I dreamt I saw San Agustin

About the time the latch which held my seat back in a reclining position broke I asked myself what the heck we were doing. It was 3 in the morning and I hadn’t had a minute of sleep as our bus barreled down what can only generously be described as a dirt-road, bouncing over holes large enough to swallow a VW Bug.

After a week of going mountain biking, kayaking, hiking and swimming Asma was ready from a break from all the physical activity. The bruises were starting to show. That meant going rafting down the Amazon would have to wait. We thought of heading to Banos, which we heard is a lovely little town set among the most magnificent peaks of the Andes, known for it’s thermal baths. But then Mt. Tungurahua decided to start erupting, only 4 kms from the city center.

We had talked about taking a side-trip up to Colombia earlier to see the ruins of an unknown ancient civilization at San Agustin but decided against it because, well, it was a little complicated. But as we sat around trying to figure out where to head to next, knowing that our options had become limited, we decided to forget common sense and just get up and go to Colombia the next morning.

You see, on the map, San Agustin is only like 1 cm away from the Ecuadorean border. But getting there is way more difficult than one would believe. The most direct route through Mocoa is considered dangerous, something about being overrun by the anti-government guerillas and a center for narco trafficing. And the only other paved road to San Agustin comes from Bogota, nowhere near our intended route. That meant we’d have to head 7 hours north from the border to Popoyan and then backtrack another 7 hours over barely passable dirt-roads to get to San Agustin.

The ride started out well enough. I showed Asma my new favorite pastime on the long-distance busses of sampling all the foodwares the various vendors were hawking and staring out the window. I was somehow able to rip my eyes away from the Jean-Claude Van Damme marathon playing on the bus to marvel as the landscape changed from the dramatic peaks of Ecuador to the lush rolling hills of Colombia. We met a nice Colombian family at the immigration line who offered to give us a lift as far as Pasto and find us a hotel for the night. That left us only 12 hours short of San Agustin.

Colombians have a terrible reputation throughout the world and especially up and down Latin America. Everyone considers the men to be criminals and the women prostitutes. But I’ve found that the Colombians I’ve met are literally the nicest, friendliest people in the world. I don’t know how to reconcile what is common knowledge with what I have experienced first hand. Maybe I’m just naïve, but I think I prefer believing my own lying eyes to assuming the worst about people.

We finally did arrive at our destination, after missing our stop and being forced to backtrack another hour. We were tired from the journey, cranky form the lack of sleep and wanting for a good meal and a hot shower. Both of those things proved to be near impossible to find in small town Colombia. I tried to remember why I kept telling everyone Colombia was my favorite country in the world.

But regardless we went out to see these ruins we traveled a ridiculous distance for. And yes, they were quite impressive and the scenery was gorgeous beyond compare. No one seems to know any things about these artifacts or the civilization that created them. They can’t even seem to agree on in which millennium they were constructed. All they can agree on is that these are the only remnants of what must have once been a power civilization which fell as the Incan Empire expanded into present day Colombia.

After spending a day exploring the archeological sights, we prepared for the two day journey back to Quito. We both wondered aloud why decided to make this excursion, and agreed the expectations that we had setup for ourselves led to disappointment. I thought I had learned that lesson already but I suppose it takes more than one time for it to really stick.

The adventure was one unlike any other, and Asma seemed to have a lot of the same revelations that I did when I first started traveling in Latin America. Asma told me about her new found respect for all the simple pleasures in life that we seem to take for granted. And we both marveled at how people who have so little seem to enjoy life so much more than we do with all our flat-screen TVs and fast cars. How they relish in the strength that their friends and family seem to provide, in ways that would only annoy us.

Asma and I are alike in many more ways than I realized before. We both seem to be rather content on just seeing where life winds up taking us, rather than making our grand plans. Of course that causes problems from time to time. Every once in a while you get the silly idea of traveling 5 days to Colombia on a whim and wind up tired and exhausted from the journey. But even with that possibility I have faith that things will always work out, they always have so far. And I still think I would still deal with the chance of that happening rather than keeping lists and making itineraries.

More Boobies Than You Can Shake a Stick At

I was super excited to see my sister Asma again, she was bringing me an iPod loaded with music and a new camera. Our 3 weeks together started out by exploring a little bit of Quito, but we were both looking forward to heading out towards the coast. The hump-back whales started showing up in Ecuador about a week ago and we were going to head to Puerto Lopez to get a closer peak and enjoy the beaches while we were at it.

My Spanish teacher Zulema wanted to go too. She’s lived in Quito all her life and for some reason had never managed to get out to the coast to see them in person. So we made plans to catch a night bus from Quito to Puerto Lopez and spend the weekend there.

As normal things didn’t go quite so easily as we had planned. Turned out the bus we were planning on taking was completely sold out. We decided to head to the main bus terminal in Quito and see if we could find another way to get there that night. No such luck, but we decided to hop a bus to Manta which was two hours north instead and figure out how to get to Puerto Lopez after that.

