Monday, February 28, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Falling from a space ship…
So you’re way, way up there in your dream. You are the pilot of the spaceship, climbing, soaring and careening into dives that make your heart pound. Roller coaster butterflies thrill inside your stomach. You are totally in control. You look down and see interesting little specks below but out ahead is where the real rush waits. You pull on more power, master and commander of the universe. Suddenly and without time to prepare, the spaceship flips over and you begin falling. Falling. Falling. When you wake up you are miraculously unhurt and have somehow managed to land in the exact place that you have been trying to find in your dreams for years – but you could never quite ‘get there’ because the alarm always went off two seconds too early.
You pick yourself up and look around. Where am I, you wonder? I can’t be on Gilligan’s Island because it’s not tropical. The hills are brown and barren - sparse vegetation trying to grow in rills of sandy terrain. You notice that the line of mountains behind you are not majestic cliffs of granite, they are towering sand dunes intermittently gashed with deep canyons caused by run-off. This must be the rainy season you figure, because the day is cloudy, hot and very humid. Then you hear it. Then you see it. The sea. So noisy, continually rumbling and turning inside out, so frantic to rush in a hundred directions at the same time. Pelicans seem content with the roaring and commotion as they glide a few inches above the waves, but your prairie ears are not. And then you look down. Sand everywhere. In your clothes, in your toes, in your hair, You begin to brush yourself off but the sand grates against your skin like sandpaper and sticks like glue. Sand and sea everywhere you look.
Your eyes zero in and begin to focus as you look around – the scene is actually much nicer than you first thought. In spite of the noise and confusion the ocean is just gorgeous. It’s warm and playful and continually fills the air with mist and rhythm. As you watch, the colors on the surface of the sea are affected by the energy of every single thing in the area – the sun, the clouds, the wind, the time of day, the tide. In one millisecond the ocean can spin a thousand shades between green and silver. The beach is wide and inviting too, even though it is made of sand it is hard packed and easy to walk on, especially at low tide. You notice a few cabanas spread along the beach – they look so rustic and inviting with the emerald sea floating in the background. Another thing you notice – there’s no one around. Who knew there was a single place left on earth with such beautiful sea and sky, and no one there to enjoy it? Whoops, you hardly have time to finish that thought when you spot a lone figure and a dog walking along the beach in the distance. At least the place is not entirely deserted. Then you notice a few homes scattered in the hills and are surprised because some appear to be new and modern. You walk along the shore and there, in the distance are two dozen fishing boats pulled to high ground in front of a picturesque fishing village. Ha! There’s way more life here than you first thought. Then it hits you – the entire scene is surreal, mystifyingly surreal, like you’re a single color in a vast oil painting. Sun, sea, sand, sky, warm breeze, not crowded. Too good to be true. It reminds you of a gorgeous beach resort you visited a few years ago when you searched so hard for a postcard to send home, a card that perfectly described every detail: the place, the moment, the excitement and your feelings. You realize with a chuckle that you won’t have that problem here, the perfect postcard is all around. You don’t have to buy it and you don’t need a stamp.
But where are you? Then you see the sign, Kite Beach. Apparently the place is famous for kite surfing. You continue reading - Santa Marianita Beach, Ecuador. Now you know the name. You have identified the place that’s been missing at the end of your dream.
And we’re here too. You fell out of your space ship, we came on the bus. We did not know a place like this existed anywhere in the world. Even after years of travel, we have never imagined this setting. For the first two weeks after our arrival we felt like we were on another planet, the place is that unusual. One of the most remarkable things about Santa Marianita Beach aside from scenery and weather is Linda, an American woman who speaks almost no Spanish yet has somehow managed to reinvent herself in Ecuador. She owns a little guest house on the beach in Santa Marianita. She moved from Florida six years ago after suffering the loss of three family members in unrelated incidents. After four years in Manta she eventually built the two story beach house. The lower floor has two large studio apartments that are available for rent year-round and the top floor has a few bedrooms that she sometimes rents but they are usually occupied by ‘Helpx’ workers (more about that later). The studio apartments are fairly new, spacious, nicely furnished, well equipped and affordable. Linda is very laid-back, a one-woman organizer who suggests rather than commands, and she is at the core of a fairly large expat community. She pretty much knows everyone in the area who was not born in Ecuador. Her new life has made room for three loveable dogs (Vi and Dave may question the word loveable!) that she rescued from disastrous situations as well as eight cats. We never know who has the biggest smile, the animals or Linda. If you leave things alone long enough they will take care of themselves – Linda’s philosophy. She told us that sometimes when she’s driving in Manta people often give her a friendly wave, then she realized they were not waving, they were trying to tell her she was driving down a one way street the wrong way - she giggles about that and then adds, in Florida they shoot you for making a mistake like that. That’s why I love Ecuador so much, people only wave.
Since the beginning of February we have been catching our breath inside the dream. Most days we do nothing but read, write, think, walk and socialize. No phone, wifi yes, TV yes – but we never turn it on. The air in Santa Marianita is wonderful. No pollution. It is soft and moist and fresh on your skin and is always being pushed around by a pleasant breeze. Occasionally we sit in the sand, as close as we can get to Papua New Guinea, and have a toast to the sunset. We bring our own wine and wine glasses of course, because those are extras. Everything else in the theatre is supplied by Mother Nature. The flaming best sunsets on earth happen in Panavision right in front of our wondering eyes. Sunsets so vast you can see the backbone and the ribs of the sky as they support the weight of the most dazzling colors on earth. Our all time favourite sunset happened in Kuta Beach, Bali, in 2003. Good on us, now we have a tie.
Other things we have learned since we stepped off the bus – Linda arranges for people from an organization called ‘Helpx’ to work at the beach house. Helpx.net lists situations around the world where young people can assist with chores for four hours a day in exchange for free accommodation. The first Helpx we met was Brecht, a nice young man from Leuven, Belgium, who reminded me very much of how Caenen might look when he is the same age. Brecht is working his way around Ecuador until he starts university in September. Two days later, Dave from the UK and Bennie from Australia arrived, a couple who plan to work their way through South America until June 2011. Another Helpx is Denis, Linda’s right hand man. Denis is Ecuadorian and assists with language translation, computer problems, driving and everything else. Sadly for Linda, Denis is leaving in early March for a year of university studies in Germany.
