Capital Power to No Power (and no heat, no water, no roads...) : Quito to Quilotoa

If you want to go to Toronto in Ecuador, go to Quito.

Because Quito was so close to the Canadian Metropolis I now call home, this part of my vacation was both disappointing and comforting. Like many big cities around the world, you can find pretty much anything in Quito. The Ecuadorian capital has its share of stunning architecture as well as slummy barrios; poverty as well as snobbery; crime as well as citizens going out of their way to welcome you. In Quito, I felt like I had been plucked out of my South American adventure, and dropped into a Spanish-speaking Toronto with fewer high-rises and browner skin. It was nice to feel "at home" again, but at the same time, I did not travel thousands of miles south to feel at home.



We ended up staying about a full week in hostel located in the heart of "Gringolandia" (the word "gringo" being the mildly derogatory term for American tourists). For the first time in months, I was living in a neighbourhood with shops and signs with English names, and being served in my native tongue. It was bizarre, and to be honest, a little depressing. Something akin to guilt plagued me my whole time there; I felt that my culture had imposed itself and taken over where it didn't really belong, and the effect was unsettling.

During this particular leg of the trip, my mono was rearing its unattractive, phlegmy, spastically coughing head, so much of that week was occupied by catching up on rest. However, my travelling buddies and I (at this point, Julia, Cor, Meg and Michelle) were able to fit in a couple of sightseeing days. One of the first things we did was to go see the famous Basilica, a towering Gothic style church with tropical gargoyles (think monkeys, turtles, and jaguars) adorning the greystone walls, and gorgeous stained glass windows so intricate they looked like paintings. The TeleferiQo was another stop, where a cable car took us from 2950 meters to 4050 meters of altitude, where the view of the sprawling city is nearly overwhelming. And because of the altitude, the experience literally takes your breath away. We also went to the hyped-up tourist attraction "El Centro del Mundo", meaning "The Middle of the Earth" and straddled the equator.

Despite my best efforts to convince her to do otherwise, this was also the week that Julia got her dreadlocks. Being blessed with amazing, lush, and tumbling chestnut curls, I thought Jules was insane to willingly turn this beautiful feature into gnarly matted ropes, but hey, Julia's insane (I don't pretend to come up with any rational excuses for her behaviour anymore). The process took several days involving multiple South American hippies working on her aching scalp, and although initially her hair looked like an ode to Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons, it looked cuter than I expected when it had calmed down. I believe it took almost six days for the dreading process to be completed. Three weeks later, Julia had chopped her dreads off.
And that's Julia, folks.

Quito was also where Meg and Michelle split to meet another visiting friend, so Cor and I were back to being a twosome. From the bustling Capital, Cor and I's intention was to complete the difficult-to-navigate yet incredibly beautiful Quilotoa Loop.

The Quilotoa Loop is named for the circular tour done through multiple indigenous pueblos in the central Andean highlands, with the scenic highlight being the Quilotoa lagoon. The lagoon is located at the base of a volcano, and because of an accumulation of minerals in the water, the lagoon glows bright green. The entire loop is no more than 200 km and villages are anywhere from 5 to 40 km apart, but this is not Canada, where 100 km equals about one hour of driving. This is Ecuador, and rural Ecuador at that, which means badly maintained vehicles, inconsistent/nonexistent public transportation, and mountain ledge dirt roads that disappear for weeks from heavy rain.

Using our Lonely Planet as our guide, Cor and I painstakingly planned our travelling schedule, which we had to modify several times a day, until we scrapped the whole schedule. The most complicated part about navigating the loop is arranging transportation. Unlike more populated regions in Ecuador, buses are infrequent between these tiny villages, and sometimes they don't exist at all. Often, the only way to get from one village to the next was to hitch a ride (and pay an outlandish price to the independent drivers who basically had the monopoly over the roads) or in one case, catch the 3am milk truck, riding in the back with crates of cow juice.






The first destination within the loop was Zumbahua. So far so good. We reached this one with little trouble, and the ride there was probably the most beautiful bus ride I will ever go on in my life. Conveniently, our driver was also the owner of a hostel in Zumbahua, so he dropped us off at his establishment where his wife set us up with a single candle and a teapot of hot water in our room. Of course, by the time we had arrived, night had fallen and so had the temperature, and the town was experiencing a power outage that we were assured would only last 20 minutes. Four hours later, Cor and I had resorted to layering on nearly every item of clothing we brought in order to stay warm (the altitude and early sunset make these highland towns get very cold, very fast), and huddled around our candle stub to read our books.


