After a short, and more improtantly, cheap bus ride, I'm in the nearby town of Gualeceo.
It's a quiet little mountain town surrounded by pretty green hills. It's reminiscent of Thal-Bei-Graz, Austria, birth place of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Old women are washing clothes in the river that runs through the centre and the hills in all directions around are peppered with a staccato smattering of colourful houses.
The town doesn't promise any exciting activities, so after an initial wander, I'm in the central food market. As was the case back in Cuenca, hog roasts are popular here. In the market, there's a line of ten of fifteen hog roast stalls. The preperation method for the pig must be very similar to that of the guinea pig in Peru. In this case, I'd guess that the whole animal is bled, gutted, oiled up, and cooked. I don't know what they have that's big enough to roast an entire pig, but there's at least fifteen of them. On each stall, the entire animal is laid on it's belly, with it's rump and hind legs sticking out of the front of the stall. I'm not sure how I'm meant to choose a stall from the line of golden rumps, but I go with the old woman who offers me the free sample. The Ecuadorians have got the hog roast nailed.
Back in Cuenca, the build up to tomorrow's big match between Deportiva Cuenca and Guayaquil's Barcalona (who's emblem is suspiciously similar to Spain's Barcalona) is becoming more and more evident. The streets are littered with Barcalona's yellow shirted travelling fans. I'm reckoning this will be worth staying for.
After an hour of queuing, then an hour-and-a-half of competing with locals to buy from ticket touts, I'm empty handed and painfully hungry. The ticket office ran dry just as I closed in on the front of the queue. The touts want forty-five bucks for tickets that were twelve bucks at the stadium. I'm only hoping the game is on TV.
Saturday, 7 July 2012
Friday, 6 July 2012
Smoking in the Boys Room
There´s not a great deal I can afford to do on a fifteen dollar budget, and much less on eleven. I suppose that having been on the continent for over three months, I should probably make some effort to learn Spanish. I´m on a lowly page twenty-one of my Spanish comic book, Aliens Vs. Depredator. If I can sit down for a few hours of deciphering, then I walk up to the Mirador viewpoint in the afternoon and I can call it a worthwhile day.
By late afternoon, I´ve mostly procrastinated away the day on internet stuff, taking in the view, and eating. I´m still very much in the low twenties of my comic. Learning is boring. Knowing stuff is cool, but that learning bit is just so much hassle. There´s no part of the day when I couldn´t otherwise be doing something better, like drinking and smoking, or eating - something cool.
In the early evening, I stumble across a bar and microbrewery. I´m pretty excited to find the brew is exclusively delicious ale. I suppose I could still squeeze in under or around that fifteen dollars. I park up and have a chat, so far as I´m able, with owner and brewer and tell him of my interest in beer. I´m drinking his Irish Red. The beer is very similar to my best-friend-slash-arch-enemy, Fuller´s ESB. Experience has shown that, despite it being only five-and-half percent ABV, after four pints ESB, the evening will invariably descend into a blurry chaos, and I´m likely to wake up face down, still fully clothed, shoes and all. This Cuenca brew is a hefty six-and-half. Coupled with my budget, one will be enough. As I sit there enjoying the first beer of flavour since the bottle-conditioned Bishops Finger of The Falklands, I agree to trade my copy of CAMRA´s BEER Quarterly for my beer. And I´m back under budget.
By late afternoon, I´ve mostly procrastinated away the day on internet stuff, taking in the view, and eating. I´m still very much in the low twenties of my comic. Learning is boring. Knowing stuff is cool, but that learning bit is just so much hassle. There´s no part of the day when I couldn´t otherwise be doing something better, like drinking and smoking, or eating - something cool.