On a more sombre note, just before we arrived at Linda’s a Helpx couple from Hungary fell in love with the sea and took ‘a bath’ several times each day. They were warned to be careful because the waves were unusually high due to a previous storm. On January the 29th they entered the sea at about 5pm and he was caught in a riptide and carried away. Sadly for everyone concerned, he drowned. His body washed ashore three days later and his fiancé started the process of taking his remains back to Hungary. Very traumatic for Linda and all her guests and a brutal reminder that life is as fragile as a wave.
What about the food in Ecuador? Sometimes we eat at the apartment, sometimes we share the cooking, sometimes we eat in Manta or at a beach restaurant. Groceries can be purchased from several large stores in Manta and while some food is very inexpensive (fruit and vegetables) other products are not. Most of the time the food in this part of Ecuador is excellent and affordable, especially if you like seafood and fish. But not beef or pork – almost always tough. The beer. Well it’s cheap and there’s plenty of it.
And what about the kites? Unfortunately for us the winds of kite season change in January so when we arrived on February 1st the party was over. We would love to have see them soaring over the ocean but it will have to be another time. During kite season there are three schools right near Linda’s Landing. People come from all over the world, but mainly Europe and South America, to participate. When it’s not kite season and it’s not a weekend, Santa Marianita is deserted.
Manta is twenty minutes by car from Santa Marianita. She is not a very pretty city and sometimes she smells quite fishy. She is the tuna capital of Ecuador. Manta is home to a fairly large expat community - many have lived there for years but more and more seem to be arriving every day. Do you know why? In September 2010, International Living Magazine declared Ecuador to be the best expat retirement country in the world. Many retirees are renting but most own real estate and reside permanently in Ecuador for exactly the same reasons that expats move to Lake Chapala or retirement communities anywhere. Climate, low cost of living and a strong social network. One thing we have noticed is that even though real estate is a hot topic, almost nobody talks about health care – quite the opposite to our time in Mexico. Thanks to Linda, we have met some mighty interesting people. Most of them live in Manta, most are permanent, some are snowbirds, many are in the process of doing retirement research. Folks from Florida, Texas, California, Washington, New York and the southern States, but the vast majority of old and new arrivals are Canadian. Americans cannot believe they are being outnumbered more and more everyday by Canadians in Ecuador. Our friends Vi and Dave, the best socializers in western Canada, live in the studio next door. If it weren’t for them we wouldn’t be here at all. They returned home last year raving about Ecuador so this year many of their friends have paid Linda a visit. Before we arrived in Santa Marianita we were quite worried about feeling trapped in such a tiny place, but that has not been a problem. On the other hand, when it is time to head to Peru at the end of the month we will be primed and ready for a boatload of new adventure. And do you remember Paul and Lindsey, the young backpackers we met on the Costa Victoria who later stayed with us in Buenos Aires? Well, they happened to be in Cuenca and took the bus to Manta. We met up again at Linda’s. They stayed several nights and entertained us with stories about their travels including a robbery in Peru. A delightful young couple we lovingly refer to as our parents because they keep checking up on us. Take a look at their blog if you want more information.
Well, there’s much more to tell about Santa Marianita but this postcard is long enough. We have turned your spaceship upside down and dropped you at the end of a dream, Hope you enjoyed the visit.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Guayaquil, Salinas and Bananas
Guayaquil
Take a close look at photos of the interesting green characters hanging out in the park across the street from the Continental Hotel. They are the retired long distance bus drivers. It’s pretty common knowledge that after a career of driving the ear-splitting route between Quito and Guayaquil they heroically retire from the supremacy of sound to a life of peaceful tranquility in the park. We were told by a reliable source that they often reminisce about the good old days of music and fun on the road.
At more than three million, metro Guayaquil is huge, bigger than your city-scape imagination can handle without a headache – but unlike Quito the headache is not caused by high altitude because it sits at only 13.2 feet about sea level. We arrived at a secondary bus station, not the main fancy one, in rush hour traffic and fell off the bus in a daze, trying to scrape together a few spare ear drums. A taxi driver started hanging around like a persistent fly – we thought maybe he wanted to sell us his car. You should have seen it, a worn out Russian Lada from the early ‘80s. Even though we swatted him away a few times, after an in-depth discussion we finally realized he just wanted to drive us to the Continental Hotel downtown. In actual fact, the cost of the trip and the value of his car were the same amount – luckily we stopped him before he signed it over to us. We agreed on $7.00 for the trip and he got to keep the car. Later we found out the going rate was $5.00 so the driver single-handedly managed to thrust our love of taxi drivers into the bowels of snake pit again. It’s not that $2 is much money; it’s merely the fact that taxi drivers’ worldwide enjoy ripping people off – it’s their job. Oh well, we consoled ourselves, the guy took us right to the hotel and we didn’t have to keep the car. Twenty four hours of parking would cost more than the car was worth. Ha! Four hours of parking would cost more…
The best part of the entire day was the Continental Hotel. Richard wanted to stay there because of the high ratings on TripAdvisor website, and they weren’t wrong. Expensive but well located with a bathroom as big as some small countries, delicious buffet breakfast, friendly front desk staff and a fast internet connection in the room. We were so happy about feeling good again we immediately went out and bought a bottle of wine for a later celebration. Just to be able to hear and walk and kick up our heels again meant a lot. Later we strolled along Guayaquil’s malecon – designed and built in 2000. The 1.5 mile boardwalk has single-handedly transformed Guayaquil’s seedy, unsavoury riverfront from a dirty and dangerous port area into an upscale promenade with beautiful sights, shopping, classy restaurants, botanical gardens, museums, theatres and so on. We were pleased to be there and stretch our legs and our cramped minds at the same time. But the front desk staff at the hotel warned us to be off the streets in the area of the hotel by 10pm. – still dangerous after-hours apparently. We did what we were told but really, other than a few drug pushers, prostitutes, purse snatchers, muggers, corrupt police and armed bandits, what was there to be afraid of?
Next day we were out and about, walking, shopping, snacking and discovering. Didn’t take too long, even though the city is huge the tourist sights are compact in the malecon and downtown areas near the hotel. There are dozens of banks so getting enough cash to survive while keeping your feet on the ground was not a problem. We found a grocery store and bought enough food to eat dinner in the hotel room. So good, so good to not eat in a restaurant. We were extremely proud of ourselves because the Continental Hotel boasts the best gastronomy in Guayaquil. We’ll tell you why if you want to hear about it. Imagine paying more for a meal in Ecuador than in Calgary. That’s why.
All in all, Guayaquil is a pretty uneventful city.
