Paroxysm and Curiosities

I came late to the Catholic faith and fell in love with the mass. No matter the language in which it is spoken the ritual touches me.

The cathedral across from Calderon Park is the one I like best. The door is always open. Every weekend these guys pictured entertain tourists and locals with haunting Andes music in front of the church wall. The acoustic bounce is brilliant.

As I happened by, though, They played the melodies from Paul McCartney's "Yesterday", and, perhaps in homage to St. Patrick, "Danny Boy". Wonderful tunes that go straight to my nostalgic heart.

I turned the corner and entered the church. Mass just ended so I knelt in a pew about midway down the long aisle. A nun's choir sang the angelic recessional music. In fact, about half the congregation was religious orders.

Tingling with emotion I am muttering some Our Father's and Hail Mary's and asking God to make me less of a fool. One of the passing nuns, as tall standing as I am kneeling, gently touches my shoulder and whispers "Vaya Con Dios".

That does it. My face starts raining in convulsive sobs. I try, in vain, to control this unmanly display. My heart just won't have it though!

Finally the church is empty and I walk the aisle out, emptying my pockets of all the Susan B. Anthony's I have into the hand of the tiny, wizened Indigena who sits at the doorway. The nun who stopped for me is talking to the priest. She glances up, smiles at me and waves.

View from 14000 feet

Past the treeline. The continental divide is there. The three crosses represent nature - earth air water (I think but doesn't that seem logical to you?) This is on the Inca trail that passes from the coast to Cuenca through the Andes. The larger one leads to Macchu Pichu and all that. It was a trade route. The rocks were brought with the traveler to lay at the crosses. I asked Gustavo about the really big ones. He doubted that they were carried. We had a good laugh while gasping for air. The oxygen level was 40% less than normal. For the first time in my life I used a hiking stick. Thank goodness I packed light.

Would you rather go down or up? I can tell you which one I prefer.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meter part 1

Signed up for an art tour. We boarded the “short” bus. I acted a caballero and let the women go first. That left me and an older lesbian couple (that's what they told me) in the back. Except for a grumpy old guy dragged by his wife and Juan, the driver, I was the only dude.

Seats filled for this two hour tour that began at 3pm but the wheels rolled at 3:45.

A two hour tour.

Art tours are for gringos with cash. The first, Pablo Cordero, is a traditional ceramicist. Cool to see the process. I asked my seatmate what she thought and she told me “it sucks”.

Then into the hills for Eduardo Vega who is eccentric. He said he would be there but wasn't. His work is superb and, if I had a house that needed filling, it would be with his stuff – including dinnerware.

It's raining. The girls stop for a group picture despite the mottled view. Juan expertly wrestles the bus into position despite the hazards. About a dozen of them jump out to prance and giggle. We back seaters exchange eye rolls.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 2

A quarter to 5. The agenda was Vega's workshop then an artist who does BIG metal and wood sculptures that you see in parks and airports. But first, we retreated a few miles to pick up one of the ladies who could not make it to the starting time and place. Nice of us.

That put us into rush hour so we skipped Vega's workshop. Our back seat group sighed relief. 6:10 and we're at a stoplight for 15 minutes in front of the museum where we started. Flowing estrogen, aroma therapy. No Chardonnay thank God.. I was going to throw up. Since another bus was blocking us I grabbed my jacket and backpack. Margaret and her partner asked if I was bailing. I said hell yes.

They smiled. The tour cost $15 but I gave the guide a twenty and told her to give the extra to Juan. Door open, fresh air, street noise. I smiled and descended toward that beautiful river and my shelter.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 3

Next morning early. Guilty about the reason I left that excursion because I was brought up by women, I have been married to a couple of them, and I have daughters for whom I would die. So I hike to a place sympatico.

8:30 AM. Cheap food and massive quantity. Burritos, tacos, chorizo, eggs – manly eats. Mix of gringos and locals. Happy hour begins at 8 AM with 2 for 1 beers and bloody Marys. Rugby, not tennis, basketball, or even soccer is on the TV. Rugby. I like that. An Australian walks in and says “Ahhh....the usual suspects!” We raise our glasses and call for a Fosters which they don't have so Pilsener Grande it is.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 4

Mike, a slightly shady American, asks me where I'm headed Not sure except back to the USA, but if I stay in South America, I'll go to Medellin, Colombia. No debate. Medellin, they say, is the place to go. Climate, scenery, prices, charm, and the most beautiful women in the world.

Glasses raised and offers to go with me. I don't say it but I am a bit frightened at crossing any border with some of these guys. I bite the last of my El Vaquero and go. Pictures of Paolo and his staff are forthcoming. I needed this male offset to the disastrous episode of the previous day.

Observing the Young Lads

Cuenca's finest watching the games of Saturday at the park

In The Saturday Park

Young lads. 

My View From My Favorite Cafe

Across the street is the very old Hotel Victoria. A bit pricey for me but I love the building. This is on Calle Larga (long street) and is in the heart of the historical district. Lots of cafe's, restaurants, exotic bars with hookas and all that stuff. Two blocks away is the Carolina Bookstore, run by an ex-pat. Used books English and Spanish galore.

At My Favorite Cafe

The Coffee Tree. Very mixed bag of travelers, hikers, locals, gringos and a great breakfast for little money.

Rio Tomebamba

I am staying at a place on this river.  It is now the rainy season so it is in full bloom descending from the Andes and right through Cuenca on its way to the Napo in the Amazon rain forest.



