So I'm tired today. Deep tired, tired despite sleep. I'm in my bed in yesterday's shirt and the very idea of putting on clothes makes me cringe. All I want to do today is eat macaroni and cheese and watch Two And A Half Men.
What made me so tired? I guess I'll have to tell you, dear blog readers.
I went on the adventure. The adventure that sounds rediculous, the one your mother would tell me not to go on. Or, knowing my mother (plural, actually, Ecuamadre and USAmadre would both are pretty into leaping into things feet first), she'd probably just tell me to bring along clean socks and more cash.
I woke up at 8 feeling hellish. That last entry, where I said I couldn't sleep? that was the beginning of 5 hours of the kind of non-sleeping bed-laying tossing-turning re-reading praying-to-god night that you hope comes once a year. Woke up at Frenchie's call, ran around the house throwing things into my purse. Met at Coffee Tree, rode to the North Terminal, talking about factory farming and political freedoms. The taxi was only 5 bucks which was astonishing. I promise I'm not going to tell you the price of every single taxi I took, just the majority.
On the bus, I discovered he's a SOMTHING AWFUL brethren (hear that ZACH?) and takes pictures obsessively out the bus window. We discussed the lack of safety of traveling with strangers you meet in the airport, showed each other our Driver's Licenses to proove our legit-ness.
Otavalo's a really beautiful market, really beautiful. I got bargained into buying these embroidered pillow covers so hopefully when you all see my house you will notice how mature and classy I am because I have nicely decorated throw pillows. Do not steal these pillow cases, spill anything on them or vomit near them. Thank you! I also bought grandma a present (al fin!), alpaca-themed leg warmers (get ready from some rockin presents, ladies of Kalamazoo) and a new T shirt because I had only bought one shirt and it had become clear that the adventure was going to be a two-day one, no safe return to Quito by crepusculo (look it up, my goofiest Spanish vocab word). Jump, feet don't hit the bottom, keep kicking.
Next stop was the town Iliana, famous for its limpiezas by yachuks. I did this in Otavalo with my program, but I'm always eager to get hit by sticks and rubbed by eggs in a dark room. We took a taxi to the center of town where we were stared at so hard by Quechua people going about thier business. We started walking in a possibly northward direction, hoping to find the magical hide-out of Yachuks. While walking, a pickup pulled up behind us and I saw my friend Javier (MY BUS FRIEND) and his ma and dad. He lept out of the truck and started talking about how happy he was to see me, about 85 times more friendly than I'd ever seen him. Of course I introduced my friend as Frances and not Francois, but Javier just started speaking to him in French, so my idiocy was hidden or at least put to good use. We told Javier that we were looking for limpiezas, and he was like, "Oh I'll take you to my family's yachuk, hop in the back of the truck."
There's few emotions besides thrill you can feel when you are driving straight down a mountain on cobblestone roads with a practical stranger at the wheel and another in the back with you. I guess you could be scared or anxious, but then, I wasn't. I was in the mountains, I knew where (or at least to who) I was going, who I was with. I could carry all I had on my back, over one arm. I could run in the lower altitude, in my sneakers. And I was going to get cured. We all were. I was awake and proud and strong and safe.
They drove us all the Panamericana highway and then we walked to a crumbly house with full out buildings, an outdoor kitchen, latrine, chicken shack. Papa Javier went up to the old lady sweeping the dirtfloor in front of the house, and they jovially yelled at each other in Quechua, negotiating the price. Javier's family is real Otavaleño, both his father and him have long braids that they've never cut. His mother barely spoke spanish and was dressed in the embroidered white blouse, long skirt, and cloth sandals that I never stop thinking are beautiful. Javier offered us his father's chagra (farm plot) house to stay in that night, which was just so kind that I made up an aunt waiting for me in Ibarra to get out of it. We planned on coffee in Quito instead. Jesus, what hospitiality! Would you stop and offer a ride to some nut-job foreigner from your school who you thought asked you out on the bus on the first week of school but really just wanted to hear your genius ideas about architechture theory? Maybe I would, but would I offer them a ride in the back of my truck? Go out of my way for her and her Canadain friend? Javier is a nice guy, that's for sure.
Unfortunately, the Yachuk wasn't there, so we sat in this empty dark room in this family's house for an hour and a half. I took a nap on a bench covered in a blanket that smelled like horse poop. Francois folded his multiple purchases and drank avena drink. After two hours or so, we were all (me, him, the old woman, her kid, her infant grandbaby) were all sitting on this pile of rocks by the highway watching the traffic go by. A stout man in Otavaleño dress got off the bus and dashed accross the highway, holding an armful of plants. The Yachuk had arrived.
