Peru

Peru.
It's visa time again. I opt for the border crossing = 3 free months in Ecuador. Two countries to choose from, Colombia, which I loved, but charges $100 extra for Canadians (what did we do to them??) and Peru.
Nervously I start planning the trip to Peru. I'm engrossed in my guidebook, getting it all mapped out. Which is the tiniest, least troublesome border crossing, and a small town where I can ride out the 24 hours. Maybe in the jungle. Definitely playing it safe.

I finish my appointment in Cuenca, and head to the terminal to find out my options. Turns out my safe little route is going to add days and cost to the whole ordeal. There's a night bus heading down the coast to Piura, cost $15. Ok, I decide, not so bad, I can explore a new city... So I buy the ticket, and hang around the terminal. Walking around I see a poster of a long white beach, palm trees, blue ocean. Mancora. On route to Piura. I rush back to the booth and ask if they can drop me off there instead. I can almost hear the seagulls calling.
No problem.

So, with my one stuffed MEC bag (successful experiment in packing light), a few scribbled hostel names and not a single Peruvian sol, I get on the bus. We'll be going through the Huaquillas crossing, the one with the most complaints and bad experiences on travel websites. Here goes.

We speed through the darkness, around the curves of the mountains, and finally to the flats. Fields of banana trees silhouetted. City lights somewhere in the distance. I drift asleep.
We have to change buses just before the crossing, they shove us into a hot room in the station with one fan. People are lying all over the benches, the floor. I ignore them and watch insects zigzagging across the tile floor.
Finally our turn comes, and our bus arrives at the border. Sleepy eyed, trying to fill out slips of paper, waiting in the long line of those who arrived before us. It's completely uneventful, nobody trying to kidnap me or steal my passport... so much for the reviews. At 3 am we are finally stamped in. Turns out I miscalculated the date of my visa expiry, so I will be staying a few extra days in Peru. Back on the bus. No sleep now, too excited as I catch glimpses of open water, ghosts of breakers on the shore.
5 am I am unceremoniously dropped off in Mancora. It's still dark. Thankfully a moto-taxi is waiting. I tell him to go to the first hostel I can think of. It's not far, and I see "24 hour service" written outside. Everything sorted out, I crawl into an upper bunk in my private room and fall asleep blissfully. Safe and sound.

Later that morning i wake up to shafts of sun through the woven thatch roof. I'm loving this start, the first real holiday I've had in a couple years. I slowly get ready, change some money in the hotel, and find a little breakfast place. Eggs and cheese on the best bread I've tasted in South America. Then I start walking.
I get out of the main street and walk up the hill, through the back of the town, away from the tourists and the surfers. The houses are painfully rickety, made out of cane, or crumbling brick. It's pure desert here. The sun beats down. The sandy road takes me up to a lighthouse. More bare hills in the distance, and a cluster of fishing boats in the port. A beautiful wind whips around it all.

I spend my days walking down the beach, looking for shells, sometimes dodging the waves at my feet, sometimes rushing headlong into them. My first taste of salt water. One morning I find the beach full of fish, dead, washed up in the night. A small yellow seahorse lies twitching on the sand, so I find a good spot and throw him back in the sea. I think he makes it. This turns into a morning mission to find anything that might still be alive. The fish are limp and blank, half eaten by crabs and vultures. But I find two more seahorses, alive, that twist and turn in my hands.

Another morning I take out one of the kayaks. The waves are higher today, crashing onto the beach. The boat owner asks, "are you sure you want to go out?" "Yes!!" I reply. "It's my last chance." He tells me the pattern of the waves. Seven large ones roll in, and then you paddle as fast as possible before the next set comes. I make it out, happy, and spend a blissful hour and a half on smoother waters, chasing pelicans, spotting a sea-lion ducking between the fishing boats. It's tempting to go further and further and never stop, but my time runs out and I head back to shore. I see the large waves rolling in ahead of me. Looks good, so I start paddling quickly towards the beach. The owner signals something with his hands, I can't tell what. It's too late, a wave creeps up behind me and tosses me unceremoniously into the water. I thrash and spin, wave after wave catching me from behind. The boat glides serenely to the shore. I drag myself out slowly, clothes heavy, hair smeared across my face. Two men stand watching on the beach, "You scared us!" they say. I grin.
This was probably the best way to get over my fear of falling out of kayaks...