The next day, we got up early and aimed to climb a few a the many peaks scattered around the town. In the daylight, we could see how unique Zumbahua was. It looked like someone had reached a giant hand under the earth and pushed their fingers upwards, creating many sharp and narrow peaks in close range of each other. Cor and I climbed a couple, ate our lunch with a herd of sheep that unexpectedly joined us, then headed back to the hostel to collect our luggage and catch our next bus to the neighbouring town.



Travel Schedule Modification #1. Turns out, when we had left for our hike, our hostel husband and wife duo had left to do their bus route and wouldn't be back until that evening. Never having been given a key, we were locked out. Our luggage: locked in. It was about 11am then, our bus was at 1:30pm, and the owners weren't due back until after 6. So we tried to break in. We asked neighbours for ladders, stacked chairs and tables found in backyards, and dangled precariously under window sills, but nothing worked. Our room was completely inaccessible without a key. We decided to kill some time by grabbing lunch somewhere, and actually had one of the better almuerzos I've had in Ecuador, and bonus! No chicken feet in the broth!


At around 3pm, our hostel owners returned early from their route. Cor and I collected our things and decided to catch the next truck going to Quilotoa, even if we had to pay a little extra. Travel Schedule Modification #2.

When we got to Quilotoa the daily rain had started, and it was still very cold (even with the sun out during the days, I don't think it ever went above 15 degrees). Our hostel in Quilotoa was, of course, unheated. As a bonus, it also had no water, except a dingy barrel of recycled water which we used to flush the toilet using the old pour-a-bucket-into-the-bowl method. Washing was out of the question.

Cor and I both had colds at this point, and were rather miserable, so we spent the rest of this rainy day drinking very potent hot cocoa (made from real homemade chocolate!) and reading our books with our woolly-socked feet resting on a wood stove.

After going to sleep in outfits that made us look like yarn-based Yetis, we woke up early the next morning to do the highlighted Quilotoa hike. There are two suggested ways of touring the beautiful sight: a) Hike around the ridge of the crater. At a fairly steady pace and only minor dips and inclinations, this takes about 4-5 hours; b) Hike into the mouth of the volcano right down to the water level, and then back up again. Descent is about 25-40 minutes, incline is about 1 hour to an hour and a half. Having only about 4 hours until the daily 11am rains, we opted for option B, figuring that we could have a better range of sights and also get to see the glowing water up close.


Visually speaking, the lagoon was the most beautiful single sight I have ever seen in my life. Upon my first glimpse of it, my breath literally caught, and I almost felt paralyzed. It was one of those moments when your brain is going, "Is this real? Does this actually exist??". It was so unbelievably spectacular. Trying to describe this experience would be like trying to make an Origami crane out of a wilted banana peel. I just don't have the skills.










At the base of the crater Cor and I were quiet (compared to the standard endless chatter/giggling/bickering that two travel companions develop) while we just sat an stared.

After having a small snack, we turned around to make the steep climb back up. The sky was already starting to cloud over, and because most of the trail was made of soft earth on a sharp incline, we desperately wanted to beat the rainfall. We made it back to the top in half the guide book's estimated time, lungs burning all the way. The first drops started to fall just as we reached the rim of the crater.

Our plan for the rest of that day was to attempt to get to the famous Black Sheep Inn, a luxury ecolodge just outside of Chugchilan, about 25 km from where we were in Quilotoa. Because of the recent frequent rains, the public buses had not been running for two weeks as the roads had deteriorated too much for them to be safe. However, we were told that smaller vehicles were still making the trip, so we found a guy with a pick-up truck who was willing to give us a lift (for an inflated cost, of course).

The following hour of my life is one that I'm sure Cor and I will never forget, because of all the on-the-edge horseback rides, sketchy border crossings, and violent surf encounters, I have never felt so close to death.

The ride started off mildly enough. The roads were a bit lumpy and mucky, but passable, and our driver and his companion were friendly and informative. This lasted for about ten minutes, and then we got to the "main" road: A mud out-cropping ranging in width from about 10 ft at the most comfortable spots to about 6 ft. One side of the road was flanked by the mountain's incline, the other side was a straight drop of several hundred feet.