Salinas
Salinas is only two hours by bus from the massive Guayaquil long distance bus terminal. It’s an enjoyable 150 kilometre ride that passes through miles and miles of banana plantations and ends at Ecuador’s most developed sea-side resort. Yes Salinas has an average yearly temperature of 80 degrees and the best time to visit is exactly when we were there. Every weekend the beaches are crowded, crowded and busy. It was fun to walk the promenade and see the sights, but Salinas has no power whatsoever to entice us back – not like Benidorm or Puerto Vallarta. We shared a beer at a sidewalk café across from the beach. We were hotter than fleas, sweaty and tired and a cold beer sounded perfect. The teenage waiter in his low lying blue jeans and dirty tee shirt arrived with the beer bottle already opened – a real no, no (they are supposed to open it in front of you so you know it has not been tampered with). Half an hour later we were ready to move on again but Donna wanted to visit the WC first. Well, that was a record breaker for sure. The most evil washroom of the trip. Filthy, I mean give you the willies filthy, broken toilet, no paper, no soap, no hand towels. I stopped by the kitchen to tell them the toilet didn’t flush and ha! that was the least of his worries. I saw the kitchen. The Kitchen! A dark and dingy work area, out of sight from the street, manned by a teenager who knew nothing whatsoever about sanitation. But he did know how to flush the toilet and that was not the first time he had been asked to do so. He left his food preparation and picked up a filthy pail which he then filled with tap water. Together we visited the toilet and I watched him pour the water until the toilet reached the flush level. Easy as pie. Then he went back to the kitchen to continue preparing, no I didn’t see him wash his hands. But even if he tried to be hygienic there was no soap or towels. I was so full of the creeps I couldn’t wait to get back outside in the sun again. Thank goodness we didn’t eat in that restaurant; we might have been back in bed again for a week. But you know what? Next day we walked by and there were lots of people eating lunch there. Yeeaahhhhhhhhhh.
In Salinas we stayed at the Hotel Caridi located about two miles from the beach. More like a hostal than a hotel, actually. Our room was barren, no bedside table(s) no closet, no writing table, one plastic green chair, bare walls and it was only $5 less per night that the beautiful Boutique Hotel Plaza Sucre in Quito. The owner of the Caridi is from Montreal and when we checked out she asked us to say a few nice things about her place on TripAdvisor. Well that put us on the spot, didn’t it?
Bananas
Did you ever wonder why you can go to the grocery store in Canada or the United States and buy a bunch of Ecuador bananas for less money than an equivalent weight of apples from British Columbia? We have.
What follows is one of many reports about Ecuador’s second largest industry. Sad but true.
Bananas - By Richy Richo
For many reasons, some complimentary, some not, Ecuador is referred to allegorically as a Banana Republic. The truth remains that Ecuador is the number one exporter of bananas worldwide and is said to produce some of the best tasting bananas.
Bananas were first cultivated on the fertile coastal region of Ecuador in the 1700's but the plantations were small. Bananas only became a major export item for Ecuador after World War II after the involvement of multinationals such as Dole.
The importance of bananas, to Ecuador and to the world, cannot be underestimated. Bananas are the fourth most important staple crop in world food production. Bananas are a primary source of income to the Ecuadorian economy second only to the revenue produced by oil.
Unfortunately, banana workers, especially in the larger plantations, "suffer from long hours, low pay, forced overtime, massive exposure to dangerous pesticides, and lack of job security. In many countries such as Colombia, Costa Rica, and Panama, workers have struggled to form unions and raise wages to as much as $11 a day. But in Ecuador temporary subcontracted labourers are not allowed to form unions and are earning an average of less than $6 a day." (Cited from Human Rights Watch publications, April 2002)
In addition, human rights groups have recently denounced many of the larger banana plantations in Ecuador for employing children sometimes even as young as 10 years old. For the land owner, this practice cuts down operating expenses, for the families of the children, sadly, it helps put food on the table.
The less attractive reality of banana production--the low wages of the workers and the presence of child labour--however, remains a reality that needs to be addressed. From talking to the small plantation owners, this problem is partly attributed to the price that they (being the producers) receive from the exporters. This sale price rarely covers production costs. For example, producers are paid $3.00 per box, whereas, at their point of destination, the same box of bananas is sold for as much as $40.00. In other words, the profit margin for the middleman is substantial while, for the producer, it is almost negligible. This discrepancy affects the labourers whose wages are unable to increase due to the narrow profit margin of their employers.
This unfairness in wage earning leads to the rich (i.e. the middlemen in Ecuador and the large multinationals) getting richer. Alternatively, it is those who work the labour-intensive positions who are forced to continue working for stagnating wages. Unfortunately, this state of affairs is not limited to banana production and is not endemic to Ecuador. Mass agriculture, in general, exploits its labourers. Under these conditions, bananas have come to represent a less than complimentary image of Ecuador as being a Banana Republic. By addressing wage and labour concerns, Ecuador's agricultural wealth can be more fairly distributed amongst its inhabitants. The resulting social equity would serve as a tribute to "pacha mama" (mother nature) who has allowed for the bountiful geographical position of Ecuador
Take a close look at photos of the interesting green characters hanging out in the park across the street from the Continental Hotel. They are the retired long distance bus drivers. It’s pretty common knowledge that after a career of driving the ear-splitting route between Quito and Guayaquil they heroically retire from the supremacy of sound to a life of peaceful tranquility in the park. We were told by a reliable source that they often reminisce about the good old days of music and fun on the road.