In the early evening, I stumble across a bar and microbrewery. I´m pretty excited to find the brew is exclusively delicious ale. I suppose I could still squeeze in under or around that fifteen dollars. I park up and have a chat, so far as I´m able, with owner and brewer and tell him of my interest in beer. I´m drinking his Irish Red. The beer is very similar to my best-friend-slash-arch-enemy, Fuller´s ESB. Experience has shown that, despite it being only five-and-half percent ABV, after four pints ESB, the evening will invariably descend into a blurry chaos, and I´m likely to wake up face down, still fully clothed, shoes and all. This Cuenca brew is a hefty six-and-half. Coupled with my budget, one will be enough. As I sit there enjoying the first beer of flavour since the bottle-conditioned Bishops Finger of The Falklands, I agree to trade my copy of CAMRA´s BEER Quarterly for my beer. And I´m back under budget.
Thursday, 5 July 2012
Panama
I´ve got to start living cheaply for a while. At least until I know the cards are en route. My hostel is already eight bucks a night, so I`ve got to keep it under fifteen bucks. I reckon I can manage an eleven dollar budget if I don´t do anything too racy.
As usual, the first morning in a new town is generic wandering. It´s a nice little town, and the weather is on side. I´m soon in a pretty good mood, and have accepted and dealt with the loss of my wallet.
I´m led to believe that Cuenca is home of the Panama hat. They tell me it´s called the Panama hat because it was worn by the guys building the Panama Canal, but it´s strictly Ecuadorian made. I think I can pull off the Panama Hat look. All I´m missing from the look is a nice big yacht. I ought to start wearing a hat of some description. My hair is very much out of control. There´s just too much of it. But, there´s nothing I can do about it. Only John in Devonshire Square and Dennis in Eastcote can help me. It will have to wait.
Outside the central food market, I stumble across a stall with a pyramid stack of raw, skinned creatures next to a barbeque. They look too thin to be guinea pigs. I think they´re rats. The preperation method utilises a metal rod of a three inch diameter. She slices the creatures down through the belly, pulls out the guts, but leaves them hanging off, attached at one end. She then stretches out the anus, wide enough to force the long rod through and up to the neck. The split belly is then wrapped and tied back around the rod. The extracted guts and organs are also strung up along the rod. Twenty minutes of barbeque time later, voila. Bon appetit. Alas, this is a five dollar treat, and too extravagant for lunch on my budget.
In the fruit and meat market, I´m asking after prices trying to work out if I can cook for less the various small restaurants that serve a one-dollar-fifty dinner of soup, a main, and juice.
Dinner for today and tomorrow is a sausage pasta with finely chopped apple and red onion. It comes in at ninety cents per meal. I´m reasonably pleased with that, and it was quite pleasant too cook for a change. I look forward to have a fully stocked and functional kitchen on my return.
As usual, the first morning in a new town is generic wandering. It´s a nice little town, and the weather is on side. I´m soon in a pretty good mood, and have accepted and dealt with the loss of my wallet.
I´m led to believe that Cuenca is home of the Panama hat. They tell me it´s called the Panama hat because it was worn by the guys building the Panama Canal, but it´s strictly Ecuadorian made. I think I can pull off the Panama Hat look. All I´m missing from the look is a nice big yacht. I ought to start wearing a hat of some description. My hair is very much out of control. There´s just too much of it. But, there´s nothing I can do about it. Only John in Devonshire Square and Dennis in Eastcote can help me. It will have to wait.
Outside the central food market, I stumble across a stall with a pyramid stack of raw, skinned creatures next to a barbeque. They look too thin to be guinea pigs. I think they´re rats. The preperation method utilises a metal rod of a three inch diameter. She slices the creatures down through the belly, pulls out the guts, but leaves them hanging off, attached at one end. She then stretches out the anus, wide enough to force the long rod through and up to the neck. The split belly is then wrapped and tied back around the rod. The extracted guts and organs are also strung up along the rod. Twenty minutes of barbeque time later, voila. Bon appetit. Alas, this is a five dollar treat, and too extravagant for lunch on my budget.
