South America – Part 1: Rough Landing

Hola to all in Gringolandia from El Mitad del Mundo. The middle of the Earth, here in beautiful Ecuador. Much like Alvin and the Chipmunks, it’s been a while but I’m back in style, touring the jungles of the Amazon and hiking the Andes Mountains on the cheap all to bring the faithful readers the real scoop on life south of the Equator. So sit back, fire up your hookah, pour yourself some tasty Mora jugo and throw on your favorite salsa CD while Uncle Johnny brings the noise and testifies with Chapter 1 of the South American Crusades.

For some reason, maybe it’s kismet, maybe I’m just an idiot, I always book my flights such that I arrive alone in some chaotic, third world airport in a country where I don’t speak a word of the language smack dab in the middle of the night. This journey would, of course, prove to be no different as my plane touched down in Quito just after midnight, Ecuador time (two hours ahead of PST). The airport screamed of developing country poverty and displayed all the organization and security of a high school cafeteria at recess. Huge sheets of Hefty-bag plastic adorned the wall, dust littered the floor and customs officers seemed so disinterested that I’ve no doubt I could have easily muled a couple kilos of china white into the country although smuggling drugs into South America would be about as productive as bringing your own six-pack to the Heineken brewery, a touch redundant.

Finding a hostel was another challenge entirely as my already mentioned utter lack of linguistic dexterity left me at the mercy of the throngs of cabbies outside the gates just itching to administer a royal kidney-punching on the fares. Honestly though, after 16 hours of viewing insufferable dreck like “Just Married” on the plane, I’d have paid a king’s ransom to get to a bed so I could drift off and wipe Ashthon Kutcher’s gormless grin from my knackered brain.

After unscrupulously overcharging me, the cabbie dropped me outside of the lively “El Centro del Mundo” hostel from which emanated the sounds of glasses clinking, much social discourse and G ‘n R’s rendition of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”. I decided that this was definitely the place for me… tomorrow. The frat party hostel isn’t necessarily the best location to catch some z’s on your first night in town. I checked in next door and passed out, noticing as I did that the thin Andean air made even sleeping a Herculean effort.

On Tuesday I set about the task of booking myself a trip to the Galapagos Islands. After several conversations in monumentally poor Spanglish, I happened upon an English ex-pat travel agent who had confirmed what I had pieced together thus far; the Galapagos Islands were very expensive and would eat up too much time on my trip to make a visit worthwhile. I had to make a tough choice at that stage, cut out the Islands or skip the much cheaper Bolivia due to time constraints. I bit the bullet 
and decided that the Galapagos were best saved for when I am an established breakfast reviewer, swimming in gold doubloons and other such pirate swag.

The rest of the day was spent just getting oriented to my new surrounding and meeting some people in the party hostel which, by now, I had moved into. “So what’s Quito like,” you ask? Well, it’s always tough to get a real feel for a town when you’re on these trips. Foreigners are invariably herded into a small section of the city (here dubbed Gringolandia by locals) where we are, for the most part, out of the eyesight of most of the population. The pictures will really do it more justice than anything I could describe but I’ll give you a few impressions…. The city lies in a valley at about 2800 meters amidst the enormous peaks of the Andes Mountains. It’s big, somewhat chaotic, a touch on the polluted side but overall very friendly and welcoming. The people are quite warm, much more so than any other place I’ve visited and are often more than happy to sit and chat with you while you fumble along and mutilate their language.

On the topic of language, I have to say that not speaking the native tongue has proven to be incredibly challenging thus far in ways I never experience in Asia. It is much more difficult to perform simple daily tasks like eating out, catching a bus or getting directions when the extent of your Spanish skills are being able to sing along to Enrique Iglesias tunes. This also provides the steepest of challenges when attempting to mack on the senoritas, dropping my batting average far below its already miniscule level north of the 49th. For example: “Hola, me llamo Ryan, soy Canadiense”

“Hola, me llamo Juanita como estas usted?”

“Uhhhh, si, uhhhhh, yo quiero Taco Bell?”

Ouch… poor kid, never had a chance. Just for the record I’d like all the desperate, horny guys out there to know that, despite rumors to the contrary, the ladies here do not simply throw themselves at gringos, taking advantage of every potential opportunity to sit on their faces. The Billy Idol hair and blue eyes certainly get a lot of looks and giggles from passersby though, and the extra attention is certainly appreciated. I’m fairly confident that learning the language could transform even little Bobby Gotsnogame into senor Mad Playa Jedi Pimp. Do yourself a favor before coming down here folks, take a little time out of your tedious lives and learn Spanish. I sincerely wish I had.

