Road Warrior

Moo milk in a bag

When you settle in a new place, there are a number of things you gradually become used to…or grow inured to as the case may be. Take bagged milk for example, one of the no fewer than thirty types lining the unpasteurized milk aisle from semi-creamed to full creamed to soy, oat, and de-lactosed. For the more adept, the carton-less liquid is much preferable. It’s contortable, packable, easily transportable. For the less inclined, however, the bloated liquid bags usually manage to leak or explode into some sort of a curiously cloudy puddle or mess resembling the hastily released contents of an infant’s stomach. That goes the same for mayo in a bag, BBQ sauce in a bag, juice in a bag, pretty much anything in a bag. It’s probably not hard to imagine which camp I fall into. And then there’s the anxiety-producing trip through the grocery store, cart full of a week’s worth of provisions, only to realize in dismay at the check-out line that no metal prams are permitted to leave the store. Yes, that’s right. Saddle up with your goods because Ecuador shan’t devolve into a country of runaway carts in the parking lot or six blocks away as the case might be at your local Giant or Piggly Wiggly. (Purposefully narrow check-out lanes aid this process with eager bag boys waiting on the other side to ferry your goods to the car or taxi; for a few monedas (coins) in exchange ;)). And of all the, ahem, culturally awakening experiences, who can forget racing into the stall of the public bathroom after paying your few centavos (cents) of course, only to realize that there's no tissue in the stall as some economizing Ecuadorian realized that keeping the roll outside of the individual stalls means faster tissue renewing process for janitors, sure embarrassment for the one person who surreptitiously rolls into the stall with a large wad in hand, and absolute frustration for the gringa who ends up in the stall less than thrilled at her gaffe. Hovering patiently, you sigh, smile, and just do a little jig. 

Getting the hang of the bag bag crew

With time, you learn to adapt, adjust, and relish in the changes (and challenges.) That goes for the day-to-day trials as well, be it weeks without internet (reason given: it’s winter so…ummm…yep) or nights without running water (someone cut your water; maybe your toilet leaks?), you start to make sense of it all.  At times, you might just even become a bit resourceful. You know, earrings in ice cube trays and sweater-wearing hot water bottles subbing for heaters on cold frigid nights. That sort of stuff.

But there are some differences that no matter the time, no matter the effort, you simply do not come around to appreciate or understand. In most countries I have been to, this almost always includes road travel. Though I have complained my fair share in the past about American drivers this and that, epithets depending on the city and state, nothing compares to the sheer recklessness on the road that is unfortunately prevalent in many developing countries from grand taxis in Morocco racing around every bend like it’s the Indy 500 to overnight buses in Vietnam bounding up and down hills in a parade of be-wheeled caravans traversing the country from tip to stern. I remember all too well, slamming on breaks at 3am en route to Dharamshala as a tour bus and tractor trailer collided on a slick and rainy road in India, and springing from the roof of a pick-up truck’s overhead luggage compartment shortly after midnight and a crash on the road to Mandalay in Burma. There’s no shortage of horrifying tales from road-faring travelers, day and night, and Ecuador is no exception.

Fuzzy sweater hot H20 bottle? Check. Ice cube jewelry tray? Check.

As a co-worker puts it, particularly during the feriados (holidays) (of which there is certainly no shortage), an alarming number of reports emerge regarding horrific multi-car pile-ups prominently featuring cross-country buses. The reasons behind the accidents are many and varied, ranging from dozing drivers and excessive speed to sharp turns and steep drops from the many curvaceous mountainside roads winding round the country. Though these accidents are in no way limited to long-haul buses alone—cars in Quito seem to take great relish in revving engines and gunning for stray pedestrians crossing the road—these long-distance carriers, most particularly at night, are among the most dangerous modes of transport. But without cross-country train routes or airline accessibility to many of Ecuador’s tiny picturesque pueblitos (little towns), there simply are not many other options. So you search among the safest carriers, reading reviews online and in the newspaper, or gradually ask around, buy your ticket, hold your breath, and pray for a speedy—yet safe—arrival.

UN Staff Retreat- stretching legs post bus ride!