It was raining steadily at this point, and the muddy road was unpredictable and would sometimes steer our tires so close to the edge that my entire body would literally go numb with fear. At this point, Cor and I were clutching to each other and gritting our teeth, and our drivers were silent and uncharacteristically serious. About halfway to our destination, the road all but completely collapsed, and our driver said he couldn't continue safely. He told us we had about 10 km to go, and we could walk if we liked, as the roads would support pedestrians, but not vehicles.

Travel Schedule Modification #3.

Cor and I actually debated it. We had really been looking forward to the Black Sheep Inn and were anxious to treat ourselves, but we also didn't want to risk getting stuck even further into these highlands with their horrible roads. So, we decided to head back the way we came (even scarier because this time we knew what to expect!), and if possible, to head to Baños early. We were so fed up at this point of being cold, unwashed, scared, and rained-on that Baños, with its many tourist comforts and warm climate, seemed like a Mecca of indulgence waiting in the distance.

The ride back was, as predicted, terrifying, but in the end, we did make it to Baños that evening (safely!). I don't think I have ever been that happy to take a hot shower. I don't think I have ever been that happy to see paved roads.

But, as per usual, am I glad I did it? Absolutely. Would I change anything? Not a crumb. Could I physically/emotionally/psychologically do it all over? Not on your life...

...Well, maybe ask me in a couple of months :)

Bass Thumping & Beach Bumming: The Coast

Being on the beach will always remind me of childhood summers spent on the maritime coast. It will remind me of being buried in the sand, of filling my plastic beach bucket with raspberry coloured jellyfish, of salty skin.

There are of course, some significant differences between the Canadian Atlantic Coast and the Ecuadorian Pacific Coast. Namely, the violence of the waves, the prevalence of tourists and goods-sellers, and the temperature (an unrelenting heat). Namely, everything.

Our coastal trip started with Montanita. Things had changed a bit since the last time I had been there. When Samir and I had been, it was during the off-season for both tourists and strong tides. This time around, prices were doubled, as were the height and strength of the waves. To save money, seven of my friends and I crammed into one room in a bargain hostel right on the main strip. Nice and central, we thought. Pleasantly active, we reasoned. Our mistake.

The first night we were there, I slept with two earplugs...IN EACH EAR! At one point in the middle of the night, I resorted to wrapping a sweater around my head, in my frustration to keep the street beat out. Multiply that by four nights.

During the day, Montanita still treated us well. We ate wholesome and deliciously at my favourite organic-vegetarian restaurant, "Cafe del Mar", run by a kind and wirey ex-Brit, Mel. The beach was wonderful and sunny, but the tides were perilously strong. Every morning a general announcement echoed across the town to beware of the undertow, and only strong swimmers were advised to go advised to go in past their knees.

Being a strong swimmer (and about a foot taller than most South Americans), I reasoned that I could go in past my knees. This was all fine and good, and I had a blast being tussled by the waves and snorting lots of sea water. On the third day (the day that I had originally planned to use my surfing lesson IOU given to me by my friends for my birthday), I went out for a morning swim as usual. As a rule, I always tried to stay close enough to the shore so that my feet could touch. However, I never realized that a strong tide could carry you far enough so as to break this rule without even realizing it.

This is what happened to me that day, and one second, I was standing with the water just reaching my shoulders, and the next second, I was over my head. Realizing this was not scary at first, and I started to paddle calmly closer to shore. All of a sudden, a huge wave came up behind me, pushed me under, and made me somersault inside the wave until my chin slammed against the ocean floor. I was totally disoriented and didn't even know which way was up, but I managed to find the ground with my feet and pushed up as hard as I could. I came up coughing water and managed to take one deep breath just as another huge wave of equal force pushed and twisted me under again. At this point I was thoroughly terrified and still had no idea how far I had gotten from the shore. I made it to the surface again, and this time had enough time to prepare for the next wave. This time, I swam as hard as I could to stay on top of the wave rather than be sucked under again, and let it help to carry me back to the shore. When the tide receded, I swam my hardest against the current so as not to be carried backwards again. I did this until I could touch the ground, and then I shakily walked back to the shore, coughing, spitting, and snorting out water.

