Bienveniedos a Banco de Credito-Sur America please insert your card, thank you, now enter your PIN… balance inquiry or withdrawel?, checking or savings?, enter the amount you would like… thank you, please take your cash, have a nice day. gringo. muahahahaha…NOW. The ATM spits out a small stack of brightly colored bills featuring the faces of white guys in military uniforms who look nothing like the local populous. You are holding local currency. Or is it that easy?… While conventional wisdom says you’ve got bank and it’s time to party; in reality your battle has just begun. You can’t spend those notes. The insidious machine has dispensed you denominations of 50 and 100: crazy tourist money. Now begins the struggle to break those bills in a world where nobody has change.
I think anyone who’s traveled South America can bond with me on this rant: getting change is hell. It’s maddening, it’s bizarre, it’s outright disconcerting … Run up a tab of 4.50 at a restaurant and try to pay with a 10 and you’ll invariably be asked “Do you have anything smaller?” What!?… Don’t have exact change?; easy, they won’t sell you anything. I envision locals paying their rent and mortgage with wheelbarrows of coins; they’re hording the goods. Next time give me a dozen guards and a train of llamas and I’ll carry my bounty of coins (totalling $35US) from town to town the old fashioned way. ;)
But change is a good thing, so I’ve changed countries once again; to my fourth and final ECUADOR!!! It’s great to be back. :)
From Mancura I biked over the border: where I took a bus through the (border contested) jungle to Cuenca, Ecuador: it’s a beautiful place. Bold colonial architecture and cobblestone streets played brilliantly against the steep Andean backdrop. The ascent out of Cuenca was what we call a “leg burner”; the climbs were long and relentless. But I was too fixated on the scenery to notice pain. The Ecuadorian Andeas tend to be much greener than Peru. Primitive dwellings tucked among thick tropical vegetation on almost-vertical hillsides have an otherworldly beauty. I thought to myself if New Zealand hadn’t of worked out; Peter Jackson could have totally shot Middle Earth here.
Ninety twisty kilometers later I was running out of daylight on a mountain pass in thick fog and light rain. A park ranger told me there was camping (but no hotels) in the tiny town of Zhud. The drizzle continued all the way to Zhud, where I started asking around for the alleged camping. Nobody knew. I walked into a front yard bar-b-que and started talking to people. A lumberjack-meets-santa-looking man stepped forward and said he could help. I followed him across the road where he kicked open the door of the small outbuilding. Dirt floors, mud walls, animal smells not too-overwhelming: I’ll take it. Roberto introduced himself and invited me in for a snack. There were three such shacks on the property; Roberto slept in one and had his kitchen in the other. In the dirt-floored kitchen, he served us warm milk and bread.
Animals were everywhere at Roberto’s place. Ducks, chickens, geese, cats and even pigeons walked in and showed off while we were dining. The conversation was awesome. Roberto lived off the land and almost off the grid. Almost all his food and provisions were produced on-site. We talked about composting, canning, drying, chickens and even permaculture. I said goodnight and returned to my shed where I studied it’s construction.
The roof timbers appeared native and home-made. A single incandescent bulb hung from a cord in the middle of the room. The walls were mud+straw bricks sealed together with more mud. The walls were covered with newspaper (to keep the support timbers from sticking during assembly?). I struggled to read the yellowed newspapers and found a reference to Reagan; the only way I could date the building. I slept like a baby on the dirt floor with pigeons cooing under the overhang and light rain tapping the tin roof.
In the morning Roberto came knocking and invited me over for breakfast. He again served warm milk and bread, and I contributed fresh fruit and some cheese. We laughed as two cats wrestled in vain with the milk pot’s cast iron lid. Exhausted, they curled up for a snooze on the counter. It was time for me to go.
As I packed up the bike, Roberto studied my gear and methods. I showed him bike shoes, tools, maps and modern camping gear; none of which he’d seen before. We said goodbyes and I offered money for the camping, which he refused.
I snapped some pictures of the shack and started chugging up the hill. At the turnoff, I stopped to adjust some things and Roberto appeared from behind some trees. He had hiked a steep 50 yards to watch me ride off. I ask if I could take his picture and he cheesed and stuck out his chest. He said if I ever come back to Zhud I’m welcome to crash the chicken coop again and we both laughed. I headed out with a mountain range in front of me and seeds of peace behind. I always have my best days of biking after experiences like that.
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11 more days! I’m writing this from the beautiful balcony (overlooking a waterfall) of Posada Del Arte, in Baños, Ecuador (my planned ending point) I MADE IT! The Posada is owned by bicycle-advocates (& Chicago ex-pats) Jim and Marsha Redd: whom I toured with here a year ago. I’d recommend Baños and The Posada to anyone looking for the best of everything the amazing country of Ecuador has to offer. (ok, so my room here is like a mansion rather than a chicken coop; so I’m a sufficiently stoked about it. :) )
Next time I’m just answering questions so SEND ME ANY QUESTIONS YOU HAVE regarding; my trip, bike touring, independent travel, south america, learning Spanish, open-field tackling or whatever you want me to talk about… I promise I’ll answer most of the good ones and all of the silly ones. :)
‘Tell next time, 2 feet on the pedals & rubber side down,
–Lucas
Oh yeah, and regarding the “Cuy” (guinea pig), i’ve been looking and can’t find one! Turns out eating rat is a southern-andeas thing? They don’t do it in other areas of Peru. I asked restaurants all the way up the coast and got laughed at. Tie may go to the vermin after all. Unless someone wants to hit up the pet store with me when I get back to Frisco… I’ve got my Aunt Shirley’s bar-b-que sauce, could be a party. ;)