The three of us huddled in a tiny dark room, filled with candels, children's chairs, animal hides, and cigarette butts. Francois went first, first getting beaten by dry leaves and rubbed by a candle. Then he stood on a straw mat in his underwear while the yachuk beat him raw with these stinging leaves that leave tiny cuts on your body. The next step was spitting alcohol on the leaves, lighingting the whole thing on fire, waving it out, and then rubbing that on your body. After that came a round of rubbing with raw eggs, then volcanic stones. After, he spit aguardiendte on all parts of you, really cleaing out those cuts. Next, he poured strong rose cologne into a bottle of old tabacco leaves, and then spit that on you. Most of this was acompanied by chain smoking Lark cigarrettes, occasionally taking a mouthful of smoke and blowing it into the crown of your head.
I was next, and he concentrated awfully hard on limpiando my butt-area and near my... sosten. I guess there was sin stored there? (I'm joking)
Shivering and smelly, we go dressed and walked along the highway a ways, found a taxi and went to Cotocachi, a town that seems to only sell leather goods. I bought nothing, Francois bought a bull whip. Useful! We got a long taxi to Ibarra, 20 k away. Wandered around in the rain, found a hostel, ate shwarma, bought a bar of soap, showered, trying to smell less worse. Drank Zhumir. Slept.
Woke up cranky, not hung over. Ate breakfast (eggs and ice cream) at the original helado de paila store. This is a big deal because it was invented in either 1850 or 1880, either way a long time ago. It's made by stiring fruit juice, egg whites and sugar in a large copper bowl on a bed of ice, straw and salt. Its labor intensive, light, sweet and very good. We inquired about going paragliding, and they were about to let us go, but told us the instructor was in Quito and could we do it our selves? No, ma'am, we would die.
Bus back to Quito, nice quiet, ate habas, felt sick, listened to Stefano's excellent Spañol CD. Which I copied from your mom, by the way Stef. Took a taxi back to the Fosch, ate wonderful, Britta-worthy salad and Italian food, parted ways. So strange to spend all your time with a person you really don't know at all but have no reason to not be honest to. Refreshing to have a relationship based on a shared desire for fun/seeing the province of Cotapaxi, not school or work or manipulation. Not that I want all my relationships like that, not that they could be, but it woke me up to how routine my life here in Quito is. I love my routine, it keeps me going, makes me happy, but sometimes rides in pickup trucks can do a lot of good in making your heart go fast and your eyes stay open.
After all that, though, I was eager to retreat back into littleDana. I put on my pajamas, made soup, and watched Friends and Ugly Betty. I can't be awesome all the time. Jimmy was home and he convinced me to come out with him. Going out with J is always an adventure and usally ends the same way. It reminds me of 10th and 11th grade evenings in DTSS (who remembers that acronym? Downtown Silver Spring, DUHHHHHH), wandering around familiar streets, waiting to bump into people you know. I'd usally keep a count and it was rarely less than twelve or fifteen people that I'd met before, plus thier cousins and friends and cute guys from school.
But there, on Fenton and Colesville, at the movie theater and Chik-Fill-A and Barnes and Noble and The AstroTurf, I knew those people, pluse Eric and Elliott who I'd come with, plus we all spoke the same language, and we weren't drinking cane liquor in the sidewalk. I remember meeting a friend-of-a-friend who was literally drinking PURPLE DRANK, cough syrup, vodka and cherry Slurpee. I actually turned and ran away. In Quito, with Jimmy, if there were Slurpees, I'm sure that's be common.
Am I making sense here? What scared me in high school, what was assumed then, is normal and commonplace and completley foreign to me here. I keep my self safe, sure, I turn and run if I need to just like in high school, and I say no to anything holding any of the ingredients of Purple Drank, but it still has the same allure it did when I was 15. Outside, badly dressed, light rain, just turning corners waiting to see old friends. Of course, the are Jimmy's friends and not mine, but it's almost as good to call myself "la gringa" and grin and pretend to understand jokes. It's not that that fun, I've only done it three or four times in five months, but sometimes its what I want to do.
Eventually this one guy with his 8 or so cousins left, and then some guys who I'm pretty sure were about 16 and cokeheads, and it was just me and Jimmy and his friend Lucho. We took a taxi home. They bought more Norteño because they are alcoholic idiots and I went to bed.