Needless to say, the experience shook me significantly and decided against the surfing lessons. I donated my birthday money instead to a stray animal program Mel was trying to start up to have dogs neutered to prevent the excessive pregnancies and subsequent inhumane killing of unwanted litters that is so common in Ecuador.

I made myself go back in the ocean the next day so as not to perpetuate a fear of water, but if the water passed my belly button, I retreated a bit closer to the shore. With the ocean, it helps to have a little humility...

The next stop was Ayampe, mecca of perfect tranquility and heavenly food. We took a bus from Montanita and as we were getting off, Galban (the famous cook), was just getting on to do some errands in the nearby town. He recognized me immediately and was incredibly happy to hear that I was coming to stay with my friends.


We were in Ayampe for three nights, none of which I used earplugs. Ayampe is not quiet per se, as it buzzes and chirps and hums with birds and bugs and frogs, but that is just my type of lullabye... Galban, his wife Sandra Elena, and their son Kevin were all extremely sweetand welcoming, and when it was time to leave, I felt like I was leaving something behind. Ayampe is a place that will always both calm and warm my spirit.

Our last destination along the coast was Canoa, just three buses, a ferry, another bus, and a bicycle rickshaw away. Aside from being an amazing stretch of sand with lovely lukewarm water, Canoa brought the extra benefit of reuniting me with my long time best buddy, Julia Stanfield. Jules had been living in Cuba for the past couple months and had come down to Ecuador to do some travelling. It was so wonderful meeting up with her, and we spent the next couple of days catching up and catching sun. Most of my friends tried surfing in Canoa, and although I was proud of them for trying, I still wasn't ready for it.

After our weeked in Canoa, it was time to head East, away from the coast and up to the sierra to Ecuador's capital, Quito. At the end of our ten days spent in various beach towns, we were all brown-skinned, crunchy-salty-haired, and stubbornly sandy (you know, like you blow your nose and sand comes out...for days!). We had to say goodbye to both the waves and our friend Emily (who was parting ways to meet up with visiting parents), both which were hard, but we were all excited to see the capital...

...We were also excited to stop finding sand in our undies.

Everything Your Parents Want to Know: Alex’s Interview with Her Parents

So, my parents have been hassling me for the past five months to write a blog entry strictly on the topic of teaching abroad. I wasn’t sure where to start, so I decided that the best way to do this would be for them to come up with a list of questions they had, and thought that other family members/ prospective TESL teachers might have, and then I could answer them.

Ahem, so here’s the short list…

1) What motivated you to go there?

Ah, funny you ask. The first night I arrived in Cuenca, it was dark, cold, and rainy. I was homesick, tired, and disoriented, and I lamented inwardly, “Why in the name of San Jose are you doing this to yourself??”

The answers to this have been filtering in with passion and force ever since that night, but originally, my motivation was centered around the desire for growth. I mean that on several levels: On the intellectual level, I wanted to improve my Spanish. Although I studied it for years in university, eventually double majoring in it, I never had much of a chance to practice it outside of an academic setting. This had the effect of bestowing me with the ability to discuss (in depth) things like metaphorical language and symbolic allusions in classical Spanish literature, but I had no idea how to say something like, “Where can I catch a bus?” or, “Your hostal gave me fleas…Can I pay half price?” I desperately wanted some practice in a relevant setting.

On a more emotional/spiritual level, I really wanted a challenge. I wanted to be aware of a different way of living—one that didn’t include Starbucks or Blackberries or a society that devotes more inspection and analysis to tabloid vomit and celebrity gossip than to their own lives. I wanted to stretch myself and be more independent. I wanted to see if I would sink or swim if I was away from my family, my friends, my language, and my country, and a place where I always know that the next clean public washroom is around the corner…

I just wanted to learn stuff.

2) Physically, what is it like where you live?


I do not live in a hollowed out tree trunk, nor a mud hut, nor do I have to worry about grass-skirted jungle warriors with bones through their noses firing hallucinogenic poison-tipped arrows at me in my sleep. Cuenca is a modern city on the southern part of the Andean ridge in Ecuador, about 7,000 feet above sea level. I live in a modern apartment, in which the only major differences are that hot water only ever comes out of shower heads, never from kitchen or bathroom sinks, and that our stove and shower heater are hooked up to big tanks of gas that we are responsible for hooking up and replacing every six weeks or so. We also don’t have a phone, but that is because we are cheap, and not because we don’t have the option of connecting. Our apartment is small but sufficient; we now have four girls living in our two bedrooms, with one small bathroom and a kitchen-living room open concept combo. Our place is five minutes from downtown, five minutes from a big grocery store/ farmer’s market, and five minutes from school. We are one minute from an emergency hospital, one minute from a big family park, one minute from the beautiful river that bisects the city, and one minute (or less) from many wonderful neighbours within our apartment complex.