At more than three million, metro Guayaquil is huge, bigger than your city-scape imagination can handle without a headache – but unlike Quito the headache is not caused by high altitude because it sits at only 13.2 feet about sea level. We arrived at a secondary bus station, not the main fancy one, in rush hour traffic and fell off the bus in a daze, trying to scrape together a few spare ear drums. A taxi driver started hanging around like a persistent fly – we thought maybe he wanted to sell us his car. You should have seen it, a worn out Russian Lada from the early ‘80s. Even though we swatted him away a few times, after an in-depth discussion we finally realized he just wanted to drive us to the Continental Hotel downtown. In actual fact, the cost of the trip and the value of his car were the same amount – luckily we stopped him before he signed it over to us. We agreed on $7.00 for the trip and he got to keep the car. Later we found out the going rate was $5.00 so the driver single-handedly managed to thrust our love of taxi drivers into the bowels of snake pit again. It’s not that $2 is much money; it’s merely the fact that taxi drivers’ worldwide enjoy ripping people off – it’s their job. Oh well, we consoled ourselves, the guy took us right to the hotel and we didn’t have to keep the car. Twenty four hours of parking would cost more than the car was worth. Ha! Four hours of parking would cost more…
The best part of the entire day was the Continental Hotel. Richard wanted to stay there because of the high ratings on TripAdvisor website, and they weren’t wrong. Expensive but well located with a bathroom as big as some small countries, delicious buffet breakfast, friendly front desk staff and a fast internet connection in the room. We were so happy about feeling good again we immediately went out and bought a bottle of wine for a later celebration. Just to be able to hear and walk and kick up our heels again meant a lot. Later we strolled along Guayaquil’s malecon – designed and built in 2000. The 1.5 mile boardwalk has single-handedly transformed Guayaquil’s seedy, unsavoury riverfront from a dirty and dangerous port area into an upscale promenade with beautiful sights, shopping, classy restaurants, botanical gardens, museums, theatres and so on. We were pleased to be there and stretch our legs and our cramped minds at the same time. But the front desk staff at the hotel warned us to be off the streets in the area of the hotel by 10pm. – still dangerous after-hours apparently. We did what we were told but really, other than a few drug pushers, prostitutes, purse snatchers, muggers, corrupt police and armed bandits, what was there to be afraid of?
Next day we were out and about, walking, shopping, snacking and discovering. Didn’t take too long, even though the city is huge the tourist sights are compact in the malecon and downtown areas near the hotel. There are dozens of banks so getting enough cash to survive while keeping your feet on the ground was not a problem. We found a grocery store and bought enough food to eat dinner in the hotel room. So good, so good to not eat in a restaurant. We were extremely proud of ourselves because the Continental Hotel boasts the best gastronomy in Guayaquil. We’ll tell you why if you want to hear about it. Imagine paying more for a meal in Ecuador than in Calgary. That’s why.
All in all, Guayaquil is a pretty uneventful city.
Salinas
Salinas is only two hours by bus from the massive Guayaquil long distance bus terminal. It’s an enjoyable 150 kilometre ride that passes through miles and miles of banana plantations and ends at Ecuador’s most developed sea-side resort. Yes Salinas has an average yearly temperature of 80 degrees and the best time to visit is exactly when we were there. Every weekend the beaches are crowded, crowded and busy. It was fun to walk the promenade and see the sights, but Salinas has no power whatsoever to entice us back – not like Benidorm or Puerto Vallarta. We shared a beer at a sidewalk café across from the beach. We were hotter than fleas, sweaty and tired and a cold beer sounded perfect. The teenage waiter in his low lying blue jeans and dirty tee shirt arrived with the beer bottle already opened – a real no, no (they are supposed to open it in front of you so you know it has not been tampered with). Half an hour later we were ready to move on again but Donna wanted to visit the WC first. Well, that was a record breaker for sure. The most evil washroom of the trip. Filthy, I mean give you the willies filthy, broken toilet, no paper, no soap, no hand towels. I stopped by the kitchen to tell them the toilet didn’t flush and ha! that was the least of his worries. I saw the kitchen. The Kitchen! A dark and dingy work area, out of sight from the street, manned by a teenager who knew nothing whatsoever about sanitation. But he did know how to flush the toilet and that was not the first time he had been asked to do so. He left his food preparation and picked up a filthy pail which he then filled with tap water. Together we visited the toilet and I watched him pour the water until the toilet reached the flush level. Easy as pie. Then he went back to the kitchen to continue preparing, no I didn’t see him wash his hands. But even if he tried to be hygienic there was no soap or towels. I was so full of the creeps I couldn’t wait to get back outside in the sun again. Thank goodness we didn’t eat in that restaurant; we might have been back in bed again for a week. But you know what? Next day we walked by and there were lots of people eating lunch there. Yeeaahhhhhhhhhh.
In Salinas we stayed at the Hotel Caridi located about two miles from the beach. More like a hostal than a hotel, actually. Our room was barren, no bedside table(s) no closet, no writing table, one plastic green chair, bare walls and it was only $5 less per night that the beautiful Boutique Hotel Plaza Sucre in Quito. The owner of the Caridi is from Montreal and when we checked out she asked us to say a few nice things about her place on TripAdvisor. Well that put us on the spot, didn’t it?
Bananas
Did you ever wonder why you can go to the grocery store in Canada or the United States and buy a bunch of Ecuador bananas for less money than an equivalent weight of apples from British Columbia? We have.
What follows is one of many reports about Ecuador’s second largest industry. Sad but true.
Bananas - By Richy Richo
For many reasons, some complimentary, some not, Ecuador is referred to allegorically as a Banana Republic. The truth remains that Ecuador is the number one exporter of bananas worldwide and is said to produce some of the best tasting bananas.
Bananas were first cultivated on the fertile coastal region of Ecuador in the 1700's but the plantations were small. Bananas only became a major export item for Ecuador after World War II after the involvement of multinationals such as Dole.
The importance of bananas, to Ecuador and to the world, cannot be underestimated. Bananas are the fourth most important staple crop in world food production. Bananas are a primary source of income to the Ecuadorian economy second only to the revenue produced by oil.
Unfortunately, banana workers, especially in the larger plantations, "suffer from long hours, low pay, forced overtime, massive exposure to dangerous pesticides, and lack of job security. In many countries such as Colombia, Costa Rica, and Panama, workers have struggled to form unions and raise wages to as much as $11 a day. But in Ecuador temporary subcontracted labourers are not allowed to form unions and are earning an average of less than $6 a day." (Cited from Human Rights Watch publications, April 2002)
In addition, human rights groups have recently denounced many of the larger banana plantations in Ecuador for employing children sometimes even as young as 10 years old. For the land owner, this practice cuts down operating expenses, for the families of the children, sadly, it helps put food on the table.
The less attractive reality of banana production--the low wages of the workers and the presence of child labour--however, remains a reality that needs to be addressed. From talking to the small plantation owners, this problem is partly attributed to the price that they (being the producers) receive from the exporters. This sale price rarely covers production costs. For example, producers are paid $3.00 per box, whereas, at their point of destination, the same box of bananas is sold for as much as $40.00. In other words, the profit margin for the middleman is substantial while, for the producer, it is almost negligible. This discrepancy affects the labourers whose wages are unable to increase due to the narrow profit margin of their employers.
