Spanish speaking world it would be so much easier to shut out the conversations around me, or to conclude what I want to hear. And often it wouldn't even matter. Not to them. People here are so used to gringos and tourists not understanding that they make concessions for us all the time, like when we say yes to a question when we mean to say no. Or when we say "yes" to a question that requires a response like, "blackberry" or "double occupancy" or "later this afternoon." I know I could go a whole year here and scrape by on my meager vocabulary and survive, but why would I? Because I'm insecure? Embarrassed? Self-conscious? Yes. I am all of those things. But what I missed on my last trip here was the deeper experience of getting into people's lives, histories, stories.
As I often do I compare all traveling experiences to that Ghanaian summer. I had such profound moments there, so much worthy of writing about, so many conversations that blew the lid off of everything I thought I knew, things that made me ponder and think and question. And it was because I was able to talk with people. Yes, as I said many times, the English there was far and away different from the English I was used to, and much was lost in translation, but still I could ask questions, respond, inquire, joke, explain. I want to have those moments here, in Spanish. Fluency may be a far off dream, but this is not the point.
Spending 4 hours a day in a room with no respite, no English moments, forced me to think differently, and to let go of a rigidity that is natural but unconscious. I think in English. Why wouldn't I? But expressing myself in Spanish beyond telling people what I want to eat or what kind of room I'd like to sleep in, this requires thinking in Spanish, mentally uprooting nearly 3 decades of what I've learned and honed and practiced as an English speaker. That is the trickiest and most elusive practice in learning a new language. To put forth my thoughts or to ask the simplest of questions means constantly rearranging the structure of my phrases and changing the words.
In most cases you cannot directly translate an English sentence into a Spanish one, and this goes beyond just putting the adjective after the noun. Spanish will have one single word for an entire phrase, and this is magical and concise and confounding. The verbs for To Be (Ser) and To Go (Ir) are the exact same words in the past tense (Fui, Fuiste, Fue...). "Um, excuse me, Señora, so, were you going, or were you being? I missed something..." You can say "Espera" and can mean "Hold on" or "Wait" or "I wish." Sometimes it's as though certain words are just...missing from the language, or so it seems, but then I read Marquez´s One Hundred Years of Solitude in English and I am awed by how phenomenal and expansive the Spanish language must be, and how terribly little I will ever really know.
During my lessons I sometimes felt like my brain would not allow a new language to seep in. Maybe I'm too old, it's too late for me. My mind is certain and set in its English speaking way. I nearly wept with frustration at how I would constantly repeat the same mistakes again and again, or how I could never remember the difference between To Put and To Be Able To. Nancy would see my anger, or would hear me say Mierda! under my breath, and she'd respond, "Es normal, normal."
Sometimes I hear people speaking Spanish out my window, and I think that if I just look out I would see them with subtitles. Perhaps it is an American trait, but I'm so used to getting what I want, when I want it, and how I asked for it just by asking for it, that this is not only a lesson in listening, but one in humility as well. I must adapt. I must learn. Or despite the many memories and trinkets and bracelets, I risk going home empty handed.
On our last day of class, Nancy told me that I surprised her again and again throughout our lessons. She said I was "muy differente" than other students. I asked her what she meant and she said that I was bold; that I dared to ask questions, and that I attempted to construct complex sentences and stories whereas others routinely stick to the basics and just silently copy down what she says or writes on the board. She told me to be confident in my Spanish voice, and to keep daring. With this in my mind, I head south...
"Confronted by the foreign we grow newly attentive to the details of the world." --Pico Iyer
Tomorrow I leave Otavalo after 2 and half truly wonderful weeks in this mountain town, center of a certain kind of world. I have had to change my original plans to farm outside of this town, and so I will head south to a farm in a small village near Baños, a major tourist center situated in yet another valley. But whereas Otavalo is dropped down in the middle of the two parallel strips of Andes mountains (the Eastern and Western Cordilleras) Baños borders the eastern Andes range and the Amazon basin. It's subtropical, so it's lush and green but still hemmed in by some of the largest peaks in the cordillera, including Volcan Tungurahua, which last erupted in 2006. Mom, Dad, don't worry. Right now, she just belches bunches of tourist-thrilling smoke. (There is no current concern regarding the danger of Tungurahua, promise.)