In the fruit and meat market, I´m asking after prices trying to work out if I can cook for less the various small restaurants that serve a one-dollar-fifty dinner of soup, a main, and juice.
Dinner for today and tomorrow is a sausage pasta with finely chopped apple and red onion. It comes in at ninety cents per meal. I´m reasonably pleased with that, and it was quite pleasant too cook for a change. I look forward to have a fully stocked and functional kitchen on my return.
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
I Remember You
After revisiting the bakery and the police, with only the most tenuous hopes that my wallet will have turned up, I´m off to Western Union where my emergency money awaits. I´m even more keen to get out of town now.
The Western Union here is no more than a booth, just big enough to house a fat, useless idiot. When he eventually turns up, he tells me that they have no money, and can´t pay out for another half hour. I´m still hopeful I can make the 1000h bus out of here. Half an hour later, he tells me, that he expects he might be to be able to pay out between eleven and midday. I manage to squeeze blood from that particular stone at half eleven. Western Union has saved me, whilst at the same time, ripped my eyes out on fees and, no doubt, a crooked exchange rate. I dare not look too hard at the receipt.
On the bus, I remember that, on top of the fresh hundred bucks, I´ve also lost seventy Euros, five Pounds, my Oyster card, my old work ID, at least. As small mercies, I´ve still got my powerboat license, which I´d taken out to try and skipper the whale watching boat, and my Campaign for Real Ale membership card.
The bus grunts up hills and switchbacks into the Ecuadorian highlands. In the evening, the view out of my window is of deep green forest covered mountains protruding up from a unbroken floor of thick clouds. The sky, not much farther above, is another layer of thick grey cloud cover.
We roll into Cuenca at 1030h. As I wander into town, I pass cash machines with their little green lights blinking in the night. I remember when I had an arsenal of plastic bits that would yield precious dollars from these things. I´ve spent over twenty five dollars today, mostly on cancelling cards and buses. I wonder if I can live on the remaining two-hundred-and-seventy-five bucks long enough to get my replacement cards.
In reality, the worst-case is another trip to Western Union, but as we say in the bank, "I´d rather stick my nob in a beehive."
The Western Union here is no more than a booth, just big enough to house a fat, useless idiot. When he eventually turns up, he tells me that they have no money, and can´t pay out for another half hour. I´m still hopeful I can make the 1000h bus out of here. Half an hour later, he tells me, that he expects he might be to be able to pay out between eleven and midday. I manage to squeeze blood from that particular stone at half eleven. Western Union has saved me, whilst at the same time, ripped my eyes out on fees and, no doubt, a crooked exchange rate. I dare not look too hard at the receipt.
On the bus, I remember that, on top of the fresh hundred bucks, I´ve also lost seventy Euros, five Pounds, my Oyster card, my old work ID, at least. As small mercies, I´ve still got my powerboat license, which I´d taken out to try and skipper the whale watching boat, and my Campaign for Real Ale membership card.
The bus grunts up hills and switchbacks into the Ecuadorian highlands. In the evening, the view out of my window is of deep green forest covered mountains protruding up from a unbroken floor of thick clouds. The sky, not much farther above, is another layer of thick grey cloud cover.
We roll into Cuenca at 1030h. As I wander into town, I pass cash machines with their little green lights blinking in the night. I remember when I had an arsenal of plastic bits that would yield precious dollars from these things. I´ve spent over twenty five dollars today, mostly on cancelling cards and buses. I wonder if I can live on the remaining two-hundred-and-seventy-five bucks long enough to get my replacement cards.
In reality, the worst-case is another trip to Western Union, but as we say in the bank, "I´d rather stick my nob in a beehive."
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Listen to the Flower People
I´m done with Montañita. It´s nice, but after four days, I´ll be happy to be on the 1000h bus out of here. In the morning, I stop by the cash machine for a hundred buck reload, then set off for the bakery for breakfast.