This unfairness in wage earning leads to the rich (i.e. the middlemen in Ecuador and the large multinationals) getting richer. Alternatively, it is those who work the labour-intensive positions who are forced to continue working for stagnating wages. Unfortunately, this state of affairs is not limited to banana production and is not endemic to Ecuador. Mass agriculture, in general, exploits its labourers. Under these conditions, bananas have come to represent a less than complimentary image of Ecuador as being a Banana Republic. By addressing wage and labour concerns, Ecuador's agricultural wealth can be more fairly distributed amongst its inhabitants. The resulting social equity would serve as a tribute to "pacha mama" (mother nature) who has allowed for the bountiful geographical position of Ecuador
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Quito Quito rhymes with mos quito
We arrived Quito at 3:15pm January 21st but maybe you don’t know what that means. First we had to listen to irascible complaints from Thelma and Louis because they had been tossed into the baggage hold of the plane and then hundreds of fat relatives were stacked on top. They had not been seen the inside an airplane since the 26th of November but after this trip they looked really bad. Second, we had to take Taxi number two on the same day. Trauma in the Wallet! News Flash, Trauma in the Wallet! We didn’t know whether to shoot the wallet like a horse with a broken leg, or just give it a transfusion of cash positive ‘C+’. Third, the taxi driver was stressed and unhappy about driving us into old town where traffic is thick as thieves and the roads are thoroughly anorexic - but he reluctantly agreed and transported us for $8 when everyone else wanted $12. And then of course there was Donna, whining and nit-picking about breaking the No Taxi Rule two times in the same day and ‘how can we ever live that down and still consider ourselves frugal travellers?’
We had pre-booked a gorgeous but inexpensive boutique hotel for three nights on Expedia thinking that after Quito we would head north to Otovallo or south to Banos. The Hotel Plaza Sucre was absolutely beautiful, a converted hacienda with a large central lobby open to the second floor, a wide and inviting interior veranda with beautiful detailed railings, classy furniture, colourful walls and amazing artwork. (The best art we have seen in Ecuador to date.) Our room was well equipped with safe, satellite television, comfy bed, window that opened to the front street, hot shower and even included breakfast – a gorgeous little posada perfectly situated in the heart of old town, within easy walking distance of everywhere. In fact Donna states emphatically that the Boutique Hotel Plaza Sucre is one of the top hotel bargains of their entire travel career. But little did we know when we checked in that we would not be leaving after three nights, we would be hanging around for almost a week. We both suffered serious bouts of food poisoning after dinner in La Rhonda the first evening and we were down and out. Incapacitated. One day we bounced back a little and started stuffing Quito’s sights into the gaping hole in our travel addiction. Here’s what we saw - Hectic with a capital H! Think of thousands of people running into a hockey game all at once to get the best seats. Think of narrow, crowded sidewalks, incredible architecture, lush and busy open plazas, little tiny short indigenous people scurrying everywhere, towering church steeples, taxis beeping and blasting continuously, bus after bus swishing so close to the sidewalk and your body that you think your nose, or your arm, or your purse is gonna be ripped off, up hills, down hills and off in the distance more hills tightly stacked from top to bottom with houses and cars and people. Whew! A lot of Hectic. Quito was declared a UNESCO "World Heritage Site" in 1978, thanks to its historic center, which is the largest and best preserved in Latin America. A treasure trove of baroque art and architecture, including buildings, churches, monasteries and narrow streets that reflect Ecuador's unique blend of indigenous and Spanish cultures. The city’s central square in old town lies at 2,800 meters (9,200 feet) so Quito is the second highest capital city in the world, beat out by La Paz, Bolivia. But it is the largest highest capital city in the world closest to the equator because the city limits have spread to about one kilometre from zero latitude. Sights of old town rammed our headaches (caused by the high altitude) and blasted our tunnel vision with perpendicular perspectives, beautifully painted buildings, dark skinned indigenous people in colourful clothing, businessmen, poor people, well dressed young people, school kids in uniforms, nuns, tourists – they were all there. Every one of them would have loved to climb inside our camera, but did we let them? We did not. Photos were the last thing we cared about until we got better. Next day Richard was back in bed again with more problems.
One day we climbed out of bed and took a day trip to la Mitad del Mundo. We rode two very crowded local busses (total return cost for two 80 cents) and spent time examining the monument and the park dedicated to the Equator and the centre of the world. In fact, Ecuador means Equator in Spanish. We have a photo of Richard standing with one foot in the northern hemisphere and one foot in the south. If he’d had one more foot it might have been in the seat of my pants because I dragged him to so many places when he wasn’t feeling well but fortunately for my butt, both his sandals were grounded. After visiting both hemispheres at the same time Richard was completely worn out and went back to bed again. It took another two days, even with me feeding him yogurt and bananas, vitamin pills and Gatorade for the electrolytes, to be well enough to venture forth. He hung on to being sick as long as possible but on day five he was finally tired of the bed. We visited the handicraft market in the Mariscal Sucre district. We took the bus there and walked back. It was at the market that we spotted the little boy mentioned in the last blog. We found lots of things to buy at the market, fabulous deals on woven scarves and tablecloths and shawls, also tee shirts and creative silver jewellery, but alas Thelma was already packed tight with worn out clothes and Louis felt the same. So even though our hotel was nice, the next day Richard wanted out of Quito, not because it was a bad place but because it made him sick. So we took a taxi to the bus station, about 10 miles from old town and caught the first bus available for Guayaquil. We had spent so much time in Quito that it was too late to head north and too rushed for Banos. Guayaquil it would be.
The bus trip took about eight hours and was really quite uneventful except for going deaf. That’s right; all Ecuador busses are equipped with impressive speaker systems installed by hearing aid manufacturers. The speakers continually explode music and Spanish sound tracks into your head in machine gun fashion and there is only one way to turn them off or down - suicide. We are talking noise louder than anything you have ever heard before. When you need an ear drum transplant you know something was too loud. Once you’ve gone deaf after riding the bus for only eight hours, why would you worry about an upset stomach? Of course, Richard wasn’t sick any longer, he was deaf. We snacked on goodies we brought with us but we should also mention now that the very bus company with the loudest music in the world was also generous with lunch – a bag of chips about the size of a package of geranium seeds, and a bottle of pop about three inches high. Whew! We were so full but unfortunately in our eardrums, not our tummies. Many long distance busses in Ecuador have a conductor who takes the tickets and unlocks the washroom when you need it. Yes, the room is locked at all times in case you go in there and try to hide from the music. So you tap on the front window and indicate you need to use the facilities and the conductor will go back and unlock the bathroom door. But he waits outside because if you take too long he knows you are trying to install ear plugs and they are illegal on the bus. He then takes remedial action. Also, like in Mexico, the driver and conductor are separated from the passengers by a sound-proof wall with a locked door and in their compartment the sound is turned off. But the ride was good and at least we didn’t lose our eyesight….