3) If you had to choose seven adjectives to describe your TESL experience, what would they be?

Emotional; enriching; volatile; frustrating; empowering; deep; fateful.

4) What is the best thing that has happened in class?

That is a difficult question to answer, because “best”

can be separated into many sub-categories: funniest, most touching, most educational, most interesting, etc… Upon reflection, I guess that means that my teaching experience has been pretty positive.

I think the memory that comes to mind stands out because I laughed so hard. Last semester, I taught a beginner class of eight 9-or-so-year-old little boys who were absolutely nuts but often lots of fun. Each class I would try to incorporate some kind of physical activity that would let them release some of their (interminable) energy. More often than not, these games would get a little crazy and a simple game of “Simon Says” to learn animals (eg. “Simon Says be a duck”) would turn into an explosion of children galloping into walls (“Simon Says be a horse”), climbing their teacher (“Simon Says be a monkey”), or throwing a plastic chair across the room (“Simon Says be a WWF Throwdown Champion”). Anyway, this class was quite boisterous but liked to joke around with me, and for a couple of weeks, one little boy went through a phase of hiding in a cupboard just before I arrived, then jumping out to surprise me just before class started. This became rather routine, so at the beginning of every class, I would say sarcastically, “Now where could Raul be?”, and the rest of the class would shrug innocently and then giggle behind their hands, at which point Raul would usually burst out of the cupboard. Although this trick startled me the first couple of times, it became so predictable that I barely flinched when Raul would pop out. One day, I got to class, noticed Raul’s empty chair, and lazily spoke my line: “Now where could Raul be?” I rolled my eyes calmly to the cupboard door, expecting the usual, when Raul exploded out of the cupboard, except he wasn’t Raul! He was a hideous little midget gremlin dressed like Raul but with the head of a terrible, rubbery monster! I jumped about four feet in the air and hopped around screaming and flapping my hands for another ten seconds or so until the ugly devil-varmint took off his face (a latex Halloween mask) and revealed a hysterical Raul. I too began to laugh until I was bent over and the rest of the class of course was delighted by my prior undignified display of hysteria. Part of me felt I should have wagged my finger at the boy and warned him against pranking a teacher, but the other part could not have stopped laughing long enough to discipline him anyway. That was the last time Raul jumped out of the cupboard. I guess he figured he couldn’t trump that.

5) What is your best and worst student? Why?

Oh, the sparkling temptation of naming names…

The best students are the ones who show, in some way, that they take joy in the process of learning the language. I do not especially enjoy teaching students who take more delight in seeing an A+ on their test (and then waving it in their classmates’ noses) than in realizing they can speak about their future goals in the correct tense when two weeks ago they couldn’t. Those students are fairly rare, as many students take English either because their parents are forcing them to or because they need the certificate as a job or education requirement. You can have two students with equally excellent grades, but I guess it’s the difference between achievement and passion. While its possible to have the former without the latter, it’s the latter that makes the difference.

As for the worst students? I hate brown-nosers. Why? Because they’re annoying.

6) Do you have any advice for prospective TESL teachers traveling abroad?

Yes. Deep breath. Here we go:

a) Get your visa stuff done wayyy in advance. There are almost ALWAYS unexpected setbacks.
b) Pack lightly, ideally with extra room leftover so as to bring souvenirs back.
c) If you are particular about bath products or cosmetics, buy those at home and pack them (in sealed Ziploc bags…altitude pressure does terrible things to shampoo bottles!).
d) Repeat after me: “Multipurpose things are my new religion.”
e) Laptops are very useful. At the very least, bring a memory stick.
f) Before you accept a job offer, cross reference with other teachers who have worked the same position, and search the internet for any comments/warnings about the institution (http://www.eslcafe.com/ is a good place to start). If it seems shady, it probably is.
g) Bring a journal. Use it.
h) Bring vitamins and a mini first aid kit.
i) Get your innoculations done a few weeks before your departure date. They can leave you feeling a bit off for a couple weeks after, especially if you're getting a bunch done at once.
j) The richer the country, the better the pay, the safer you will likely be, the more sheltered your experience, and the less you will have to stretch yourself. It’s a trade-off.
k) Research your location options and once you’ve decided, research the weather, the politics, the diet, and the religion of the region. However, also expect that there are some things that you will only learn once you get there, so that said…
l)…The more open and relaxed your expectations are, the better your experience will be.

