Guayaquil, Ecuador February 14, 1979

Yesterday’s train ride from Quito to Guayaquil was long (14 hours) but spectacular.  Starting in the mountains we descended onto the high central plateau, a beautiful green landscape of gently rolling hills.

The majority of Ecuador’s population lives here, growing crops of corn and beans.  We passed through lots of little villages, primarily indigenous, stopping once or twice.  We then crossed another set of mountains, closer to the coast, and began our real descent, traveling back and forth, frequently in reverse, across a series of switchbacks – a true feat of railroad engineering.  

We emerged from the green, forested hills into a vast yellow-grey desert – barren, desolate and wholly uninviting – mile upon mile of sand and cacti.  Every now and then there was a pocket of green, a little slope that catches the dew from passing clouds, or perhaps an irrigated field.  As we neared the band of jungle that encircles Guayaquil we passed through a large reforested area of pine trees – rather incongruous in the desert. Perhaps a reclamation project?   The transition from desert to jungle was remarkably abrupt: suddenly we could feel the humidity and heat, and the scenery changed from sand and cactus to lush banana plantations, flowering shrubs, cultivated patches of corn and rice, bamboo-ringed swamps, and jungle towns of palm-thatched houses on stilts above the muddy puddled ground.  Everywhere too many children with too few clothes or none. 

It began to rain.  The heat and humidity were stifling.  The train smelled like a rolling locker-room.  And then broke down in a little town where there didn’t appear to be any services.  The driver and a couple of workers banged away at the rear wheels of the train.  No one seemed to know what was wrong or what they were doing.  I did appreciate that they were at least doing something, and got out to stretch my legs.  I strolled the main street of the village, the old train-telegraph office and the string of tiendas facing the street – their windows filled with plastic goods – plastic pails and basins, plastic shoes – all likely from China.  It wasn’t long before locals began to appear – ‘vendadores’ (sellers) with pineapple rings, bananas,  fried plantains, zapotes, white cooked corn with salt, and sheep’s innards – taking advantage of their captive market, setting up near the train, or carrying their baskets right into the cars.   A couple of us speculated that the townsfolk paid the trainfolk to stage the break-down, and wondered how frequently it occurred.

 

Two images from the train trip stand out in my mind.  The first is of a little boy in one of the little villages, standing, in his colourful traditional clothing of pants, sash, shirt and jacket, little black bowler hat on his head, throwing both of his arms up to the sky and yelling “HOLA!” to the train.  The other is of an old Indian man, bent over double as he worked in a rice-field, half-straightening his back as the train passed by, just enough for him to lift his face and greeting us with a broad white smile, as he flashed us a peace sign.  And then went back to his work. 

 

We sweated our way into Guayaquil: it’s been over 100 degrees here for the past week.  And finally, after a 14-hour trip, we de-trained.  But the trip wasn’t over yet.  From here we had to catch a ‘lancha’ across the river.  The ‘lanchas’ were basically oversized row-boats with an engine of sorts and a canvas tarp cover, again, of sorts.   Fortunately the trip was short, and the sea-worthiness of the craft was not a serious, or even passing, consideration.  We were all that desperate to get where we were going....

 

And so here I was in Guayaquil, aka “cockroach capital of the world”, and one of the ugliest cities I’ve ever been in.  My hotel is a dumpy place on the busiest and noisiest street in town, good only for a one night stay.  I tossed my pack onto the sagging bed and headed out to stretch my tired train legs.  I wandered through the narrow cobblestone streets, listening to their groans as the protested under the wheels of heavy trucks and buses.  I walked in the constant noise, grime, and fumes of the city, jostled by men and women with baskets filled with bread, fruits, corn, more corn, darting through the crowds, pushing and shoving their way into over-filled buses.  I watched as street vendors sat by their candy stands in semi-stuporous states, becoming animated only when they heard the sound of clinking change: “que quiere? Que cosa quiere?”  I saw lots of old women stirring vats of soup or oil for papas fritas, and cooking plantains over little sidewalk grills.  Saw street carts filled with French pastries, open to the dust and dirt of the city streets, their pink and yellow icing roses flecked with black and grey soot.  

                                Note: This image is from a post-card I bought in Guayaquil.

 

There seems to be an inordinate number of children here.  Babies and tots strapped and wrapped, being carried like sacks of corn or firewood on mothers’ or sisters’ backs.  Young children, dirty-faced and runny-nosed, clutching the hand of a parent, or sibling, trotting along behind them in their wake, or being dragged this way and that through the throng.  Children sitting on the sidewalk shining shoes with blackened fingers, selling matches, chicklets and little packages of Kleenex.  Or running alongside rich Americanos (we are all ‘Americanos’), hanging on to shirttails and dresses, begging for a ‘dulce’ (candy).  One lucky group of children was actually playing – a game of hopscotch – in the middle of a busy sidewalk, using beer-bottle tops as markers. 

 

And beggars everywhere: so many beggars.  Beggars sitting cross-legged, blind eyes turned up towards the sun, and passers-by, hopeful hands out, waiting for a penny from heaven.  Beggars selling scissors, playing guitars.  And indigenous folk, wandering the city streets, like me, and just as foreign in this town, most wearing their traditional clothes, their eyes penetrating, all-seeing and to me at least haunting.  What are we doing here, in this place where we do not belong?

 

I managed to get to the office that’s organizing my Galapagos trip – way out by the airport – and got a cheap deal on the cab fare by agreeing to write in English all the numbers from 10 to 100 for the driver.  This so he can overcharge American tourists who don’t know any better.  I had quite a good chat with him, and as I got out and wished him well – “Que lo vaya bien,” I realized how much my Spanish has improved.  I have reached the point where I can understand pretty well everything that’s said (unless they’re speaking really quickly), and I can get most of what I want to say across.  The more I use it, the better it will become.  Also I am trying to read Spanish newspapers and the small book of short stories given to me by a Mexican writer.  That’s a little more challenging.