In the bakery, I handover a twenty to get change to repay my travelling band for last nights rum. As with most shops and bars in South America, they don´t have change. This is just a part of South America´s non-existent service culture and popularly held opinion that they have better things to do than exchange goods and services for money. I set down my wallet and dig for change.
As I´m walking into the next restuarant looking for change, I reach into my pocket for the twenty. My wallet isn´t in my pocket. It´s not in my lower pocket either. Uh-oh. I sprint back to the bakery where I´m sure I left my wallet on the counter. My wallet isn´t on the counter. I ask the guy behind the counter if he has seen my wallet. He doesn´t have my wallet. He asks the girl behind the counter if she has seen my wallet. She doesn´t have my wallet. I pace back and forth a few times as the degree to which I´m fucked sinks in. I´m pretty fucked.
Yesterday, my travel card had failed to draw cash from the machine, so I´d taken my backup card from my bag and only set it back down as far as my wallet. I´d been keeping that backup seperate on best advice, but in reality, I never anticpated loosing my wallet. Who looses a wallet? Not me. That´s not the sort of thing I go in for.
I´ve got a couple of dollars in change. I´m pretty angry with myself, but I´m still just about able to hold onto the a realistic sense that this isn´t quite the end of the world. Though, I certainly am pretty fucked.
I ask a girl in the cafe if she´s seen anything. She, Jess, is English and has seen nothing, but is very sympathetic. So much so that she insists to give me ten bucks. I try to insist that I don´t need it, but it quickly occurs to me that I do need it, very much so.
At the Police station, my tenuous grasp of the language is very obvious. The policeman pulls in some passers-by who speak Spanish and English. The policeman is offering no more than advice to report the loss in the next town over. The passers-by are a tourist couple. They walk me back to the bakery to see if they can help. As half-baked as my Spanish is, as I listen to the conversation, I´m able to fill the gap between the Spanish, "imposible" and "impossible".
The guy that runs the hostel helps me put out a Montañita wide APB for my lost wallet. I´m not exactly sure how that works, but I´m understand everyone will know about my loss shortly. I want to be hopeful, but I´m not. When Liam Neeson lost his daughter, he was given a nintey-six hour window to find her. I´m guessing my window has already closed. Nevertheless, I ask myself: what would Liam do in this situation. I soon accept that don´t have a great many of his skills and give up that train of thought. I ask myself: what would Columbo would do in this situation.
Back at the bakery, I´m examining the spot where I lost my wallet, the entrances, the exits, and the surroundings. I go so far as to hover my hands around like Tony Shalhoub. I search the bins, pace the streets around the shop in the hot sun, and poke around in the nearby bushes and shrubs. I imagine what it would be like to find my wallet, but I´m trying not to expect to find it.
I spend twenty-five cents to check for a response to an earlier email to my parents, cc´ing my brother, with instruction to send me money by Western Union. I´ve got two responses, but both my brother and dad have replied on the basis that it´s probably a scam. With another buck spent on the phone, I´m able to get hold of dad to verify the ugly reality.
Come the afternoon, my detective and all-action-hunter-killer skills have failed me. I find a few pals on the beach and join the beach football. Beach football is tough.
In the evening, I´ve rejoined my travelling band, and we´re wandering about town looking for a good time. I don´t expect to be out long tonight on account of having less than five bucks. At midnight, I find myself sitting in a circle on the beach with my band and a group of Columbians. A Columbian girl with dreaded hair, loose clothing, and a guitar, is playing bit´s from Bob Marley´s Exodus. Sure, I like Exodus too, but this is dirty, smelly hippie crap is exactly why I wanted out of here this morning. God damn it.
In the bakery, I handover a twenty to get change to repay my travelling band for last nights rum. As with most shops and bars in South America, they don´t have change. This is just a part of South America´s non-existent service culture and popularly held opinion that they have better things to do than exchange goods and services for money. I set down my wallet and dig for change.