7) If you had to do it again, would you do anything different?

Nope. Maybe I would bring less makeup, and more underwear. That’s it.

8) Would you recommend your own 23-year-old daughter get lost in the jungle?

Oh, c’mon Dad. I obviously would not tell my child to get lost in the jungle.

I would, however, hope I would accept my child’s adventurousness and bravery. I would likely encourage him or her to bring a compass, some bugspray, a calling card, and oh, maybe one of those large, impermeable bubble membranes to live in so that nothing could scathe my precious pumpkin. Zing! Just kidding. I would probably worry a LOT, but the reality is, whether it’s constructed out of concrete or carnivorous Venus fly traps, it’s always a jungle out there…

9) What is the biggest revelation you have gained from living in a different country and culture?

The biggest revelation that I’ve had is that everything you can see is different from what you may be used to, but everything you can’t see is consistent and true across oceans and cultures.

My eyes have experienced shock and delight from visual differences in terms of plant forms, architecture, topography, skin colour, insects, clothing, and foods, but my heart had to experience no such readjustment. Emotionally speaking, the human experience is pretty much universal. In Ecuador, just like in Canada, teenage girls still gossip and giggle in groups, and teenage boys still wear too much gel in their hair. Ten-year-olds still go through that “know-it-all-I’m-cooler-than-thou” phase, and little kids still have a hard time letting go of their mum’s hands on the first day of class. Men and women still wrench their hearts trying to get over past relationships, and they are just as scared of getting hurt in new ones. And still, people here fall in love again, too. City people like to get away to the country for a break, and country people still have the rosier cheeks.

I suppose before I came here, I naively (or ignorantly) thought that people would be more different. Perhaps I thought they would not love as deeply, or experience fear in the same way. Maybe their laugh would sound foreign. But, in these ways, our Southern neighbours are intimately familiar, and I think this is true across the world.

We are all motivated by love, and stifled by doubt. We all try to find the balance between peace and excitement. We all appreciate a good cry, but a good laugh even better. We all take turns feeling small, and feeling big. But most of all, we are all relieved when we discover someone, or perhaps a whole nation, is just like us.

Border BS & Máncora Madness

Crossing the Peruvian/Ecuadorian border is like trying to navigate a very large and belligerent elephant through the eye of a needle. That is to say, it is difficult and riddled with frustrations. Furthermore, it is notoriously dangerous, the border being a chronically disputed marking , so there is about 2 km of No-man's-land separating the two countries.

Itching to dip our feet outside of Ecuador, myself and four of my female teacher friends (Cor, Emily, Meg, and Michelle) decided to spend our mid-season break on the Peruvian coast in the touristy-hippie-hotspot of Máncora. In order to get there, we obviously had to cross the border, as well as complete all the stamping and paperwork that comes with it. From Cuenca we took the bus to Huaquillas, which is the southernmost town in Ecuador that borders Peru. Huaquillas is also, I can confidently say, the crappiest little shit-hole I've ever been to in my whole life. Not only does it appear to have the bizarre affliction of being INFESTED with onions (seriously, blocks and blocks of store after store of bagged onions packed from floor to ceiling; on the street, lines of trucks and wagons ramble by packed with the stinky bulbs), but it is also populated primarily by men, who are mostly trying to scam/mug naïve-looking tourists, such as our pack of five.

Much confusion was had regarding where to go to get our exit and entrance stamps at the borders, and much apprehension was felt regarding how to get across this No-man's-land. Although this all transpired during the middle of the day, we were told walking was too dangerous, but the other option of taking rickety moto-cars driven by greasy men with winking eyes and dirty hands was not appealing either. In the end, we went to the Huaquillas police station to get an officer to help us find a trustworthy driver to transport us.