While here I have been living above a cafe, La Casa de Fruta, with a woman named Cherie and her daughter, Sasha. Old School Hippie and Hippie Nuevo. They have made me so welcome and have opened not only their home and their kitchen to me, but their lives as well. And while I have had so much fun here with them, it is time to go and begin the sweaty, muddy labor of love that is the farming. The question remains: will I love it?
The most important thing I've been doing in Otavalo is studying Spanish. I've had lessons for two weeks, 4 hours a day, one on one with a woman who speaks zero English. I have come away from these classes with more than just a larger Spanish vocabulary and the understanding, finally, of what the Present Perfect Tense is. Learning a new language is an exercise in humiliation, frustration, and well, it can make you feel like a total elementary idiot. However, if you let it, it can change the approach to and the experience of traveling.
One can choose to travel and hear nothing, or one can choose to treat it as a constant exercise in becoming a better listener. We get so used to anticipating what someone is going to say that we often answer without having listened to the question. I find myself newly attuned to everything going on around me. As an English speaker in this Spanish speaking world it would be so much easier to shut out the conversations around me, or to conclude what I want to hear. And often it wouldn't even matter. Not to them. People here are so used to gringos and tourists not understanding that they make concessions for us all the time, like when we say yes to a question when we mean to say no. Or when we say "yes" to a question that requires a response like, "blackberry" or "double occupancy" or "later this afternoon." I know I could go a whole year here and scrape by on my meager vocabulary and survive, but why would I? Because I'm insecure? Embarrassed? Self-conscious? Yes. I am all of those things. But what I missed on my last trip here was the deeper experience of getting into people's lives, histories, stories.
As I often do I compare all traveling experiences to that Ghanaian summer. I had such profound moments there, so much worthy of writing about, so many conversations that blew the lid off of everything I thought I knew, things that made me ponder and think and question. And it was because I was able to talk with people. Yes, as I said many times, the English there was far and away different from the English I was used to, and much was lost in translation, but still I could ask questions, respond, inquire, joke, explain. I want to have those moments here, in Spanish. Fluency may be a far off dream, but this is not the point.
Spending 4 hours a day in a room with no respite, no English moments, forced me to think differently, and to let go of a rigidity that is natural but unconscious. I think in English. Why wouldn't I? But expressing myself in Spanish beyond telling people what I want to eat or what kind of room I'd like to sleep in, this requires thinking in Spanish, mentally uprooting nearly 3 decades of what I've learned and honed and practiced as an English speaker. That is the trickiest and most elusive practice in learning a new language. To put forth my thoughts or to ask the simplest of questions means constantly rearranging the structure of my phrases and changing the words.
In most cases you cannot directly translate an English sentence into a Spanish one, and this goes beyond just putting the adjective after the noun. Spanish will have one single word for an entire phrase, and this is magical and concise and confounding. The verbs for To Be (Ser) and To Go (Ir) are the exact same words in the past tense (Fui, Fuiste, Fue...). "Um, excuse me, Señora, so, were you going, or were you being? I missed something..." You can say "Espera" and can mean "Hold on" or "Wait" or "I wish." Sometimes it's as though certain words are just...missing from the language, or so it seems, but then I read Marquez´s One Hundred Years of Solitude in English and I am awed by how phenomenal and expansive the Spanish language must be, and how terribly little I will ever really know.
During my lessons I sometimes felt like my brain would not allow a new language to seep in. Maybe I'm too old, it's too late for me. My mind is certain and set in its English speaking way. I nearly wept with frustration at how I would constantly repeat the same mistakes again and again, or how I could never remember the difference between To Put and To Be Able To. Nancy would see my anger, or would hear me say Mierda! under my breath, and she'd respond, "Es normal, normal."
Sometimes I hear people speaking Spanish out my window, and I think that if I just look out I would see them with subtitles. Perhaps it is an American trait, but I'm so used to getting what I want, when I want it, and how I asked for it just by asking for it, that this is not only a lesson in listening, but one in humility as well. I must adapt. I must learn. Or despite the many memories and trinkets and bracelets, I risk going home empty handed.
On our last day of class, Nancy told me that I surprised her again and again throughout our lessons. She said I was "muy differente" than other students. I asked her what she meant and she said that I was bold; that I dared to ask questions, and that I attempted to construct complex sentences and stories whereas others routinely stick to the basics and just silently copy down what she says or writes on the board. She told me to be confident in my Spanish voice, and to keep daring. With this in my mind, I head south...