As I´m walking into the next restuarant looking for change, I reach into my pocket for the twenty. My wallet isn´t in my pocket. It´s not in my lower pocket either. Uh-oh. I sprint back to the bakery where I´m sure I left my wallet on the counter. My wallet isn´t on the counter. I ask the guy behind the counter if he has seen my wallet. He doesn´t have my wallet. He asks the girl behind the counter if she has seen my wallet. She doesn´t have my wallet. I pace back and forth a few times as the degree to which I´m fucked sinks in. I´m pretty fucked.
Yesterday, my travel card had failed to draw cash from the machine, so I´d taken my backup card from my bag and only set it back down as far as my wallet. I´d been keeping that backup seperate on best advice, but in reality, I never anticpated loosing my wallet. Who looses a wallet? Not me. That´s not the sort of thing I go in for.
I´ve got a couple of dollars in change. I´m pretty angry with myself, but I´m still just about able to hold onto the a realistic sense that this isn´t quite the end of the world. Though, I certainly am pretty fucked.
I ask a girl in the cafe if she´s seen anything. She, Jess, is English and has seen nothing, but is very sympathetic. So much so that she insists to give me ten bucks. I try to insist that I don´t need it, but it quickly occurs to me that I do need it, very much so.
At the Police station, my tenuous grasp of the language is very obvious. The policeman pulls in some passers-by who speak Spanish and English. The policeman is offering no more than advice to report the loss in the next town over. The passers-by are a tourist couple. They walk me back to the bakery to see if they can help. As half-baked as my Spanish is, as I listen to the conversation, I´m able to fill the gap between the Spanish, "imposible" and "impossible".
The guy that runs the hostel helps me put out a Montañita wide APB for my lost wallet. I´m not exactly sure how that works, but I´m understand everyone will know about my loss shortly. I want to be hopeful, but I´m not. When Liam Neeson lost his daughter, he was given a nintey-six hour window to find her. I´m guessing my window has already closed. Nevertheless, I ask myself: what would Liam do in this situation. I soon accept that don´t have a great many of his skills and give up that train of thought. I ask myself: what would Columbo would do in this situation.
Back at the bakery, I´m examining the spot where I lost my wallet, the entrances, the exits, and the surroundings. I go so far as to hover my hands around like Tony Shalhoub. I search the bins, pace the streets around the shop in the hot sun, and poke around in the nearby bushes and shrubs. I imagine what it would be like to find my wallet, but I´m trying not to expect to find it.
I spend twenty-five cents to check for a response to an earlier email to my parents, cc´ing my brother, with instruction to send me money by Western Union. I´ve got two responses, but both my brother and dad have replied on the basis that it´s probably a scam. With another buck spent on the phone, I´m able to get hold of dad to verify the ugly reality.
Come the afternoon, my detective and all-action-hunter-killer skills have failed me. I find a few pals on the beach and join the beach football. Beach football is tough.
In the evening, I´ve rejoined my travelling band, and we´re wandering about town looking for a good time. I don´t expect to be out long tonight on account of having less than five bucks. At midnight, I find myself sitting in a circle on the beach with my band and a group of Columbians. A Columbian girl with dreaded hair, loose clothing, and a guitar, is playing bit´s from Bob Marley´s Exodus. Sure, I like Exodus too, but this is dirty, smelly hippie crap is exactly why I wanted out of here this morning. God damn it.
Monday, 2 July 2012
Jump
Somewhere off the coat of Ecuador, the travelling band and I are powering through the sea on an elaborate white plasticky bathtub with a pair of one-hundred-and-fifteen horsepower Yam´s. We come to a stop in an arbitrary patch of sea amongst a few other bathtub boats and begin scanning the sea and horizon.
After just ten minutes, someone points me to some spray shooting out of the water. They´re here. Two or three Humpback Whales have come top poke around the boats. We all scramble to the whale watching side of boat. We´re tracking the light blue patches of the sea as they drift nearby us. The whales surface to poke above the water.