At times, your fervent hopes are met with relative, if questionable, success. For example, boarding a nine hour overnight bus to Cuenca and arriving in seven and a half, the night spent peeking fearfully from behind the window curtains, dizzied and nauseous from the speed with which the bus overtook each new curve and turn along the way. There were definitely moments when I wasn’t too sure I wouldn’t peer out the window and see the Wicked Witch of the West speeding alongside us on her broom, that eerie daa dun daa dun daa daaaaa dun musical refrain playing on loop in my head. But we were among the lucky ones. We made it, albeit shaken up, but in one piece and with all our bags to boot. Safe. Many others just aren’t so lucky.

Overlook at Turi in Cuenca

You always hear about horrific accidents and lament them with a certain detached sadness and genuine pity, however removed, for those involved. You see the faces on the news or catch the images in the paper, and you cluck and sigh and maybe even cross yourself in brief solemn prayer on their behalf. However, when those very same stories and images reach you and have familiar faces to attach to the tragedy, it is a very different story altogether. Recently, I had the extreme pleasure of re-locating from a desolate cave in a less savory part of town to my new ‘room with a view,’ overlooking the majestic peaks of one of Quito’s many surrounding mountain chains. A mere two days before I was set to move into my new abode with my cheerful new companion, as I bounced home on a day bus bounding from the South to North of Ecuador, Cuenca to Quito, after celebrating the Independence of Cuenca and the Día de los Difuntos (Day of the Dead) and complaining about the post-holiday traffic and excessive stops the bus made along the way, a very different situation was unfolding just a short way away from the capital city. A bus filled with American teachers and Ecuadorian holiday travelers speeding along a notorious curve between Papallacta (a small town known for its termas, or thermal hot springs) and Quito spun out of control at a high enough speed that caused the bus to flip several times before grinding to a halt in the road. Some two-dozen passengers, my new roommate included, were whisked away in scores of ambulances that poured onto the scene to remove the gravely injured and deceased. As a result, numerous passengers were seriously wounded—broken bones, fractured skulls and ribs, dislocated limbs and vertebrae—and admitted to nearby hospitals, a young man was left paralyzed, and at least 5 were pronounced dead. Three days later another bus encountered a similar fate returning from holidays in the south. Fifteen deaths in the blink of an eye. Fifteen lives gone. And for what?

My friendly guagua de pan and colada morada

If this were Greyhound, an injunction would have been filed against the company before the scene was cleared. If this were Boltbus or Megabus, picketing would begin and ticket sales would plummet. There would be a rally for the injured and a candlelit vigil for the dead. But this is Ecuador and this is life. Every weekend, every holiday, families still pour into the bus terminal, fully aware they take their lives in their hands, fully aware they really mean it when they say Qué Dios nos bendiga (May God bless us) as they climb aboard. People still need to get to abuela’s (grandma’s) in time to celebrate together or to get to another market town where they are able to sell their goods to support themselves. Meanwhile drivers carry on in some foolhardy cry of immortality, flying down highways and over mountain passes, leaving rubber trails in their wake on the spiraling mountain curves. And nothing really changes. So often at home, we can choose what to pick a fight for—I was overcharged at the grocery store (oh, well), but the technician installed a faulty piece in my car (I’ll sue!)—and for the most part, we have some means of redress. We know who to point fingers at, who to shout at when we have been wronged, where to place the blame. But when those mechanisms are ill-maintained or a façade at best (e.g. phone numbers to call in denuncias (complaints) about reckless and drunk drivers or  domestic violence) without real action or clout, what message does that send to the folks who just want to make it to grandma’s in time to make guaguas de pan (literally baby-shaped bread) or colada morada (seasonal heated berry drink with fruit chunks) for the holiday? It means you don’t really matter. It means that the few coins saved by racing to a destination a bit earlier matter more than the innocent souls onboard. It means no one truly cares. And that’s more terrifying than high-speed hair-raising turns any day.

My roommate survived her crash with painfully broken yet mendable bones, a rad haircut, and more bravery than I could imagine mustering. Others have not been so "lucky." If there’s one thing I’ve slowly come to appreciate it’s that only you need to recognize your rights to fight for them even when others won't. The right to arrive alive is just one.  #demandchange #arrivealive

Beauty.

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