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Return to Alta Mira
By Al Mathison |
Monday, March 25, 2002
January in Ecuador typically means chaos. Students,
workers and Indian activists take to the streets in
anti-government protests. Barricades of burning tires
block rural roads and city streets. The acrid smell of
tear gas fills the air as military troops and riot
police move in to break up the demonstrations. In other
words, there’s even more disorder than is usual in
this scenic little South American country.
You can count on it. Because every January the
government raises the state-regulated prices on fuel,
rice, beer and other staples of life. And the people
respond by taking to the streets in the only way they
can be certain of having their voices heard. They shut
down the country. They’re fairly serious about it and
two years ago they were even successful in ousting the
president from office.
By February things calm down and the students and
protesters who can afford it head to Ecuador’s Pacific
coast for some pre-Lenten partying at the beach.
When we arrived in the capital city of Quito, late in
January this year, most of the serious stuff was over. A
student had been shot and killed in one demonstration
and many of the universities had been closed down for
the indefinite future.
It was my second trip to Ecuador in less than a year and
this time I had a traveling companion: former Fillmore
County sheriff and best-selling author of Jailhouse
Stories, (now out in paperback!), Neil Haugerud. A quick
glance at Neil’s passport showed that he has traveled
extensively throughout Europe and the Far East, but
there was not one stamp in it from South America.
"Ecuador will be the most astonishing place
you’ve been yet," I told him. "It’s full
of wonder and magic."
"Whatever you say," Neil replied. "I’m
just along for the ride,"
I had spent two unforgettable years in the mid-1980s,
living in remote and undeveloped parts of the country as
a Peace Corps volunteer. And now, many years later, I
still find myself intrigued with all aspects of Latin
America. I love the rhythms of its lively music and the
wonderful and pure way that the people smile, no matter
how desperate their lot in life appears to be. Something
about being in Latin America always makes me feel more
alive. There’s rawness and spontaneity in the air and
it seems like anything can happen. It’s just magic, I
can’t really explain it any other way.
Instead of traveling around the country by bus– an
economical though time-consuming, uncomfortable and
hazardous method – Neil and I decided to look into
hiring a car and driver. I felt that a hired driver was
essential because driving in Ecuador is not for the
faint-hearted. I had done it before and had managed to
survive, but the memories were not pleasant ones. In
short, Ecuadorian drivers are aggressive, careless and
sometimes I’d swear they are downright homicidal. This
is in striking contrast to the typical Ecuadorian you
meet, who you will most likely find to be friendly,
generous and soft-spoken.
It didn’t take long to locate a driver on the Internet
at a reasonable price, a fellow by the name of Erich.
Erich, I learned, was Austrian by birth, spoke several
languages and had once been a wheat farmer in Manitoba.
He now owned a hotel and touring business in Quito. He
had a four-wheel drive vehicle, a Hyundai Galloper II,
that could go anywhere and I reserved a week of his
services via e-mail.
At an elevation of 9,300 feet, Quito lies a few miles
south of the equator in a dramatic setting surrounded by
several snow-capped Andean peaks. Quito is a city both
ancient and thoroughly modern, with churches full of
Incan gold dating back to the 1530’s and colonial
architecture reminiscent of the middle ages in Spain.
The new part of town has the usual big city skyscrapers
and shopping malls that carry all the familiar brand
name clothes and merchandise. It’s hard to beat
Quito’s perennial Spring-like weather with its cool
nights and balmy daytime temperatures that peak around
72 degrees.
As we drove northwest out of Quito en route to the
Pacific coast, our driver, Erich, gave a running
commentary on Ecuador’s unique and varied environment.
He told us that Ecuador was home to 25,000 species of
plants which compared to 17,000 in North America.
"You can grow absolutely anything here," he
said. Ecuador also boasted 1,600 different species of birds,
twice as many as North America could claim. Erich said
that he often gave tours to birdwatchers and from his
experience the typical birdwatcher will search intently
for hours with their binoculars until they see that
special bird they’ve come thousands of miles to find.
"Once they see it, they check it off their list and
move onto the next one," Erich laughed. "And
they don’t care if they ever see that bird
again."
We were soon speeding through the rolling coastal area,
where the tropical rainforests had long since been
cleared to make way for cattle and for plantations of
banana and African Palm trees.
After a night at the beach in the resort town of
Atacames we drove up the coast in the direction of the
Colombian border. Though I hadn’t really planned on
it, our route would be taking us right past the road
that led into the village where I had lived during my
first year in the Peace Corps.