The ride on the bus was nice. I got to listen to my new tunes on my iPod for the first time, since sleep was not to be found on the bumpy roads heading down the western slope of the Andes. As I scrolled through the list of artists that my sister shoved on there I couldn’t hide my excitement. Bob Dylan, Yes! Jurassic 5, Yes! Neko Case, Yes! Warren Zevon, Yes!

I don’t know how, but my sister Asma and I must share the same gene that leads great taste in music. Sure she didn’t have any Miles Davis and didn’t know who Townes van Zandt was, but she’s young yet. We’re alike in a lot of ways, I think it’s all about her being the second daughter and me being the second son. But that’s just a theory.

I stared out the window as the hours on the bus rolled by. And at some point while I was drifting in and out of sleep Zulema yelled down the corridor of the bus at us “chicos…vamos aca” We hadn’t quite reached Manta but it turned out we could catch a bus in this random terminal on the side of the road towards Jipijapa and one from there to Puerto Lopez. Good enough for me. We showed up in town only two hours later than anticipated and Maxima and her husband were happy to see the three lost travelers as they had taken to calling us.

Within a few short hours we had arranged a tour to head out and chase down some of the whales and explore La Isla De La Plata, also known as “the poor man’s Galapagos.” I managed to take several pictures of empty open see but almost caught a couple good shots of a whale showing off. I also kind of got to play tour guide in Puerto Lopez seeing as I knew the city somewhat well after being there for 3 days a couple weeks ago. Strange seeing as I had a native Ecuadorian by my side.

The Blue-footed boobies were spotted in alarming numbers. Also a bunch of other crazy types of birds whose names I can’t remember which only seem to exist on the Galapagos and this island. But it most certainly was not the tropical island paradise I had come to except, a poor man’s Galapagos indeed. The snorkeling was good, but not great.

All in all, after this trip Asma and I found ourselves really motivated to get to the Galapagos Islands, if only it weren’t so damn expensive. We still had 2 and a half-weeks and no real plans, and I guess we both assumed we’d figure it all out in due time. I liked the fact that neither one of us was stressing about it, moreso just pondering the possibilities.

Hail to the Victors

Before the two lovely exchange students would sit with me they had to know, I wasn´t rooting for France was I? No I assured them, I don´t like the French, so by process of elimination I´ll root for Italy. They were happy to hear that, ¨we´re Italian¨ the first one said in perfect English with what seemed to be a US accent. ¨But you live in the US right?¨ I asked? No, it turned out they were from Toronto. Whatever, Canada is like the 51st state.

¨Where are you from¨ they wanted to know. This is actually a question that has always given me some difficulty. And these days I really don´t know what to answer. If you reply, ¨The US¨ to anyone from the US or Canada or anyone who has ever been there they will immediately ask where in the US. That´s when things start to get complicated.

The last place I lived was Seattle, but I was raised in Cleveland and right now I´m pretty sure I´m going to move to San Diego when I get back. The real answer is kinda nowhere, so I said Seattle, which generally makes my life easier. ¨But what´s your nationality?¨ they cuter one asked. Oh, I saw where this was heading. This is the other turn this topic of conversation always takes. ¨Well my nationality is I´m a citizen of the US, but my family is from India.¨

¨Oh, well then you´re Indian¨ the less cute, although still quite lovely one, said. I told them I thought it was strange that they called themselves Italian although they lived in Canada their entire lives as did their parents, they had never been to Italy to visit and didn´t speak a word of the language. ¨Oh but we´re still Italian, eh¨ they assured me. I guess everyone is Italian when the World Cup Finals roll around, well excpet for all the Frenchies.

But the truth is, I don´t really feel Indian. Not like these girls felt Italian for whatever reason. I spent a great amount of my childhood in denial about the fact that I was Indian, or not Indian as the case may be. And while I´ve come to accept that there are a great deal of things about me that are undeniably influenced by my parents homeland, I never really identified myself with that land. Unless of course it happens to be more convenient in any given instance.

At some point in the last few months I realized that my Spanish has become better than my Hindi ever was. I remember the last time I was in India and was talking to one of my Aunts and I felt proud that I somehow managed to find the Hindi words to thank her for the meal I just ate at her home. And she smiled and nodded at me and then turned to her sister and asked her what I just said. Sigh, I never realized quite how sad that is until just recently.

Of course I´ve never really felt quite at home in the US either. Lately I´ve been toying with the idea of moving to India at some point and actually learning the language. I don´t think it would be too hard, if I can learn Spanish in less than a year than Hindi should come faster, maybe. I used to jokingly tell people that I was a ¨citizen of the world¨ when they would ask me where I was from, but I don´t think most people read enough Greek philosophy to get the reference and no one really found it funny.