We had pre-booked a gorgeous but inexpensive boutique hotel for three nights on Expedia thinking that after Quito we would head north to Otovallo or south to Banos. The Hotel Plaza Sucre was absolutely beautiful, a converted hacienda with a large central lobby open to the second floor, a wide and inviting interior veranda with beautiful detailed railings, classy furniture, colourful walls and amazing artwork. (The best art we have seen in Ecuador to date.) Our room was well equipped with safe, satellite television, comfy bed, window that opened to the front street, hot shower and even included breakfast – a gorgeous little posada perfectly situated in the heart of old town, within easy walking distance of everywhere. In fact Donna states emphatically that the Boutique Hotel Plaza Sucre is one of the top hotel bargains of their entire travel career. But little did we know when we checked in that we would not be leaving after three nights, we would be hanging around for almost a week. We both suffered serious bouts of food poisoning after dinner in La Rhonda the first evening and we were down and out. Incapacitated. One day we bounced back a little and started stuffing Quito’s sights into the gaping hole in our travel addiction. Here’s what we saw - Hectic with a capital H! Think of thousands of people running into a hockey game all at once to get the best seats. Think of narrow, crowded sidewalks, incredible architecture, lush and busy open plazas, little tiny short indigenous people scurrying everywhere, towering church steeples, taxis beeping and blasting continuously, bus after bus swishing so close to the sidewalk and your body that you think your nose, or your arm, or your purse is gonna be ripped off, up hills, down hills and off in the distance more hills tightly stacked from top to bottom with houses and cars and people. Whew! A lot of Hectic. Quito was declared a UNESCO "World Heritage Site" in 1978, thanks to its historic center, which is the largest and best preserved in Latin America. A treasure trove of baroque art and architecture, including buildings, churches, monasteries and narrow streets that reflect Ecuador's unique blend of indigenous and Spanish cultures. The city’s central square in old town lies at 2,800 meters (9,200 feet) so Quito is the second highest capital city in the world, beat out by La Paz, Bolivia. But it is the largest highest capital city in the world closest to the equator because the city limits have spread to about one kilometre from zero latitude. Sights of old town rammed our headaches (caused by the high altitude) and blasted our tunnel vision with perpendicular perspectives, beautifully painted buildings, dark skinned indigenous people in colourful clothing, businessmen, poor people, well dressed young people, school kids in uniforms, nuns, tourists – they were all there. Every one of them would have loved to climb inside our camera, but did we let them? We did not. Photos were the last thing we cared about until we got better. Next day Richard was back in bed again with more problems.
One day we climbed out of bed and took a day trip to la Mitad del Mundo. We rode two very crowded local busses (total return cost for two 80 cents) and spent time examining the monument and the park dedicated to the Equator and the centre of the world. In fact, Ecuador means Equator in Spanish. We have a photo of Richard standing with one foot in the northern hemisphere and one foot in the south. If he’d had one more foot it might have been in the seat of my pants because I dragged him to so many places when he wasn’t feeling well but fortunately for my butt, both his sandals were grounded. After visiting both hemispheres at the same time Richard was completely worn out and went back to bed again. It took another two days, even with me feeding him yogurt and bananas, vitamin pills and Gatorade for the electrolytes, to be well enough to venture forth. He hung on to being sick as long as possible but on day five he was finally tired of the bed. We visited the handicraft market in the Mariscal Sucre district. We took the bus there and walked back. It was at the market that we spotted the little boy mentioned in the last blog. We found lots of things to buy at the market, fabulous deals on woven scarves and tablecloths and shawls, also tee shirts and creative silver jewellery, but alas Thelma was already packed tight with worn out clothes and Louis felt the same. So even though our hotel was nice, the next day Richard wanted out of Quito, not because it was a bad place but because it made him sick. So we took a taxi to the bus station, about 10 miles from old town and caught the first bus available for Guayaquil. We had spent so much time in Quito that it was too late to head north and too rushed for Banos. Guayaquil it would be.
The bus trip took about eight hours and was really quite uneventful except for going deaf. That’s right; all Ecuador busses are equipped with impressive speaker systems installed by hearing aid manufacturers. The speakers continually explode music and Spanish sound tracks into your head in machine gun fashion and there is only one way to turn them off or down - suicide. We are talking noise louder than anything you have ever heard before. When you need an ear drum transplant you know something was too loud. Once you’ve gone deaf after riding the bus for only eight hours, why would you worry about an upset stomach? Of course, Richard wasn’t sick any longer, he was deaf. We snacked on goodies we brought with us but we should also mention now that the very bus company with the loudest music in the world was also generous with lunch – a bag of chips about the size of a package of geranium seeds, and a bottle of pop about three inches high. Whew! We were so full but unfortunately in our eardrums, not our tummies. Many long distance busses in Ecuador have a conductor who takes the tickets and unlocks the washroom when you need it. Yes, the room is locked at all times in case you go in there and try to hide from the music. So you tap on the front window and indicate you need to use the facilities and the conductor will go back and unlock the bathroom door. But he waits outside because if you take too long he knows you are trying to install ear plugs and they are illegal on the bus. He then takes remedial action. Also, like in Mexico, the driver and conductor are separated from the passengers by a sound-proof wall with a locked door and in their compartment the sound is turned off. But the ride was good and at least we didn’t lose our eyesight….
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Jayden Jayden Everywhere a Jayden
1. Rip my heart out and run over it with a lawn mower…
December 24, 2010. At 10:00am Christmas Eve morning in Buenos Aires we rolled through Park Las Heras on our way back to the apartment after an early morning power walk. It was a gorgeous sunny day and our hearts were filled to the brim with an elixir of happiness and love, the kind that bursts from your chest at Christmas. We were talking about our Vernon and Calgary kids as we hurried along, knowing that they would be almost ready for the Christmas rush with lots of company and turkey and presents stacked as high as dreams can fly. We talked about our toddler grandkids, Jayden and Kinsley, and knew that their Christmas excitement would be priceless, filled with Santa Claus and wrapping paper and presents as big as they are – such is the privilege of the land from whence we come. We were really missing our grandkids. We were moving fairly fast when we rounded the corner. And there they were. That family of four.