To call Alta Mira a village would be misleading. When I
lived there Alta Mira was merely a wide spot on the
trail, a half dozen shaky houses on stilts surrounding
an overgrown grassy soccer field. There were no bars or
restaurants, no souvenir shops or time-shares, and there
was certainly no electricity or plumbing. It was like
the Wild West in a tropical jungle setting. People
either rode horses or walked and most walked barefooted.
The blacks of the area spoke a style of tribal Spanish
that resembled nothing I had ever heard before or since.
I had never felt so alone in my life during that long
solitary year in Alta Mira. The people for the most part
treated me as a curious novelty. They seemed to pity me
for my faltering Spanish and my inability to understand
hardly a word they said.
On the rare occasion that an airplane could be heard
flying by, I would fanaticize it was coming for me. At
times, I would even find myself having the grotesque
hope that there had been some sort of emergency back in
the States and I was being evacuated in the quickest
manner possible. The likely explanation was that the
passing plane was on a drug running mission from nearby
Colombia, and as the sad drone of the engine faded into
the distance I’d sigh and return to my hammock.
As we slowly drove the widened dirt road that led
into my old site, I saw that there were now electrical
lines leading in. Development had come at last to Alta
Mira. The hillsides were brown and barren, the effects
of an extended drought. Skeletal Brahma cattle grazed on
the stubble and it was obvious none of them would soon
be producing any thick juicy T-bone steaks.
Nobody came out to greet us when we pulled to a stop in
the center of Alta Mira’s soccer field. Maybe the
locals thought we were government agents from Quito who
had come to harass or tax them. The place looked about
the same as I recalled though a few of the houses were
now made of concrete blocks. I looked across the square
to where my house had stood. It was no longer there. I
had a sudden sensation that I had dreamed this place all
in my head.
A few of the natives, a family it looked to be - a
father, mother, a couple teenagers and a toddler - were
standing nearby gawking in our direction. I decided I
better go over and introduce myself before we aroused
too much suspicion.
Oh yes, they all nodded, they certainly remembered me,
though I realized the teenagers had likely not yet been
born in 1985. Maybe stories had been passed down to them
about me, the hapless gringo, who one day had simply
vanished. Stories told in the ancient oral tradition,
spoken around candlelight and campfires before the
electricity had come to town. Now there were television
antennas perched on top the concrete blockhouses and the
bamboo shacks of Alta Mira.
I inquired about my old house and was told that it had
fallen down, though try as I might I was not able to
understand what the cause had been. The Spanish of these
people was still as incomprehensible and mysterious as I
remembered it. Though I caught certain individual words
it was nearly impossible to untangle the true meaning
and significance of a complete sentence.
"You have gotten so gordo, so fat," the mother
said to me. I momentarily cringed and then I realized
that I was receiving a great compliment. On this poverty
stricken coast of Ecuador when somebody calls you fat
they are calling you lucky because you have the wealth
to eat often and to eat richly. It was true, I’d put
on a few pounds since I’d lived here. Back then I’d
practically been emaciated, sustaining myself on a
steady diet of canned tuna and soggy crackers. Being
gordo to these people was a sign of success.
We chatted for a few minutes longer. I inquired after a
number of people whose names I managed to remember. They
had all moved away up the coast, it seemed, or perhaps
they had died, I wasn’t quite sure what I was hearing.
And then it was time to go, I was beginning to get
restless. I told them how wonderful it had been to come
back to this beautiful place and I shook hands with the
entire family. I promised to return for a longer visit
some day. I told them I would bring my wife and kids the
next time and they looked very pleased.
"Adios," they said.
I remembered the last time I had escaped from this
place. The Peace Corps project director had given me
permission to move to a larger town, farther down the
coast where there was even electricity a few hours of
the day. He loaned me a van to make the move. It took
about fifteen minutes to throw my belongings in the back
of it and speed on out of Alta Mira. A few locals
hitched a ride with me down the coast to the city of
Esmeraldas, the provincial capital. I couldn’t speak
their version of Spanish very well but I knew how to
drive and I could tell they were very impressed.
It was a marvelous liberating thrill that day as the
kilometers clicked off separating me forever from that
stifling little place at the end of the earth.
And now seventeen years later I felt a twinge of the
same emotion as I climbed back into the Hyundai where
Neil and Erich were waiting for me.
"Let’s get out of here," I said.
By Al Mathison
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