Riobamba, Ecuador April 7, 1979
This morning Rachel, Sally and I splurged and took a taxi from Latacunga to ‘Emerald Lake’, an old volcanic crater with a beautiful, still, jewel like lake in the centre. We perched on the rim and looked down. What surprised us was how much of the slopes of the crater were being cultivated. There were many paths running down and along the slopes, but no houses. Perhaps no one is quite that brave – or the slopes are just too steep.
An icy wind whipped across the rocks just below us, rippling the surface of the lake, and sending shivers down my spine. It looked so cold down there. We were at least in the sun, which provided some small amount of warmth, but not enough to entice us to stay, and certainly none of us had the least desire to descend into that cold, upside-down cone. I wondered if anyone ever swam in the lovely looking Emerald Lake.
Our taxi-driver demanded we pay him more than what we’d agreed upon, and when we refused not only did he gripe all the way back to Latacunga, but he drove as fast – and as recklessly – as possible. It was an unfortunately unpleasant ride.
We decided to catch a bus to Riobamba this afternoon, and spent at least an hour hanging around at the ‘bus stop,’ waiting and watching as locals loaded baskets, bundles and boxes into the bus. By the time they were done there were precious few seats left, but they cheerfully ceded the least cluttered ones to us, themselves sharing seats with one another and/or with their baskets and bundles.
At one of the many control-point stops, a hawker got on selling little bags of cookies. They had no luck with us, mostly because we’ve found the cookies here have little flavour. But they are packed with sugar. A couple of older Indian women, wrapped in black mantas and scarves, bought a bag to share. They didn’t have a full set of teeth between them, but they gummed and sucked away on the cookies with obvious pleasure.
A group of kids – mostly quite young boys, a few of them maybe in their early teens – made their way to where we were sitting and chatted away with us in a very animated style, with lots of dramatic facial expressions and hand movements, presumably to ensure we understood what they were trying to say. Which was primarily to ask us questions about ‘America’, where they assume all gringos are from. Our little entourage was a bit disappointed that none of us was in fact American, and none of them seemed entirely sure where either Canada or England were (Europe?), but that didn’t deter them from asking all the usual questions. Did we know any movie stars? Did we like disco dancing? Were we rich? Despite some clearly anti-American sentiment, especially among older youths, the ‘American dream’ – of money, fortune and opportunity – is still very much alive here. Our lively exchange provided entertainment for the entire bus, with much giggling by women and girls, and muffled guffawing by men. At least it helped us all pass the time.
We climbed up through an arid landscape of eucalyptus and century plants, and then further up into a very high altitude grass desert. Within minutes we were completely enveloped in a dense fog. We carried on – just a touch more slowly – in the soft, quiet, cloud bank for about a half an hour. And then descended into the lower mountain slopes, a patch-work quilt of green, black and grey, fuzzy-soft and rolling. There were a few rocky outcrops higher up – would-be mountain peaks poking through the patchwork quilt. Sometimes, below them, boulders and rocks spilled down haphazardly into the neatly ploughed and planted fields below. This cloud-ridden ‘desert’ is the exclusive preserve of goats, sheep and llamas; the only thing being cultivated here is potatoes. Still ‘rivers’ of black soil cascade down the mountain from these few fields. I wonder how much soil is lost to erosion on these steep slopes....
Despite how grey and cold it was here, there were lots of people around. Women walking along the road following small herds of goats, sheep and llamas, spinning wool on small spindles as they walked, and laughing when the animals, frightened by the cars and buses, dashed up the banks on either side of the road. Men and women both carrying loads of firewood on their backs. Children small enough to be on their mother’s backs carrying even smaller children on their backs, or standing a little higher on the slopes tending herds of goats, sheep and llamas, or other, smaller, children. The people we saw were all well bundled up, the women with layers of skirts and sweaters and ponchos. But most of them with bare feet.
Life here looks cold and bleak – I wonder how often the sun shines through and warms the soil and the people? We made a couple of stops, amazingly mostly to let people off. We invariably drew a crowd. Everyone seemed friendly, with lots of smiles, but the younger people were clearly looking for hand-outs. Boys doffed their caps and held them out; girls just stretched out their hand. We gave them what food we had at hand – oranges, bananas, bread. (The three of us have talked about our mutual disinclination to give these little beggars money or ‘bon-bons’, which are often given by other tourists, so kids will often yell ‘bon-bon, bon-bon’ when they spy a gringo.) By their reactions I guessed they don’t often see either oranges or bananas – these were greeted with big toothy grins, and were quickly devoured by the little cluster of kids right near the one who’d gotten them.
I come away from these experiences – giving food or gifts to obviously disadvantaged people – with a disturbing mix of feelings – pleasure at having given even a small amount of pleasure or joy, guilt at having so much and giving so little, frustration at how little difference I can make in these people’s lives, despondency at how long this state of affairs has been going on, and a feeling of hopelessness for a brighter future for them. Life isn’t fair. It just isn’t.
And they are shrewd business people - tough negotiators - always with a smile.
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