The first person I saw was a grimy little boy about Jayden’s age. He was sitting on the sidewalk leaning against the outside wall of the bank. It looked like he had been crying – or did I only imagine that? He had a juice box in one hand and an almost empty bag of chips in the other. Junk food for breakfast on Christmas Eve morning. He looked at us with eyes that said something I had never seen before – and it sent jolts of electricity into every valve and vessel in my heart. Nearby lay his mother and two sisters. Sprawled on the sidewalk in front of the bank. They were all asleep – sound asleep with arms entwined for company, or protection. Mother, daughter about twelve and daughter about eight. All those people - sound asleep. My God! My eyes surveyed the scene again in disbelief. Who was watching the little boy? Worry churned inside my stomach. Who on earth was watching over this little boy on Christmas Eve morning while he ate junk food? At that age for sure our grandson, Jayden, could not be trusted to sit still, or stay where he should or do what he should. And what if he wandered off or was lured away by someone, this grimy little boy who did not seem to have a home? Who of these sleeping people would even know? The churning in my stomach made me feel sick. My eyes started leaking. A hand covered my mouth and then quickly brushed the tears away. We walked past. Imagined or real, I could feel the ire of the little boy’s circumstances boring into every aspect of my plush life and ripping it to pieces. How dare we all have so much when he has so little on Christmas Eve morning in sunny Buenos Aires? How dare we?
By the time that train of thought thundered down the tracks inside my brain I couldn’t even talk and when Richard looked down to see why I hadn’t answered his question he realized in shock that the person he was with had transformed from an upright woman of adventure into an emotionally distressed grandmother who had just been kicked in the face by the boots of reality.
I mean, out of control. Crying like a baby.
“We’ve got to do something to help these people!” I wailed. “It’s Christmas Eve!” …said like, it’s Christmas EEEvvvvee! “What can we do to help them? What can we do?” Richard wanted to know. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we can give them some money, but that little boy deserves more for Christmas than he has right now. He didn’t ask for these terrible circumstances!” So we devised a plan to give them a fair amount of money – I know, I know, there are better ways to handle these issues, we’ve been told that a million times and we’ve told others that a million times. But at that emotional exclamation point in our lives there was nothing else we could think of to do. That family needed a gift for Christmas, end of story.
We calculated our cash situation and dug into the wallet. Richard walked toward them. I stood partially hidden in a doorway and watched because, embarrassing as it was, I could not stop crying and I didn’t want the little boy to see me. Richard woke the mother and handed her the wad of cash. She must have been bewildered beyond words. Tears still rolled down my face and my one and only Kleenex was reduced to the size of a soaking wet marble. The caretaker came out of the building and stood in the doorway beside me. He quickly looked around to see what was going on: foreign woman bawling noisily in his doorway, tall, grey-haired man trying to wake the mother sleeping on the sidewalk, the grim and grimy little three year old suspiciously watching the stranger trying to wake his mother. Satisfied that everything was okay, the caretaker said in broken English. “It’s all right.’ I looked at him with astonishment on my face and he said again, ‘don’t worry, it’s all right.’ I thought he was an escapee from a mental ward. In fact I probably had the same look in my eyes that I had just seen in the little boy’s eyes only moments before! ‘What is all right?’ I wanted to scream at him. What on earth could be all right when a mother and her children are sleeping in the street on Christmas Eve morning and her little boy is sitting by himself eating junk food? What one thing about that is all right? I was so upset I wanted to smack him. But of course, he was just trying to be kind and calm me down. Maybe it was his way of saying that this is the way they live, so everything for them is all right. I don’t know. I don’t know.
Richard managed to hand over the wad of cash. I’m sure the mother never understood what the whole thing was about. We never saw them again even though we walked past that corner almost everyday for the next month. What happened to them we do not know, we just hope they shared a special little something for Christmas.
2. Rip my heart out again…
January 25, 2011. Quito, Ecuador. Stranded in Quito for days because of food poisoning but on this day we finally had enough energy to take on an impossibly crowded city bus. And the handicraft market. It was a good-looking, sunny day and we were happy to be mobile. While we were at the market a tiny indigenous lady in traditional clothing with a tiny, tiny black haired baby strapped to her back, asked us to buy some gum. These gum sellers are everywhere. We said, ‘no gracias’. The imploring look on her face and in her eyes read as an entire volume about motherhood, vulnerability and indigenous poverty but we are hardened to that - we said no again. After she left I said to Richard that I changed my mind. I wanted the gum after all. Guilty conscience? I don’t know. I ran after her and bought the gum. Of course she ripped me off and never thought twice about it, that’s what they do. Even though they are vulnerable, they are sales people and it’s their job. Everyone knows that. On the way back to find Richard I spotted Jayden.
His mother worked in a stall at the market, the last booth at the end of a long row. The little boy, same age as Jayden, was sitting by himself at the side of the stall, completely out of sight from his mother or any caregiver. He sat cross legged on the sidewalk and leaned against the canvas wall of the stall. He was comfortable in that place and had probably spent time there everyday for most of his life. Dozens of people walking by had to move out and around him. He was happily eating by himself and had placed his breakfast playfully on the sidewalk. On the filthy sidewalk. A half eaten croissant. While I watched he picked it up, pulled a bite and then tossed it back down on the cement.
I arrived back where Richard was waiting with tears in my eyes again. But I didn’t want another breakdown so merely mentioned that the little boy over there was using the sidewalk as his breakfast table. I quickly wiped away the signs so Richard wouldn’t notice. We looked back at the space on the sidewalk. It was empty. The little boy had disappeared and taken the croissant with him.
As people who love to travel and have been doing so for years, we have witnessed disturbing events in many countries, wealthy and poor. We lived in Mexico for 2 ½ years for goodness sake! Even though countless of our experiences have been sad or painful or upsetting, I have usually been able to handle them in an adult way. But on this trip it seems that children who remind me of my grandson, Jayden, little boys who are vulnerable and underprivileged, set off an emotional alarm in my head that I have trouble turning off. We cannot fix all the broken bits in the world; we know that. I know that. But…
December 24, 2010. At 10:00am Christmas Eve morning in Buenos Aires we rolled through Park Las Heras on our way back to the apartment after an early morning power walk. It was a gorgeous sunny day and our hearts were filled to the brim with an elixir of happiness and love, the kind that bursts from your chest at Christmas. We were talking about our Vernon and Calgary kids as we hurried along, knowing that they would be almost ready for the Christmas rush with lots of company and turkey and presents stacked as high as dreams can fly. We talked about our toddler grandkids, Jayden and Kinsley, and knew that their Christmas excitement would be priceless, filled with Santa Claus and wrapping paper and presents as big as they are – such is the privilege of the land from whence we come. We were really missing our grandkids. We were moving fairly fast when we rounded the corner. And there they were. That family of four.