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Local Transport
Photos available at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatchOctober 4, 2007
Location, The Panamerican Highway North to OtavaloI began this morning's journey by helping my new friends at Tambopaxi unload the pickup truck, or camioneta, that would take me out of the park. Junior and Maria seemed surprised when I leaned over the side and began stacking firewood, then moving it to the wood pile by the kitchen door. Not only did I know how essential that firewood is in keeping people warm while at the lodge, for it was frigid some nights! But I also really wanted to get a move on and assisting with firewood, huge bags of sugar, giant melons and squash, among other things in the bi-weekly delivery, would speed things along.
With a hug from Maria and the ubiquitous gift of a bracelet from Junior, I was off. The aging camioneta bounced its way out of the park, down the steep and winding hill through 2 small communities until we got to the larger town at the bottom, Machachi, where I caught a bus to Quito.
No matter how far the journey, for the first hour or so the bus acts like a local city bus would, meaning that it stops and starts every few minutes, lurching to the side to either pick someone up or let someone off. The passenegers are actually lucky if the bus comes to a complete stop. Usually people are jumping on as the bus continues moving. Old women with heavy burdens in each of their hands, like sacks of root vegetables or bags of grain, a chicken or a bolt of cloth strapped to their backs, heave themselves on board, their two feet barely off the asphalt before the bus swerves back out into traffic. Then there are the mothers: some pregnant, some with babies crushed to their chests, and some with both baby and belly! They balance with one hand outstretched, clutching whatever support they can reach as they swing up onto the raised staircase of the bus. I've even observed women doing all of this in high heeled sandals. The balance, the bravado, the simple normalcy of these practices never fails to capture my attention. And so this, too, adds to the constant distraction, the stimulation of multiple senses, on what should be a simple bus ride.
I never really sleep. I'm always watching to make sure my bags don't disappear, or I'm captivated by the television hanging from the ceiling--I mean really, who can resist Blood Diamond with bad Spanish dubbing?--or I'm watching the endless parade of people and possessions and the occasional barnyard animal get up and on and off the bus, or I'm holding my breath, simultaneously amazed and terrified by the views beyond my window, and silently calculating how I might survive if the bus is to plummet off this mountain highway...
If I leave the windows closed, I'm usually sweltering. If I open the windows, I'm eating dust, closing my eyes against the stinging fumes of diesl exhaust and burning trash. I must then try to hear Blood Diamond en Espanol over the sound of honking horns, when it was already in competition with the baby crying in the back seat and the little boy selling his wares up and down the aisle: "Helados! Helados!"
As we came upon the last hour of the journey, I realized the tension that had built up in my face--my forhead was creased, my eyes squinting and sore from both staring at a too-far away television and from closing them against the dust that filtered in despite my closed window. My teeth crunched a fine grit, and I was thirsty but hesitant to drink water for there were no convenient rest stops. I had a dull headache, and my left butt cheek had fallen asleep (now that's a weird feeling!). But I realized what I was grateful for, despite all of this: I was grateful that I'd gotten on the bus early enough to claim the weird padded section between the driver and the front passenger. It was there I was able to rest my giant pack and keep it in view for the whole ride. I was grateful that I had the first section of seats, where I could stretch out my legs. I was grateful to be on a bus that doesn't wait for a full house to depart, and so I had no seat mate and therefore a place to rest my smaller day bag. I was grateful that the money collector gave me back my change without my having to ask, in an uncertain gringa voice, "¿Tienes mi cambio?" because I never really know what the actual fare is supposed to be.
And then, when I got off the bus in Otavalo, though dusty and aching, I was grateful for the woman who pointed me in the right direction toward town, and for the short, scenic walk needed to reach my hostel, where I was surprised (and grateful again) for clean, floral sheets, a bed with a real mattress, and a bathroom right outside my door. Sometimes the little things are just enough.
Journal Entry, October 2, 2007 8:30pm
"On foot, in a van, on a fleet motorcycle or on a bicycle, a person must be very careful not to become overly concerned with arriving." --Peter Jenkins, A Walk Across America
At night the silence is as massive as the mountain. The vault of stars above in the very black sky both surprises and enchants me--I see so few stars at home in New York.
Home? Is it? Will it be again? Though this journey has just begun I cannot help but think of where I will find myself at its end. Truth be told I´ve been thinking of the future long before this present even began--such is my way. Cursed or blessed, it is who I am and how I think.