The officer presented us with Stalin. Yes, like the Russian dictator. Despite his threatening and very non-Spanish namesake, Stalin proved to be competent and quite protective of us while helping us to cross the border (even though later he inevitably tried to overcharge us for his services). Eventually, we completed what we had to do in Onion Dump, and then boarded a mini-bus to Máncora.

The mini-bus comfortably sat ten people. We were: Twelve adults, one baby, one rooster (uncaged, of course), one giant tank of propane (conveniently placed at my feet),about 15 pieces of luggage, and three big cardboard boxes. I would have liked to have had the luxury of complaining about the giant cylinder of gas cramping my legs, but then I would look at poor Emily, kicking the rooster every few kilometers to keep in in line. At least the woman sitting next to me was skinny. And she didn't peck at my feet.

After a two hour trip in the sardine- mobile, the ride being moderated by a spectacular sunset, we arrived in Máncora a bit after dark. We found a hotel immediately then promptly went out to do some well-deserved dancing.

The next day we hit the beach front as soon as we could. The air was dry and sweltering, and the beach was packed. We walked along the shore until the crowd thinned and we found a patch of sand peaceful enough for our liking.

As I mentioned, Máncora is a big spot for surfing, so the waves can be quite intense, but there are breaks in between the ebbs that are long enough to allow you to swim or float peacefully on your back for a little while...until a wave unexpectedly smokes you in the face and rips off your bikini with such force you forget you were wearing one in the first place. This happened to each of us at least five times....a day.

Our three days spent in Máncora followed a very typical pattern: Wake up (usually to Reggaeton music blaring by a nearby location); eat breakfast; hit the beach (tan, swim, unwillingly flash people due to violent waves); have lunch (usually bought from wandering beach vendors); more swimming and tanning; explore jewelry market; shower (washing off salt and hopefully shame of being exposed during the day); eat dinner; watch sunset on the beach; go for drinks; go out dancing; sleep very little; repeat.

Our time at this beach town provided a much needed break from the daily rain and nightly chills of Cuenca, but by the time our three days were up, we were all sufficiently sunburnt, fatigued, and partied out to be ready to return to the clouds and calm of Cuenca.

Our trip back was not as dramatic as our way there, although it did involve an encounter with a fraudulent police officer who attempted to take our passports. Not so fast, Officer Baloney. Luckily we still had our wits about us enough to call him out on his scam and get the heck out of his presence to safety. Our pack of five may have looked like a bunch of meek, unsuspecting turistas, but they didn't even know: We were border warriors inside. Plus, we can take a mean wave and recover with only a mild blush to our cheeks, and a swift readjustment of our bathing suit straps...

¡Feliz Navidad y Prospero Año! (Vacacion Parte Dos)

Five thousand three hundred and ninety-three kilometres away. My first Christmas abroad and I was 5,393 km separated from home, that is to say, the way the crow flies.

Vacation Part One left off with Samir's departure, and Part Two began with the arrival of slipping into Christmas elf mode. Big grocery trips for imminent feasts, hours spent toiling in my toy workshop making stocking stuffers for roomates. During the holidays, Cuenca is lavishly, if not garrishly decorated. Take, for example, the "tasteful" display of the grotesquely large Mary and Joseph in the park near our apartment...Giant, sparkly robot invaders from the planet Zorblot, more like. However, for my Canadian eyes, Ecuador was missing the most important accessory of all: snow.



The current state of our environment may eventually lead to our earth's destruction, but the heartbreak will start when global warming takes away Christmas snow.

Despite this brief lament, my inaugural Christmas abroad was, while foreign from the outside (no snow, no fresh piney-scented Christmas trees, no parents, etc.), it was familiar and perfect on this inside: warm, loving, excited, united, gracious.

I am a lucky person in that I seem to be blessed with finding and keeping wonderful friends wherever I go. Cuenca is no exception, and armed with the wonderful crew I have bonded with here, we faced our foreign Christmas as a family, and had an amazing time doing it.


Christmas morning was amazing, and we all opened stockings filled with thoughtful homemade goodies created by one another. I was doubly endowed as my mum had sent a stuffed stocking via Samir-mail for me to open on Christmas morning. It is worth mentioning that this stocking was obscenely huge and mortifyingly festive, outrageous to the point that I was not permitted to hang it on my top bunk for the days leading up to Christmas, Cor fearing that it would perhaps stretch out a crushed red velvet, bell-tipped, curlicued toe and strangle her in the night...

