dios le pague

¨Somos pobres, pero no tenemos habre.¨ We are poor, but not hungry, an old man told me, noticing my eyes swollen with pity. His declaration epitomizes the strength of the people of Ecuador. Huddled under homespun alpaca sweaters and shaded by felt hats, they shuffle along the dusty roads, trailing strings of goats like kites. Their skin is calloused leather, their hair a worn white grey woven into long braids, but their eyes and smiles are full of resilience and compassion. As the bus jostles through the countryside, I notice not much has changed in thousands of years. Huts of stick and mud shelter the poor from heat and rain, market stalls stacked with pyramids of colorful fruits and veggies cluster near roads, and women burdened by babies tied in thick cloth to breast and back walk by selling their wares. This country has managed to maintain an element of indigenous authenticity despite the radical influences acting upon it.

I boarded the bus early in the growing light and slipped past vendors hawking popcorn and dried fruit. My breath led the way up the stairs in crisp puffs of steam. I watched the landscape flash past my window, the steep slopes that formed fertile valleys, which were scattered by huts made of adobe and topped with recycled tile or thatch. Long fields were speckled with grazing cattle and the toddlers milking them. When I arrived in the tiny provence of Ona, I found myself in the midst of madness, as the only market for miles and days was already in full swing. Each vendor introduced their family, and with the same pride various verduras they had to offer. Their warm toothy smiles and soft hands welcomed me into the community. We found an escape by squeezing onto a flatbed camioneta, and rode up to the top of the hill overlooking the county, where a dilapidated church and single cow peered out at their world: the clouds of the Amazon rising in the east, the mountains separating us from the coast to the west.

Adventures drove the next day and me out of bed. We gathered strength from encembollada soup, a fish stew, and rode a wretched bus along the winding road to Cajas, the national park. As I disembarked, the frigid air seared my skin, and my plastic poncho blocked my steps but provided little protection from the hail that flew down and scattered, skittering across the frozen earth. The rain seeped in through the socks I wore as mittens, and I soon lost feeling in my extremities. While my body shut down, my eyes went wild, surveying the rocky peaks that surrounded me. Vibrating lakes reflected the clouds and gathered their tears in hollow bowls. Jade moss slipped over the hills, and melted under our steps like snow as we sunk into the moist earth. The fog feathered in through inlets and my vision became fluid. The sky pulsed, growing and receding with my breath. Even the crags, the mountains towering before me, moved in waves of radiating energy, filled with fluctuating power, the ebb and flow of life. As the trail came to its close, it narrowed into a path, edging through muddy slopes and across boulders back to the broken asphalt that foreshadowed civilization.

Cuenca´s independence day was characterized by chaos. Celebrations filled the streets and funneled into parades of dancing children dressed in embroidered skirts and blouses, canvas sandals and hairy pants. Reinas sat solemnly atop floats, pouting under sun umbrella and waving patiently from their thrones. At the fairgrounds pigs were splayed open on stakes roasting over fires, and caballeros tore at the meat and took shots to gain confidence and loose their reason. The rodeo came later that night, with mariachis wailing away, torros thrusting their riders, and snow white mares prancing to the music. The locals drank heavily and hollered ¨Viva cuenca¨ in unison with the announcer, until haunting echoes and horse’s neighs filled the night.