So I spend the rest of my time drying out, walking in the evening. I find a music booth and spend a delicious half hour chatting jazz with the vendor, listening to samples of Dizzy and Coltraine, walking away with two Miles Davis cd's. I miss this.

In the nights club music blares from the hostel next door. I get used to not sleeping until 2 am. But tonight I hear a live band starting their set across the street in a small venue. Covers of rock tunes in english and spanish. I lie awake, listening, then on impulse I throw on my clothes and cross the street. Virgin mojito in my hands, happily dancing along to familiar songs. I slip a request for Soda Stereo into the hands of the guitarist, and they nail it. Soon they wrap up for the night. I dash back to my room. Finally quiet.

There are so many more moments I would love to write about. But the biggest joy was all the  moments of connection. I thrive on travelling solo. I love the challenge, the freedom, the aloneness. But there had been a shift somewhere. I found myself seeking interaction. Craving it instead of avoiding it.
Maybe that's what being away from home soil for so long does to you. Makes you realize you're not invincible, nor an island.

So, I made it home to Macas with my visa, exhausted from the travelling, but happy to sleep in my own bed with one cat, no crickets. The sunsoaked feeling has lingered, and I have to say, unexpected destinations are the best. Unless of course it's in the trunk of a car in the Peruvian desert.
Signing off, from rainy Macas...
J

First-time Freelancing

So you know Tintin, Reporter? Skinny kid with orange hair travelling around the world, getting the inside scoop, solving mysteries and making random friends, all with trusty companion Snowy at his side?
I always wanted to do that.

I don't have a Snowy, I have a cat who goes on his own private expeditions while I'm away. I haven't been around too many criminal organizations (unless you count the ex-neighbours who grew pot) and I definitely don't have orange hair. But last month, I got a tiny taste of what it was like to be.... da da da... a journalist!

It all started on instagram, following a family member in the UK who was starting a magazine about tea. Something went 'bing' in my head and I mentioned in a comment: "we grow guayusa in Ecuador! Do you want an article?" to which he replied "Yes! Get it to me by the end of Feb."

The ball was rolling. Rather quickly. I wrote an email to Runa, one of the big organizations that supports guayusa farming, explaining that I was a contributor to a new magazine etc. looking to write a story about the lives of the farmers in Ecuador. No reply. I tried a local organization, which basically referred me (begrudgingly) back to Runa. So I tried again, this time getting in touch with a program manager who said, "Yes, absolutely, come on up and we'll give you a tour!" (with a contribution of course to support the cause.)

That ended up being easy. The hard part was finding time in my packed schedule to actually go and do it. Which days could I sacrifice? Question was answered when a friend invited me to travel up with her to Quito for a couple days. Perfect. I could take the route through Tena to come home, stopping at the facilities and farm on the way. Story on the run. A little bit Tintin-esque. I already my had my introduction written out, just had to fill in the rest!

So, I enjoyed visiting with friends, getting a little acupuncture done, and had a lovely day in service. Then it was time. I tracked down a shared taxi that could get me to the site near Archidona by 9:30 the next morning. Which involved painfully waking up at 4:30am, packing, then waiting on the street corner in the cold with a friend until a cop drove by and suggested maybe we should wait inside. Oh right, it's Quito. A mugging could be right around the corner. So we went back inside the gate and peeked out, for a good hour. Turns out I was the last one to be picked up, not the first as I had been told on the phone. However, I stuffed myself gratefully into the taxi, full of professional Ecuadorians and American tourists. Nobody said a word, just grunted and went back to sleep. Exactly what I wanted to do. However I had a billion things running through my head.... which questions to ask... which direction to take the article in. I decided to write down a few ideas and snap some pictures as we whipped by. I even managed to write a little bit of nice prose about the landscape as we descended back into the Orient, in case I could use it later.