The celebratory feast that night was hectic in preparation (four households sharing the ONE oven between us, conveniently, in OUR apartment), but sooo worth it and delicious. Stuffed peppers, a gingerbread house, roasted nuts, cider, pumpkin pie, and, la pièce de resistance, a tofurkey! Another meal for the books, and likely, another pound to the scales...

The holiday wound down in standard fashion, with laughter and food hangovers. Within a few days, I was travelling again, this time with Cor, to spend our last week before teaching in an incredible mecca for adventure: Baños.


Baños, roughly seven hours north of Cuenca, is likely the thrill capital of Ecuador. It is THE place to go for any kind of adventure sport, from the mild (glorious hikes) to the wild (scaling waterfalls). During our five days there, Cor and I engaged in a range of these activities, punctuated by a couple of nights out partying with locals and international tourists.

On our first day there, we hiked the few thousand feet to a lookout point to the Volcán Tungurahua. This is one of a few active volcanoes in Ecuador, and it erupts nearly everyday in the form of mild (yet still visible) spewings of smoke and ash. Recent predictions, however, warn that the volcano is gearing up for a more substantial eruption, and since Cor and I's visit, several surrounding villages in the area have been evacuated. Not to worry though, back home in Cuenca, we enjoy a good 400km or so as a buffer between us and the increasingly angry fires of Tungurahua.


Our next big expedition was a giant bike ride along the "Ruta de Las Cascadas" or, the "Route of the Waterfalls". This is one of my favourite things I've done in Ecuador so far. The ride is mostly downhill on fairly decent roads, and you can't help but feel overwhelmingly, deliciously free while whipping across Andean ridges, fresh wind yielding to the speed of the bike. And all along, impossibly beautiful views of towering, lush green mountains. In such settings, I am always overcome by a feeling of being physically very small, but spiritually, immense

Throughout the bike ride there are points to stop at various waterfalls, some of which you take cable cars across giant gorges to view, other require moderate little hikes through jungle-like trails and suspension bridges. As if the biking and the mountains and the waterfalls were not enough, Cor and I decided to turn up the notch a bit and do something that neither of us had anticipated.




That is, we jumped off a bridge.

Specifically, we did something akin to bungee jumping, except in Ecuador, they don't use bungee cord, they just use rope. Basically, we jumped off a bridge on a rope. We screamed a lot. The best part (as well as the deciding factor) was that Cor and I were permitted to go at the same time, thus we were harnessed, helmetted, and strapped together, and after a few false starts ("1...2--WAIT!! I'm not ready to do this!! Were you gonna jump just then?? Can't we wait??! I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!!...ok, you can count us down again..."), we did it. Verbal description doesn't do the experience justice, but in a nutshell, we jumped, screamed embarrassingly loudly, cursing like pirates, swung around like a pendulum in various compromising positions (one of the better ones being Cor curled up like an overgrown baby in my arms, as my legs flailed aimlessly below me), and then we were pulled ungracefully back to our landing spot. We finished the rest of our bike ride on a permanent high. At the end of our route, in typically fine Ecuadorian form, we hitched a ride on the back seat of a pick-up truck with our bikes to back track the 40 km we had biked from Baños.



New Year's Eve night was also an adventure. South America has a phenomenal tradition on this symbolic night that involves burning effigies made of fibre-stuffed clothing adorned with a lumpy head and a creepy looking mask. These effigies are strapped on to cars and store fronts during the day and are lit on fire, often being piled in a communal pyre in the middle of a city street somewhere around midnight. Cor and I participated by doing our own little effigy ceremony, but we also celebrated North American-style by doing shots of tequila.




















The next day was a write-off. Obviously.


The day we left, we had to squeeze in just one last adventure before our night bus back to Cuenca, so we decided to go white water rafting. The rafting was done on level 3-4 rapids (the scale being 1-6), so while there were no hundred-feet drops into rushing torrents of water, there were a few moments when I thought I might pee my wetsuit. Our guide, Xavier, was excellent and impressive with his precise navigation of the rapids, and he only pushed us overboard twice. For our own good, of course.


Upon our return, Cuenca appeared like a tranquil metropolitan. Where's the danger? Where's the fun?? I got my answer when I was assigned an over-registered class of early beginner level children. And I thought jumping off a bridge was scary...