I did cry today. Not over some emotional break-through or -down, but by reading that damn book my Mom sent me off with!! Needless to say, it's engaging, enthralling even. I´ve read over 800 pages in 3 days. This speaks not only to the greatness of the book, but to how much time I have, suddenly, on my hands. I can't help but feel guilty as each chapter ends and I plunge into the next. Shouldn't I be doing something? Like figuring out my life, for one? It's too soon, I suppose, for that kind of thing. I need to let these wide open spaces (spaces I asked for) engulf me for a bit, consume me both mentally and physically for awhile. It seems I have a harder time living in the moment than I'd like to admit . And like I said, cursed or blessed, it's the only way I know how to be, and I can only hope that this is a good thing, or at least that it will be in the end, when the trip is over and I return home, wherever that may be.
At night the silence is as massive as the mountain. The vault of stars above in the very black sky both surprises and enchants me--I see so few stars at home in New York.
Home? Is it? Will it be again? Though this journey has just begun I cannot help but think of where I will find myself at its end. Truth be told I´ve been thinking of the future long before this present even began--such is my way. Cursed or blessed, it is who I am and how I think.
I did cry today. Not over some emotional break-through or -down, but by reading that damn book my Mom sent me off with!! Needless to say, it's engaging, enthralling even. I´ve read over 800 pages in 3 days. This speaks not only to the greatness of the book, but to how much time I have, suddenly, on my hands. I can't help but feel guilty as each chapter ends and I plunge into the next. Shouldn't I be doing something? Like figuring out my life, for one? It's too soon, I suppose, for that kind of thing. I need to let these wide open spaces (spaces I asked for) engulf me for a bit, consume me both mentally and physically for awhile. It seems I have a harder time living in the moment than I'd like to admit . And like I said, cursed or blessed, it's the only way I know how to be, and I can only hope that this is a good thing, or at least that it will be in the end, when the trip is over and I return home, wherever that may be.
The End of the Hike
All photos are available at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch/
This is Part 2 of the story of my lungs and the bulls and the search for the hummingbird cave...(scroll down for Part 1)
Now here's the thing about the first substantial hike at altitude: it all goes to your head. This giddy elation takes over, combined with a subtle sense of invincibility. Just when you should be weary or disoriented, having reached 4,000 meters after 2 or 3 hours of steady climbing, you are energized instead.
It's as though you are being moved by a force within, and your vision clears as your chest expands. Sometimes on hikes like this one, my heart is pumping so vigorously it's as though my brain is moving inside my skull, pulsing behind my eyes. It feels like oxygen is reaching parts of my body that have never breathed before: the skin of my forehead, the very bone of my eye sockets, the muscles deep within my back, under my shoulderblades, the inbetween spaces of my spine, even my teeth and gums begin to tingle with fresh, oxygenated blood. My diaphragm never lifted so high! I forget how hard it is, and instead feel an insane desire to push through and overcome the struggle of going up and up and up. I have lungs used to the bars of Brooklyn, and now they must adapt to the high altitude plains of the Ecuadorian Andes.
Having found those tire tracks, I turned right and followed them along flat ground for about 15 minutes before they began to descend. Now the energy and elation came from heading down! When I tell you I danced down the mountain, I mean I danced! With no one around for miles, standing atop this giant, looking across to the massive Cotopaxi, I let loose and boogied with abandon all the way to the bottom and across the canyon, continuing down the dirt road toward home. I turned up the volume on my iPod, conveniently attached to my belt, and heard only the sounds of Phoenix's "If I Ever Feel Better," Metric's "Combat Baby," and Mr. Wainwright's "Oh What a World." I was no longer concerned with any bulls, but rather felt like I was in my own movie, specifically the last frame, where the fabulous, independent protagonist (the one who conquered the bulls) gets further and further out of focus, as her legs carry her proud and strong...and groovy. Now, I dance a lot, and often in unexpected places, but this was a first. And let me tell you, there is nothing like shakin´one's money maker down the side of a lichen laced, wind blown little mountain in the middle of a wilderness nowhere! It was pure freedom, pure joy--complete uninhibited elation manifesting itself in the movement of my hips, my hands above my head, and my hiking boots kicking up impressive dust as I twirled and twisted; my smile as boundless as those hills.
Why am I always on a plane, or a fast train?
Oh what a world my parents gave me!
