Tiny Tales of Cuenca

Cuenca, Ecuador, Our Press, Our Travels, Poetry, South America 2 Responses »
Jun 302010
Swelling eight thousand feet in the Andes,
slick blue tiled basillica domes gleam
under Cuenca’s cyclopean morn.
Flowers and ancient iron crosses sprout
from antique tiled roofs. Crude cinderblock casas
chop Spanish Colonial flow.
Girls swish down sidewalks in pleated plaid, zig-
zagging miniature grandmothers hauling plastic bundles of poverty.
Children ogle blondes stomping in hiking boots, beam
like they’ve seen movie stars. Beauties balance on spiked heels,
clicking on chipped, slanted walkways, weaving whistling machos,
doggy-doo, and hollering lotto-pushers. Mothers breathe into woolen scarves
as ragged buses fart black diesel from  tailpipes. Panama hats bob
down crowded streets on thickly braided heads. Cross dressers
stuffed with balloons hustle picture-seeking tourists. Gringos
stumble through free language school salsa lessons.
Kevlar-cladded uniforms toting massive guns stalk
library hallways shushing  with a pssst. A six year old shouts,
I’m on the bus, from a red light,  double-flicking everyone off
with vulgar little fingers; old men bunched around
Parque Calderon’s shaded benches shake their heads.
Three o’clock brings a twenty degree drop
in mercury, making the layered look fashionable.
A shoe shiner fingers silver coins, waits
for shabby shuffles of his cross-eyed love.
Dreadlocked peddlers spill their woven wares in pink sunset.
Fiestas are a way of life, and fireworks are constant stars in the night.
Paper hot air balloons drift toward the moon, shower cheering crowds in embers.
Paunchy lechers growl out slow rolling cars. Streets clear after 11:00 into zombie movie sets.
Bent women wobble home. Paper-thin hostel walls throb, and
we doze to late night Chinese novellas dubbed in Spanish.
Posted by Courtney Niday-Nyan at 12:38 am Tagged with: , , ,

The Road to Cuenca

Cuenca, Ecuador, South America 2 Responses »
Nov 262009
After adopting Fabris, our Belgium shipmate on the Encantata, we became a group of five stepping off the plane from the Galapagos. Shoving our bags and ourselves in the first taxi we saw at the Guayaquil airport, we had the shortest paid ride ever; the cabbie rounded the corner for $5 to the bus terminal. Still feeling the sway of the ocean, we trudged on our sea legs, up to the top level of the terminal, to find our bus for Cuenca.
Punctuality is a bendable thing in Ecuador; buses leave kind of on time, pretty late, or not at all. Our bus was 30 minutes late in leaving, making us squirm, because the designated time for our connecting ride was fast approaching! We grimaced when our bus, after a bit of meandering, pulled into a gas station. While stalled at the station, I pleaded with the driver about our connecting bus, by pointing at my ticket’s scheduled time and putting on my best worried face. He seemed to understand my urgency, and rushed more through town, as the clock ticked down to our connection time. Suddenly he screeched to a stop on a busy road across from a bus facing the other direction. He jutted a finger at us and at the rumbling bus across the street, while his helper threw open the underside compartment, for us to grab our bags. Yanking my bag out, I raced across traffic yelling, pare, stop, to our now moving connecting bus. Fortunately the driver heard me, and all of us caught up to board. With about six hours ahead of us, I settled in for the ride that would take us away from the coast, and back high into the Andes Mountains.
Scenes played outside my window like a most unusual movie. Families fished and cooled in ditch water swirling with debris. Plastic chairs clustered friends together on roadsides in front of huts teetering on stilts. Towns cooling in the setting coastal sun rolled by until street lights called us to a halt. We sat a few moments in front of a cement-box church shaking its prayer into the street. I snapped a mental photo, through the open blue church doors, of the purple-robed priest shouting his sermon on outstretched arms. Mere moments later, the slow roll of the bus let us linger in the heartache of a twilight funeral, where a handful of mourners bowed awkwardly around a freshly dug grave. Time stretched, land climbed into clouds, and the sun rolled under the world.
I gaped, transfixed by the velvet sky sprinkled with silver stars. Had there always been so many? Our bus, obviously thinking it was a lot smaller than it actually was, zipped along winding mountain roads, lacing the edge with its wheels. It took turns playing chicken, jumping onto the oncoming traffic, and diving into thick blankets of clouds. They then put a in movie to distract and pacify the people who unknowingly paid for this extreme sport!
We hurtled on, headlights cutting yellow wedges into darkness, until suddenly, we rounded a corner onto a horrific scene; a pickup truck, flipped onto its side, blocked our path. The white pickup glowed in the night, with its contents of chicken, pigs, and people meandering on the fringe of illumination, groping for consciousness. Thantcyn, along with most of the men, exited into the chilly Andes night to help, while I stayed behind with our bags, hanging out the window with concern. I feared an unsuspecting vehicle would come barreling over the mountain and crash into this unfortunate scene. Pigs grunted in dizzying circles, frantic chicken flapped in and out of darkness, and a young girl sobbed inconsolably, clinging to her wobbling shoe-less mom. Thantcyn took the shoe-less lady by the arm and gently steered her away from glistening shards of glass piercing the darkness. Fortunately everyone came out alive, albeit seriously shaken, with only minor bumps and bruises.
I marveled at the strength of numbers, as the men rocked the twisted truck, back onto its tires. Ecuadorians are mostly short and stocky in stature, but they could really muster the strength when called upon! The crowd then picked up the truck a second time to clear the enormous rock which it was hung up on. The windshield was a hanging web of glass as the car chugged forward and back, righting itself on the uneven debris-filled road.
With things somewhat patched back together the passengers re-boarded the bus, and settled into their seats, in an all too quiet and orderly fashion, after such chaos. Our bus had pulled to the wrong side of the road, but we somehow pushed forward on the dirt until an opportunity to jump onto the paved right hand lane appeared. I held my breath at our bus driver’s negotiation skills. We were still about an hour to Cuenca, and no longer sleepy-eyed, waited to see the glow of civilization Ecuadorian style!
Posted by Courtney Niday-Nyan at 4:51 pm Tagged with: , ,
© 2010 Our Traveling Circus Suffusion WordPress theme by Sayontan Sinha