West and east USA kayakers would be drooling over this.  Class 3 to 4 with standing waves, holes, and plenty of places to breathe.  La Policia frowns on that though

so it is unmolested except for many folks who do their laundry

Cajas Guru Dude

This is my guide whose name is Gustavo Loyola.  He is a veterinarian of large animals with a wife and three sons.  He chose to give up his practice to become a full time  guide because he loves the country.  There's no better site than what this sign describes.  It is a hidden forest in which you expect to see fairies, goblins, and other magical beings.

Huge trees t

hat grow on rocks, dozens of  fern species, and caves where people still sleep.  The trees are pink and the bark is paper.

 I know I'm taking a lot of crap for not having actual pictures but 1.  My battery ran out and 2.  I could never in a million years do it justice.  You must see it in person to believe it.  That said, I'm thinking of going back for a second chance.

The Vicissitudes of International Language Communication, Misunderstandins, and Consequences

Hey! Despite the light and airy title this is serious stuff!

I needed new underwear. Having searched numerous small shops in El Centro I wasn't having much luck.

I'd heard about big Mall Dell Rio so I flagged a taxi and went.

Pretty standard indoor mall with stores and a food court complete with Burger King and KFC.

I hadn't learned the Spanish term for my need so in my first store I gestured by pulling on the band of my shorts. With a somewhat alarmed look the young lady said that her store lacked those things and pointed me to another. I asked for the Spanish term commonly used for men's underwear. She rattled off two words of four syllables each. Responding to my blank stare she simplified it to “ropas interiores.”

No more women clerks for me. At the next store a slim very fashionably dressed young man with a gelled rooster's comb of hair walked me over to the men's bikini/thong underwear section featuring male enhancement as part of its package.

“Whoa”, I said, “I'm an old hombre and that's not for me.” He giggled and I ambled on to continue my search.

Finally, there was an anchor store resembling Costco. Looked like a membership place to me because it had little gates. When I asked the gate monitor he just stared. (sometimes I wonder if Spanish is the native language down here because I get that a lot when I speak it.)

When I observed several other people pass through the gate I boldly sauntered across. Had to speak with a woman this time because she approached me. Using my new Spanish words I asked where to go.

She pointed left then down and said something like “fssst fssst” then darted away with me in tow. Again the thongs but there were also boxers – at $12 a pop. I said no gracias and proceeded to the exit gates.

Halfway along my right elbow was nudged by a middle aged man 6 inches shorter than me and nearly half my weight. He asked if I speak English then introduced himself as Pablo.

Pablo queried my purpose there. When I told him he menacingly whispered about an inch from face “why?” The only response I could think of was “because I need some”.

Now here's where it gets curious. I was on my way to the exit under his obvious guidance. He said “second floor” and I was about to thank him when he said “there is a KFC there that has chicken. You like chicken?” I started thinking that this guy is nuts and sped up my retreat. He kept apace.

A senorita at the exit gate looked agitated at us. “Thank God, I was out of there” we both thought. I didn't look back but I know that they were circling their forefingers around their temples. I wanted to do the same but feared an international incident.

Over a beer, I told my friend Paolo, who laughed heartily then confirmed that I'd been profiled as a crazy gringo by store security.

The What and Where

This shows a little description and perspective in the incredible national park in which I had the privilege of hiking.  The sign indicates all the pertinent numbers such as lat and long and the altitude at which it was placed.

 Look also at the location maps to the right to learn where it is in Ecuador and in South America.  This was also along the Inca Trail.  I learned that there are actually two Inca Trails that go through Ecuador.

Goobs Rule

Young people are really good at labeling old people.

My all time favorite is “Goobs”. The origin is your guess.

Mid eighties. Cotati Caberet in the hippie and biker retirement village of Cotati, California. The leader of the Zasu Pitts Memorial Band, from San Francisco, announced “For all you Goobs out there here's a motown medley”.

ZPMB was a dozen or so talented musicians across the stage. Thumpin' bass, dancing brass, multi guitar, gyrating chicks, and bluesy voiced dudes all on finger snappin', hand clappin', groove gettin' poppin' soul. If they couldn't funk you up into a sweaty, common lather then you didn't have one!

They were a rowdier Tower of Power.

Sorry, got carried away there. Goobs will recognize that as “flashing”. For you others it's not old men in long raincoats. It is an evolved slang reference that began, as so many did, as a drug experience. This was about LSD, in which the hallucinogenic effects remained well after “coming down”. Sometimes weeks after.

Goobs were in their mid to late thirties and at the club to re-gain their 60's and early 70's mojo. Groove was getting shallower and more difficult to get on.

ZPMB and the Caberet, of course, understood the market. They were pioneers in the great baby boomer economy.

As they say, now it's history.

No...hold on just a dang minute.

Saturday night. California Kitchen in Cuenca, Ecuador. Nearly 40 years later. Smooth jazz by three gringos and an Ecuatoriano. Goobs wall-to-wall.

I get there early because George told me to. Wispy white hair and goatees. Women are stylin' Patagonia chic. Everybody knows everybody. All gringos except one beautiful young Spanish woman with a bewildered look.

Guy next to me says his name is Bill. Tells me he's 75 and helped to start up the American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco. I'm skeptical but don't tell him. Later, the Internet tells me it's true.

Next day I see him at the Supermaxi while we're reaching for the same package of bacon. Bill says he has a proposal. Meet at his house. It's a group of very prominent gringo and local men.

“Que paso” I think, but accept. Later, though, I cuss myself because I've forgotten the secret Goob handshake.