The first person I saw was a grimy little boy about Jayden’s age. He was sitting on the sidewalk leaning against the outside wall of the bank. It looked like he had been crying – or did I only imagine that? He had a juice box in one hand and an almost empty bag of chips in the other. Junk food for breakfast on Christmas Eve morning. He looked at us with eyes that said something I had never seen before – and it sent jolts of electricity into every valve and vessel in my heart. Nearby lay his mother and two sisters. Sprawled on the sidewalk in front of the bank. They were all asleep – sound asleep with arms entwined for company, or protection. Mother, daughter about twelve and daughter about eight. All those people - sound asleep. My God! My eyes surveyed the scene again in disbelief. Who was watching the little boy? Worry churned inside my stomach. Who on earth was watching over this little boy on Christmas Eve morning while he ate junk food? At that age for sure our grandson, Jayden, could not be trusted to sit still, or stay where he should or do what he should. And what if he wandered off or was lured away by someone, this grimy little boy who did not seem to have a home? Who of these sleeping people would even know? The churning in my stomach made me feel sick. My eyes started leaking. A hand covered my mouth and then quickly brushed the tears away. We walked past. Imagined or real, I could feel the ire of the little boy’s circumstances boring into every aspect of my plush life and ripping it to pieces. How dare we all have so much when he has so little on Christmas Eve morning in sunny Buenos Aires? How dare we?
By the time that train of thought thundered down the tracks inside my brain I couldn’t even talk and when Richard looked down to see why I hadn’t answered his question he realized in shock that the person he was with had transformed from an upright woman of adventure into an emotionally distressed grandmother who had just been kicked in the face by the boots of reality.
I mean, out of control. Crying like a baby.
“We’ve got to do something to help these people!” I wailed. “It’s Christmas Eve!” …said like, it’s Christmas EEEvvvvee! “What can we do to help them? What can we do?” Richard wanted to know. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we can give them some money, but that little boy deserves more for Christmas than he has right now. He didn’t ask for these terrible circumstances!” So we devised a plan to give them a fair amount of money – I know, I know, there are better ways to handle these issues, we’ve been told that a million times and we’ve told others that a million times. But at that emotional exclamation point in our lives there was nothing else we could think of to do. That family needed a gift for Christmas, end of story.
We calculated our cash situation and dug into the wallet. Richard walked toward them. I stood partially hidden in a doorway and watched because, embarrassing as it was, I could not stop crying and I didn’t want the little boy to see me. Richard woke the mother and handed her the wad of cash. She must have been bewildered beyond words. Tears still rolled down my face and my one and only Kleenex was reduced to the size of a soaking wet marble. The caretaker came out of the building and stood in the doorway beside me. He quickly looked around to see what was going on: foreign woman bawling noisily in his doorway, tall, grey-haired man trying to wake the mother sleeping on the sidewalk, the grim and grimy little three year old suspiciously watching the stranger trying to wake his mother. Satisfied that everything was okay, the caretaker said in broken English. “It’s all right.’ I looked at him with astonishment on my face and he said again, ‘don’t worry, it’s all right.’ I thought he was an escapee from a mental ward. In fact I probably had the same look in my eyes that I had just seen in the little boy’s eyes only moments before! ‘What is all right?’ I wanted to scream at him. What on earth could be all right when a mother and her children are sleeping in the street on Christmas Eve morning and her little boy is sitting by himself eating junk food? What one thing about that is all right? I was so upset I wanted to smack him. But of course, he was just trying to be kind and calm me down. Maybe it was his way of saying that this is the way they live, so everything for them is all right. I don’t know. I don’t know.
Richard managed to hand over the wad of cash. I’m sure the mother never understood what the whole thing was about. We never saw them again even though we walked past that corner almost everyday for the next month. What happened to them we do not know, we just hope they shared a special little something for Christmas.
2. Rip my heart out again…
January 25, 2011. Quito, Ecuador. Stranded in Quito for days because of food poisoning but on this day we finally had enough energy to take on an impossibly crowded city bus. And the handicraft market. It was a good-looking, sunny day and we were happy to be mobile. While we were at the market a tiny indigenous lady in traditional clothing with a tiny, tiny black haired baby strapped to her back, asked us to buy some gum. These gum sellers are everywhere. We said, ‘no gracias’. The imploring look on her face and in her eyes read as an entire volume about motherhood, vulnerability and indigenous poverty but we are hardened to that - we said no again. After she left I said to Richard that I changed my mind. I wanted the gum after all. Guilty conscience? I don’t know. I ran after her and bought the gum. Of course she ripped me off and never thought twice about it, that’s what they do. Even though they are vulnerable, they are sales people and it’s their job. Everyone knows that. On the way back to find Richard I spotted Jayden.
His mother worked in a stall at the market, the last booth at the end of a long row. The little boy, same age as Jayden, was sitting by himself at the side of the stall, completely out of sight from his mother or any caregiver. He sat cross legged on the sidewalk and leaned against the canvas wall of the stall. He was comfortable in that place and had probably spent time there everyday for most of his life. Dozens of people walking by had to move out and around him. He was happily eating by himself and had placed his breakfast playfully on the sidewalk. On the filthy sidewalk. A half eaten croissant. While I watched he picked it up, pulled a bite and then tossed it back down on the cement.
I arrived back where Richard was waiting with tears in my eyes again. But I didn’t want another breakdown so merely mentioned that the little boy over there was using the sidewalk as his breakfast table. I quickly wiped away the signs so Richard wouldn’t notice. We looked back at the space on the sidewalk. It was empty. The little boy had disappeared and taken the croissant with him.
As people who love to travel and have been doing so for years, we have witnessed disturbing events in many countries, wealthy and poor. We lived in Mexico for 2 ½ years for goodness sake! Even though countless of our experiences have been sad or painful or upsetting, I have usually been able to handle them in an adult way. But on this trip it seems that children who remind me of my grandson, Jayden, little boys who are vulnerable and underprivileged, set off an emotional alarm in my head that I have trouble turning off. We cannot fix all the broken bits in the world; we know that. I know that. But…
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