Anyway, on with the romp… at night I gathered a few dudes I had met at the hostel and we set out for a little salsa and cervesa, Quito-style. Myself, a Romanian-born German named Marius, a quiet Ecuadorian named Pablo and Marco, the quintessential egomaniacal Frenchman hit up No Bar, Quito’s own version of the Roxy, in hopes of hooking up with some latinas and teaching them the international language of sucky-sucky. To get a feel for the scene first picture your favourite club. Now subtract all the lumbering ugly white people, the endless, inaudible J.Lo/ Ja Rule duets and the “my indoor sunglasses are cooler than your indoor sunglasses attitude and mix in impossibly good looking women, pulsing latin rhythms and really cheap drinks and you’ve got your average Ecuadorian nightspot.

Within a few minutes, a startling senorita caught my eye and after the usual self-administered 30 minute prep talk to pump myself up, I sauntered over and dropped my best,”Oh-la! Hob-la oos-ted eenglays?” on her. Thankfully I lucked out by hitting on a well-educated girl whose English was probably better than mine. We talked for a while and made plans to meet again later in the week. Ding, ding, ding… Booyah!! I’m not here 24 hours and already I’ve got a hot date lined up! Bow down and pay your proper respect, infidels!

The next day found my ever-expanding Coalition of the Willing (now accompanied by Elissa, a pretty Minnesotan and my main man Omar, a Peruvian born, American raised former prosecutor turned South American travel guru) hopped a short, 2 and a half hour bus ride to the market city of Otavalo. It was on the bus that I met Martha, a kindly 55-year-old woman who warned me against making love to the ladies here, as “they are all sick. Always use condom” Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Ecuadorian Sue Johansen. Upon arrival at the pleasant but unspectacular town, I was shocked at the diminutive stature of the largely indigenous population. I kept expecting the Lollipop guild to jump out and welcome me to Munchkinland. Really nice people, though, all smiles.

We returned to the hostel just in time for one of the tri-weekly free cuba libra (rum and coke) nights and proceeded to imbibe without restraint or good judgment. After polishing off a few cauldrons of liquor, Omar convinced Elissa and myself, a staunch non-smoker to accompany him on a quest for a hookah pipe. Some peach flavored tobacco from a two-foot tall bong in the middle of the night? Damn skippy I’m in! What began as a simple mission turned into a full on liquor-soaked epic saga as turn after turn our intrepid threesome would stumble across unwitting groups of locals who would fall prey to Omar’s gift of gab and invariably offer us free street liquor. From middle-class Quitenos to buxom Finnish girls, no one could resist when Omar, looking much like a Peruvian Jesus, preached the gospel to the masses about the everlasting salvation that could be achieved by giving us free booze. The evening was capped off when we slunk into a pool hall and, despite the fact that we were Gordon Campbell-drunk and I had sunk a measly one shot the entire two games, we came out on the winning end. 

Apparently (I didn’t understand one word of what was transpiring) our Ecuadorian opponents attempted to cheat and when Omar picked up on it, more cervecas were headed our way.

Needless to say, the next morning was a complete write off as I nursed my first southern hemispheric hangover. Later in the day we attempted a trip to the “Old Quito” but it was cut short when Omar was pick pocketed on the Trolley ride to.

On Friday, the Scooby Gang, now joined by my homeboy from Hamburg, Daniel, made our way to El Mitad del Mundo. Yes, folks, the equator. Interestingly, the huge monument the government erected to mark the world’s most famous line of latitude and the country’s namesake was built before GPS and actually lies about 200 meters from the real equator. We hustled over to the solar museum / real equator where I proved its authenticity by peeing on either side of the line and observing which way my urine would swirl down the drain. The Coriolis effect is no longer just something I had to memorize in grade 12 geography class. Following the museum, Daniel and I decided on a whim to hike a nearby mountain up to 4000 meters and have a beer at the top. This was definitely the highlight of my trip up to this point as we cracked our cheap Ecuadorian brew amidst the clouds and debated over politics, hip-hop and why ALL GERMANS LOVE DAVID HASSELHOFF. (It’s the perm)

It didn’t take too long for a new highlight to surpass the old as that night I met up with Gabriela at the bar and Ricky Martined up a storm, impressing club goers and spawning a legend. Fine, so I bungled my vanilla ass through some salsa songs while Gabriela graciously indulged my missteps while slowly distancing herself from the gawky Canadian who made Seinfeld’s Elaine look like John Travolta circa Saturday night Fever. After a few hours we parted but agreed to meet up manana (tomorrow) and hang out.

Which brings us to Saturday my final day in Quito and my most fun. Gabriela and I met in the park and strolled through the streets in search of llamas while she regaled me with tales of her life as a middle class Ecuadorian girl. Maybe it was the accent, maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe it was the guinea pig I had for dinner but something about this girl turned me into more of a blubbering idiot than usual and made me seriously consider sticking around in Quito for a few more weeks. However, this would have been incredibly irresponsible of me and would probably make for rather bland reading I reluctantly parted ways with my Latin American Goddess and, along with Marius and a Californian named Rolf, boarded the next bus out of town for the coast of Ecuador and a little surfing, some serious lounging and late nights with 6 foot tall Swiss girls. Stay tuned, kids, the action is heating up and the party’s just getting started.

Buenos noches,
-dj-