Always travelin, but not in love.
Still I think I'm doing fine.
Wouldn't it be a lovely headline:
"Life is...Beautiful!"
on a New York Times?
--Rufus Wainwright
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch/
This is Part 2 of the story of my lungs and the bulls and the search for the hummingbird cave...(scroll down for Part 1)
Now here's the thing about the first substantial hike at altitude: it all goes to your head. This giddy elation takes over, combined with a subtle sense of invincibility. Just when you should be weary or disoriented, having reached 4,000 meters after 2 or 3 hours of steady climbing, you are energized instead.
It's as though you are being moved by a force within, and your vision clears as your chest expands. Sometimes on hikes like this one, my heart is pumping so vigorously it's as though my brain is moving inside my skull, pulsing behind my eyes. It feels like oxygen is reaching parts of my body that have never breathed before: the skin of my forehead, the very bone of my eye sockets, the muscles deep within my back, under my shoulderblades, the inbetween spaces of my spine, even my teeth and gums begin to tingle with fresh, oxygenated blood. My diaphragm never lifted so high! I forget how hard it is, and instead feel an insane desire to push through and overcome the struggle of going up and up and up. I have lungs used to the bars of Brooklyn, and now they must adapt to the high altitude plains of the Ecuadorian Andes.
Having found those tire tracks, I turned right and followed them along flat ground for about 15 minutes before they began to descend. Now the energy and elation came from heading down! When I tell you I danced down the mountain, I mean I danced! With no one around for miles, standing atop this giant, looking across to the massive Cotopaxi, I let loose and boogied with abandon all the way to the bottom and across the canyon, continuing down the dirt road toward home. I turned up the volume on my iPod, conveniently attached to my belt, and heard only the sounds of Phoenix's "If I Ever Feel Better," Metric's "Combat Baby," and Mr. Wainwright's "Oh What a World." I was no longer concerned with any bulls, but rather felt like I was in my own movie, specifically the last frame, where the fabulous, independent protagonist (the one who conquered the bulls) gets further and further out of focus, as her legs carry her proud and strong...and groovy. Now, I dance a lot, and often in unexpected places, but this was a first. And let me tell you, there is nothing like shakin´one's money maker down the side of a lichen laced, wind blown little mountain in the middle of a wilderness nowhere! It was pure freedom, pure joy--complete uninhibited elation manifesting itself in the movement of my hips, my hands above my head, and my hiking boots kicking up impressive dust as I twirled and twisted; my smile as boundless as those hills.
Why am I always on a plane, or a fast train?
Oh what a world my parents gave me!
Always travelin, but not in love.
Still I think I'm doing fine.
Wouldn't it be a lovely headline:
"Life is...Beautiful!"
on a New York Times?
--Rufus Wainwright
Mis Pulmones y los Torros y la Búsqueda para la Cueva del Pájaro del Tarareo
All photos available for viewing at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch/
Monday October 1, 2007
Location, Parque Nacional de Cotopaxi
This is the story of my lungs and the bulls and the search for the hummingbird cave...(part 1)
Today I took my first real hike, and mis pulmones de Nueva York took a beating! I was heading for a cave of hummingbirds, tucked into the base of Volcán Rumiñahui. I had been told to head south, go left at the little abandoned shack on the other side of the small canyon, and to then look for a stand of pines--not hard to find here in this tree-less park--which would be at the end of a trail of tire tracks. This all seemed straightforward enough, but my host failed to mention that these tracks and these trees would be up and over on the other side of an enormous and steep hill.
Well, I saw some pines, though they were bent and drowning in a stream, but they were near this shack and so I went left. I knew I'd missed a vital clue somewhere along the way, for I never did see any tire tracks, but I also knew that if I went left and crossed up over the hill at some point I could walk along the ridge until I spied the cave at the base of the volcano on the other side. The only problem was getting to that ridge, the ridge, because standing inbetween me and the right ridge were many other ridges of many other hills, summited only by heaving steps up severely steep inclines. I would get to what I assumed to be the top, only to see a slight downward slope that led to where another hill began anew. The wind had picked up, sweeping in grey storm clouds that sprinkled some cold rain on my pack and further dampened my sweat soaked hairline.