The Yam´s power back up, and we take a five minute ride to another arbitrary patch of water. More whales, or the same whales - they all look alike to me - soon turn up. I´m scanning the water to try and find them as they drift around under water. I hear some commotion in the boat behind me and turn in time to see the better half of a forty-five foot Humpback Whale crash down into the brine. For the next twenty minutes, three Humpbacks are periodically shooting two-third of their body out of the water and slamming back down.
The trip includes some snorkelling around the coast, but one of the boys on the boat are suffering badly from sea sickness. I´m sympathetic enough to pass on snorkelling, but it doesn´t keep me from taking his portion of complimentary cake.
After just ten minutes, someone points me to some spray shooting out of the water. They´re here. Two or three Humpback Whales have come top poke around the boats. We all scramble to the whale watching side of boat. We´re tracking the light blue patches of the sea as they drift nearby us. The whales surface to poke above the water.
The Yam´s power back up, and we take a five minute ride to another arbitrary patch of water. More whales, or the same whales - they all look alike to me - soon turn up. I´m scanning the water to try and find them as they drift around under water. I hear some commotion in the boat behind me and turn in time to see the better half of a forty-five foot Humpback Whale crash down into the brine. For the next twenty minutes, three Humpbacks are periodically shooting two-third of their body out of the water and slamming back down.
The trip includes some snorkelling around the coast, but one of the boys on the boat are suffering badly from sea sickness. I´m sympathetic enough to pass on snorkelling, but it doesn´t keep me from taking his portion of complimentary cake.
Sunday, 1 July 2012
Dancing in the Street
The day is reserved for the long awaited final of Euro 2012 - Spain vs. Italy. I err towards Italy, but only on account of Nico and 'alf Swiss.
Maybe I ought to stop supporting teams I like. Overall, I feel the tournament has been a disappointment. Other than England-Sweden, I can't think of another game that had a twist or a turn. I can't imagine that we'll be talking about any of these games for long into the future.
I've befriended a travelling band of two Americans and two Austrians. On sunday evenings, the whole of South America is typically dead. Bars, restaurants and clubs are often shut. We're invited, by a local, to a bar where a movie is showing with a bring your own booze policy.
After ''Super Bad'' and a bottle of rum, it's almost midnight and we're back on the beach. Somewhere in town we can hear the sound of drums, which we follow to a street corner. There's a crowd of about thirty people in a circle, singing and dancing around a couple of guys playing bongos and a snare drum. Half of the crowd are generic young tourists. The other half are wearing loose clothing and have long dread locked hair. I've not had quite enough to drink to sing a dance on the street.
After twenty minutes of trying get into it, and feigning having gotten into it. I come to the conclusion that my place in this world is not with these dirty smelly hippies and dirty smelly hippy wannabes. I might not work in a bank, but this is stupid nonsense is way, way out of my ball park.
Maybe I ought to stop supporting teams I like. Overall, I feel the tournament has been a disappointment. Other than England-Sweden, I can't think of another game that had a twist or a turn. I can't imagine that we'll be talking about any of these games for long into the future.
I've befriended a travelling band of two Americans and two Austrians. On sunday evenings, the whole of South America is typically dead. Bars, restaurants and clubs are often shut. We're invited, by a local, to a bar where a movie is showing with a bring your own booze policy.
After ''Super Bad'' and a bottle of rum, it's almost midnight and we're back on the beach. Somewhere in town we can hear the sound of drums, which we follow to a street corner. There's a crowd of about thirty people in a circle, singing and dancing around a couple of guys playing bongos and a snare drum. Half of the crowd are generic young tourists. The other half are wearing loose clothing and have long dread locked hair. I've not had quite enough to drink to sing a dance on the street.
After twenty minutes of trying get into it, and feigning having gotten into it. I come to the conclusion that my place in this world is not with these dirty smelly hippies and dirty smelly hippy wannabes. I might not work in a bank, but this is stupid nonsense is way, way out of my ball park.
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