Local Transport

Photos available at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/meghanhatch

October 4, 2007

Location, The Panamerican Highway North to Otavalo

I 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.

Bus rides, no matter what, are never comfortable. And I don't mean just the position of the seat. Even if your butt is relatively cushioned, and you have the miracle of leg room, your body and your mind will be imprinted with the stresses of traveling.

After one hour on that bus (which was after 30 minutes in the camioneta on cobbled hills) I arrived in Quito, where I hopped off in the middle of the street and made my way past a line of young men attempting to coerce me to ride their bus to Otavalo. But I stood firm, pushing my way through, gripping my bags, as I searched out Compañia Los Lagos--one of only two operators that drop passengers off directly in town, not on the outskirts on the edge of the highway.

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.