I passed by creeks in the hills, alongside of which were a shocking amount of bleached-out, dried animal bones, including the huge, entirely intact head of one wild horse. As I looked at it lying there, mouth open, teeth bared, too white against the green grass, I had a melodramatic vision of never reaching the top of this hill and succumbing to the same fate. But what fate was it? What natural predators of horses lived in these hills? Pumas. Did I remember hearing something about Pumas? I moved with newfound speed and bountiful breath up those hillsides.
Finally, finally, after nearly 2 and a half hours of climbing and questioning, I reached the height of the last ridge. Down below to my left were a herd of bulls, black and brownish red, their horns visible even at this distance. I stopped for a moment to rest and to survey the scene ahead. I had certainly gone at least one hour out of my way, too far south. Now how far would I have to go to get to this cave...? I turned to my right and standing there, not 10 feet in front of me, was one lone bull, all by his huge and terrifying self. I gasped and immediately turned and walked the other way, down the hill and away from my hard won ridge. I listened for his movement, wondering if bulls were the type of fierce animal to search me out. I heard nothing. I kept walking, making my way back up the ridge but in the opposite and once again out of the way direction of el torro, and promptly removed my RED hooded sweatshirt. Yes, that's right, red. And though I've heard that red being the color of provocation for bulls is just a myth, I couldn't help but think that exchanging it for my more subdued blue tee shirt wouldn't hurt matters.
Fifteen minutes later, believing the bull was now far behind me, I crested the ridge only to turn around and find that damn bull directly behind me! Apparently he'd been moving in the same direction as I had, only above me. I dropped to my knees, hiding as much of myself as I could behind the tall grasses, and started talking to myself (unconsciously, really) most likely saying something like, "Oh, shit. What does a person do when confronting a lone bull on a mountainside?" Well, apparently what you do is you crouch down and start talking to yourself! Cause that bull gave a grunt and when I peered up over the grassy bush, he had turned and was off running in the other direction. I watched until I could see him no longer. (I would return to the lodge later and tell my host, Victoria, about seeing the bulls. She replied, "Well at least you didn't come upon just one. A herd won't bother you, but a lonely one? They'll usually charge. In that case, just throw yourself out of his way." I was grateful to whatever force kept me from throwing myself anywhere....)
Now that my heart-in-the-throat moment had passed, I proceeded up onto flatter terrain, heading for Rumiñahui and the elusive cave. I looked off into the distance and saw pine trees. I looked down at my feet and saw tire tracks. Pine trees?! Tire tracks?! Now?! But...? I then realized my mistake. From this point on it was a good 4 hours to the cave and back. I had gone hours out of my way! Followed the wrong pines, the wrong ridge, the wrong hills. I just started laughing. I decided to follow the tracks down the hill to their origin, figuring that if I could find out where they started I could come back and do the cave the next day. Rain clouds were heavier now, Cotopaxi completely hidden in the grey fog, it was time to head home...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch/
Monday October 1, 2007
Location, Parque Nacional de Cotopaxi
This is the story of my lungs and the bulls and the search for the hummingbird cave...(part 1)
Today I took my first real hike, and mis pulmones de Nueva York took a beating! I was heading for a cave of hummingbirds, tucked into the base of Volcán Rumiñahui. I had been told to head south, go left at the little abandoned shack on the other side of the small canyon, and to then look for a stand of pines--not hard to find here in this tree-less park--which would be at the end of a trail of tire tracks. This all seemed straightforward enough, but my host failed to mention that these tracks and these trees would be up and over on the other side of an enormous and steep hill.
Well, I saw some pines, though they were bent and drowning in a stream, but they were near this shack and so I went left. I knew I'd missed a vital clue somewhere along the way, for I never did see any tire tracks, but I also knew that if I went left and crossed up over the hill at some point I could walk along the ridge until I spied the cave at the base of the volcano on the other side. The only problem was getting to that ridge, the ridge, because standing inbetween me and the right ridge were many other ridges of many other hills, summited only by heaving steps up severely steep inclines. I would get to what I assumed to be the top, only to see a slight downward slope that led to where another hill began anew. The wind had picked up, sweeping in grey storm clouds that sprinkled some cold rain on my pack and further dampened my sweat soaked hairline.
I passed by creeks in the hills, alongside of which were a shocking amount of bleached-out, dried animal bones, including the huge, entirely intact head of one wild horse. As I looked at it lying there, mouth open, teeth bared, too white against the green grass, I had a melodramatic vision of never reaching the top of this hill and succumbing to the same fate. But what fate was it? What natural predators of horses lived in these hills? Pumas. Did I remember hearing something about Pumas? I moved with newfound speed and bountiful breath up those hillsides.