Finally we arrived, I crawled out of the taxi with my things, and rung the intercom at the front gate. "I'm here to do an interview?" I said, trying to sound more professional and alert than I felt. They buzzed me in, my contact Lindsay came out and walked me to the office. It was just her and a Quichua guy named Carlos. We sorted out plans for the day (I was time-slotted in between a bunch of meetings) then dashed through the rain to the truck, debating whether to bring extra boots or not. We decided in favor of, and took off. I tried to snag a few notes on the road as I asked Lindsay about the inner workings of the company. That wasn't so bad, being in english. Carlos was
quiet in the back, turned out it was his parents farm we were going to see. Thankfully it stopped raining by the time we got there.

It looked like a lot of other communities I'd passed through already. Wooden houses, a few concrete buildings, centering out from the river. Green hills all around.

We walked up and met Carlos's parents, Carlos Sr (that made one less name to remember!) and Rosita. I pulled out my camera automatically, and Lindsay quickly asked "Is it OK to take a few pictures?" Oops, I forgot
that's not something you can take for granted. They said yes, to my relief (I was imagining half my story down the tubes already). I got a quick family portrait, then we went to sit beside the house and chat. I'd forgotten half the questions I'd wanted to ask by this time, but that worked itself out. Carlos Sr was only too happy to talk, so for the most part I just sat back and tried to keep up. My tiny notebook quickly became filled with unreadable scribbles. And as I juggled note-taking with trying to capture a few moments on camera, I realized why most reporters go around with an assistant. They only have two hands.

We kept talking for a while, finding out more about their lives, and how they are just scraping by, even with the help of a stable industry. Their land is losing value and the market prices of the products they sell are ridiculously low. Rosita started to cry at one point, and I wanted to hug her and tell her that all of their stresses and problems would be gone soon, but it wasn't a good time. She didn't speak spanish, and I hadn't brought quichua literature with me. (Fair enough, I wouldn't have know which kind to bring, there's at least 9 varieties of quichua spoken in Ecuador, and they rarely understand each other!)

Things calmed down, and we decided to pull on our boots and head into the forest.
This part felt like home, talking about trees and plants. Spotting almost invisible animal traps and learning which plants were medicinal and which were hallucinogenic. (Sound familiar anyone?)
I stopped to take lots of pictures. Despite not having used the camera for a while, and coming near to swearing at it a few times, I enjoyed myself thoroughly.


 
We somehow managed to come back out into the village (apparently the path looped back without us town-folk noticing) and investigated a small artisan shop. It was full of lovely handmade things, including some simple traditional outfits brought out for special occasions.

It was time to leave, so we said our goodbye's and drove back into town, picked up a few staff members and had lunch at the local market. It was strange to be surrounded by Americans again, speaking english, making references to western movies and food. Carlos Jr sat across from me still quiet, and I asked if he understood. He said no. I felt bad, having been in his shoes many times. Everyone happily chattering away, unaware. We rushed through lunch (as quickly as you can with fried tilapia) and jumped back in the truck for the last leg of the tour.

The rain started bucketing down again so we spent most of our time in the office talking about the for-profit and non-profit sides of the business. It was fascinating to learn about all the different things they were involved in, reforestation, education of the farmers. It was a rush of information. Then Lindsay took me out to quickly see the property.

And then it was over. I was dropped off at a bus stop to head to Macas. I looked at my notes and hoped they would make some kind of sense when I got home. So many details, what to include!
And I felt that there was so much left untold. It was like peeling back one layer to see thousands more underneath.

So, that was my whirlwind journalistic experience. It felt great to finally do something that I'd wanted to since I was a child. Travel, make random friends, get the inside scoop AND get to report on it. And gain ever more perspective on the country I'm learning to call home.

Signing off (cross-eyed from editing, and hoping it makes
it through the presses)...

Jamie