In between high-pitched shrieks at mostly inappropriate times the Italian / Canadian girls and I managed to share some travel stories and views on the world. Apparently these two college students were quite upset with the recent election of the Conservatives party to the Canadian parliment. Canada is becoming just like the US they complained. ¨And you know, people in the US are just kinda off¨ the cuter one told me.

Hmmm...funny I was under the impression it was the rest of the world that was kinda strange. Yes I suppose there are a great deal of things that are unique about us folks from the US. Everyone seems to thing we´re arrogant and yeah we have our moments. Everyonce in a while we decide to start bombing people but I like to think that´s just our ¨Can Do¨ attitude coming through. And yeah we´re kinda isolationists, except when we´re not, but hey we do have two big oceans on either coast and only two neighbors to deal with.

¨You´re just a young nation that doesn´t know any better¨ the less-cute one told me. Yeah I suppose we´re young, but we have the longest form of functioning government of any nation in the world, I replied. And sure one of these days maybe we´ll figure out the same lessons that the ¨mature¨ countries of Europe have, but I still can´t imagine any other country I´d like us to emulate. There are a lot of things that are wrong with the US, I´ve come to believe, but nothing that can´t be mediated by what´s right with the US.

¨Why don´t you like the French?¨ the cute one asked, ¨is it because of the Iraq thing?¨ No I told them the fact that if it wasn´t for the US, they would be speaking German from Paris down to the Riveriera and somehow the French have decided that they don´t like us in the last 50 years annoys me greatly. ¨Well if it wasn´t for the French the US Colonies would never have been able to win their independence from the British¨ the less cute one said. Touché.

As the second extra period came to an end the cute one asked me what happened now. I´d watched enough World Cup Futbol at this point to be able to explain the shoot-out. She started chewing her fingernails. As the Italians scored the fifth penality kick high-fives and hugs went all around. Before we parted ways they asked me to change my plans about moutain-biking on Cotopaxi, ¨it destroys the vegetation and it takes some plants 20 years to grow in the Andes¨ the cute one implored. ¨Well if those plants don´t want to get run over they should get out of my way¨ I told them as I went off to find a steak.

A few shots from Cuba

Meet the new boss, hey who is the new boss?

I rememeber Election night 2000 pretty vividly. Bush was announced the winner, then they all took it back, and then we waited around and they told us they had no idea. And months later we still didn´t know. I remember thinking ¨this is the United States of America and things like this don´t happen here. They happen in places like Mexico.¨

Well if it makes any of you feel better it turns out they still happen in places like Mexico. Although I suppose we´ll have to wait and see just exactly how ugly things get. As far as I know so far there hasn´t been much of any violence, which is the thing that suprises me the most.

The latest Google news articles tell me that the Conservative candidate, Felipe Calderon, holds something like a 0.5% lead in the popular vote over his Socialist rival Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador. I´m sure that will change several times before this is all said and done.

I read another article linked from Google news, amazingly enough written by someone at the Seatlle PI, who thinks this means that the recent socialist trend in Latin America is coming to an end. I suppose if 0.5% of Mexicans had voted the other way he would have interpreted this as meaning that Socialism is an unstoppable force in Latin America.

But to be fair the populist socialist movement emboddied by the self-declared ¨Axis of Good¨ of Evo Morales in Bolivia, Hugo Chavez in Venezuela and of course, Fidel Castro in Cuba have been dealt a series of set backs in recent weeks.

President Uribe of Colombia won a suprisingly strong re-election, making him the first Colombian President to be elected to a 2nd term since the 19th Century. This admist even more evidence that The Colombian DAS was involved in the failed 2001 coup against Chavez in Venezuela and increasing cooperation with the US and Bush Administration.

Peruvians chose to give former President Alan Garcia, who´s first term as President can only be described as disastrous, a second chance rather than electing the candidate that Chavez openly endorsed and campaigned for. This has led to a back and forth fury of insults between Lima and Caracas and now Chavez says he suspects electoral fraud.

Bolivians gave Morales´ party a solid victory in the recent Constituent Assembly but didn´t pass the Constitutional Referendum he was championing. This seems to point to ever growing split between the indigenous highlanders and the Lowlanders of European descent.

And to be fair one must really point out that Obrador, while definately a leftist and arguably a socialist, has done a fair amount to distance himself from the label of Populist Socialist. Obrador seems to like to portray himself more as a Roosevelt New-Dealer than a Che-esque revolutionary. And seems to have more in common with Chile´s Bachelet than Chavez.

But I find it fascinating that a socialist trend which essentially didn´t exist 5 years ago is now losing a series of nail-bitters across the Latin American map. Sure maybe it´ll just wither away and die, but that´s it´s far to early to put that nail in the coffin. And as the price of oil continues to go through the roof, the poster child of this movement gets stronger and stronger.