Finally, finally, after nearly 2 and a half hours of climbing and questioning, I reached the height of the last ridge. Down below to my left were a herd of bulls, black and brownish red, their horns visible even at this distance. I stopped for a moment to rest and to survey the scene ahead. I had certainly gone at least one hour out of my way, too far south. Now how far would I have to go to get to this cave...? I turned to my right and standing there, not 10 feet in front of me, was one lone bull, all by his huge and terrifying self. I gasped and immediately turned and walked the other way, down the hill and away from my hard won ridge. I listened for his movement, wondering if bulls were the type of fierce animal to search me out. I heard nothing. I kept walking, making my way back up the ridge but in the opposite and once again out of the way direction of el torro, and promptly removed my RED hooded sweatshirt. Yes, that's right, red. And though I've heard that red being the color of provocation for bulls is just a myth, I couldn't help but think that exchanging it for my more subdued blue tee shirt wouldn't hurt matters.
Fifteen minutes later, believing the bull was now far behind me, I crested the ridge only to turn around and find that damn bull directly behind me! Apparently he'd been moving in the same direction as I had, only above me. I dropped to my knees, hiding as much of myself as I could behind the tall grasses, and started talking to myself (unconsciously, really) most likely saying something like, "Oh, shit. What does a person do when confronting a lone bull on a mountainside?" Well, apparently what you do is you crouch down and start talking to yourself! Cause that bull gave a grunt and when I peered up over the grassy bush, he had turned and was off running in the other direction. I watched until I could see him no longer. (I would return to the lodge later and tell my host, Victoria, about seeing the bulls. She replied, "Well at least you didn't come upon just one. A herd won't bother you, but a lonely one? They'll usually charge. In that case, just throw yourself out of his way." I was grateful to whatever force kept me from throwing myself anywhere....)
Now that my heart-in-the-throat moment had passed, I proceeded up onto flatter terrain, heading for Rumiñahui and the elusive cave. I looked off into the distance and saw pine trees. I looked down at my feet and saw tire tracks. Pine trees?! Tire tracks?! Now?! But...? I then realized my mistake. From this point on it was a good 4 hours to the cave and back. I had gone hours out of my way! Followed the wrong pines, the wrong ridge, the wrong hills. I just started laughing. I decided to follow the tracks down the hill to their origin, figuring that if I could find out where they started I could come back and do the cave the next day. Rain clouds were heavier now, Cotopaxi completely hidden in the grey fog, it was time to head home...
Journal Entry, September 29th, 2007
All photos available for viewing at http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch/
Location: Parque Nacional de Cotopaxi, First Day
It seems we are all waiting for Cotopaxi to rear her head, display her perfect peak. Everyone in the lodge's dining room is looking out the windows, including a very tall Scandinavian man who must bend down to look up, all squinting into the blinding brightness. But the mountain is teasing her guests, playfully hiding and partially appearing from behind swirling mists.
A bowlful of traditional potato and cheese soup, locro, has filled my belly; two cups of Mate de Coca have warmed me and should reputedly ease the 1,000 meter ascent made today in the back of a pickup truck from the valley below.
I left Quito early this morning and have now arrived at Tambopaxi, the one and only accomodation inside of Cotopaxi National Park. Cotopaxi is the 2nd highest volcano in Ecuador--standing at 5897 m, or 19,347 feet! It also boasts the most perfectly shaped cone of any volcano in this cordillera. It is, in more ways than one, breathtaking. The majesty of this mountain is made all the more dramatic because it stands alone, exploding out of the surrounding low hills and vast, tundra-like plains.
The park is comprised of 33,000 hectares of parámo--hauntingly beautiful wind swept grasslands, rocky and rugged, arid and cold, often shrouded in mists, and not an environment for the weary among us, animal, plant and human included. The plains are covered in lichen and mosses, either as dried out embroidery on rocks, or moist and thriving near a sudden stream. There are few trees to speak of, and the most dominant plant life are large tufts of long grass, resembling straw bushes that when viewed from a distance appear lush like wheat bending soft in the wind.
I will try, and certainly fail, to properly describe Volcán Cotopaxi. Nor could my camera capture what it is like to stand here just a few kilometers from her base. As I watch, the mists move eerliy, like fluid or like dancers with scarves at some Hindu ritual, hiding the identity of the royalty, teasing the audience. They part, almost directly down the middle, the curtain now revealing Her Majesty´s massive mount--snow covered, the texture of the glacier ice in full relief, and brighter than the white clouds behind. The audience applauds in their minds. We move outside to see her unobstructed, silently moving together, in awe of what we are witnessing. Viewing her northern face, the rock below the snow line stands very red, like a russet potato, between the shadow of the base and the icy gleam at the summit. The size of it nearly dwarfs the sky. I feel my face bathed in this cold, clear light, and I am amazed.
Suddenly from the East comes a stampede of a hundred horses. They fly across the hills, through a small canyon and up over onto the plain in front of the lodge. Behind them, a rainbow shimmers--I kid you not. The silence of the onlookers is broken and cameras click crazily. These are wild horses, belonging to no one but themselves. However, once a year they are rounded up rodeo style, their hooves are manicured so they don't develop the horse equivalent of ingrown toenails, and their tails are cut. Apparently horse tails can grow too long, getting caught up in their legs as they run. This effort to keep the horses healthy is a community project. They are protected but left wild, whereas they used to be stolen by locals in the villages below. Now the locals, combining their energies with those of the park and Tambopaxi, have helped to nurture these animals, preserving their lives and the spirit of these wild lands.
Location: Parque Nacional de Cotopaxi, First Day
It seems we are all waiting for Cotopaxi to rear her head, display her perfect peak. Everyone in the lodge's dining room is looking out the windows, including a very tall Scandinavian man who must bend down to look up, all squinting into the blinding brightness. But the mountain is teasing her guests, playfully hiding and partially appearing from behind swirling mists.
A bowlful of traditional potato and cheese soup, locro, has filled my belly; two cups of Mate de Coca have warmed me and should reputedly ease the 1,000 meter ascent made today in the back of a pickup truck from the valley below.
I left Quito early this morning and have now arrived at Tambopaxi, the one and only accomodation inside of Cotopaxi National Park. Cotopaxi is the 2nd highest volcano in Ecuador--standing at 5897 m, or 19,347 feet! It also boasts the most perfectly shaped cone of any volcano in this cordillera. It is, in more ways than one, breathtaking. The majesty of this mountain is made all the more dramatic because it stands alone, exploding out of the surrounding low hills and vast, tundra-like plains.
The park is comprised of 33,000 hectares of parámo--hauntingly beautiful wind swept grasslands, rocky and rugged, arid and cold, often shrouded in mists, and not an environment for the weary among us, animal, plant and human included. The plains are covered in lichen and mosses, either as dried out embroidery on rocks, or moist and thriving near a sudden stream. There are few trees to speak of, and the most dominant plant life are large tufts of long grass, resembling straw bushes that when viewed from a distance appear lush like wheat bending soft in the wind.
I will try, and certainly fail, to properly describe Volcán Cotopaxi. Nor could my camera capture what it is like to stand here just a few kilometers from her base. As I watch, the mists move eerliy, like fluid or like dancers with scarves at some Hindu ritual, hiding the identity of the royalty, teasing the audience. They part, almost directly down the middle, the curtain now revealing Her Majesty´s massive mount--snow covered, the texture of the glacier ice in full relief, and brighter than the white clouds behind. The audience applauds in their minds. We move outside to see her unobstructed, silently moving together, in awe of what we are witnessing. Viewing her northern face, the rock below the snow line stands very red, like a russet potato, between the shadow of the base and the icy gleam at the summit. The size of it nearly dwarfs the sky. I feel my face bathed in this cold, clear light, and I am amazed.
Suddenly from the East comes a stampede of a hundred horses. They fly across the hills, through a small canyon and up over onto the plain in front of the lodge. Behind them, a rainbow shimmers--I kid you not. The silence of the onlookers is broken and cameras click crazily. These are wild horses, belonging to no one but themselves. However, once a year they are rounded up rodeo style, their hooves are manicured so they don't develop the horse equivalent of ingrown toenails, and their tails are cut. Apparently horse tails can grow too long, getting caught up in their legs as they run. This effort to keep the horses healthy is a community project. They are protected but left wild, whereas they used to be stolen by locals in the villages below. Now the locals, combining their energies with those of the park and Tambopaxi, have helped to nurture these animals, preserving their lives and the spirit of these wild lands.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)