Dateline: Ecuador
July 1, 2013

Then we hit Coca. Welcome to the jungle.
A billboard reads "El Petrolero Mejora Su Communidad." Oil makes your community better. Just down the road is Hotel Exotica, then the Moulin Rouge. The latter is a fortress, enclosed by a cinder block wall on which hangs a vinyl banner showing a woman in fishnet stockings, lying on her back with her legs in the air.
Boomtowns and brothels. The second Amazonian oil boom is in full swing in Coca.

I could hear my guide talking to one of the other passengers about me. He told him that I was an anthropologist, going to the Shuar to study "medicinas naturales, plantas." He spoke loudly so that everyone could hear that he was guiding an anthropologist, not just any old tourist. I rolled my eyes and dug through my broken backpack for some Kallari chocolate, the only saving grace of my time so far in Ecuador. Be nice to him, I told myself. It's not his fault that your house in Colorado got flooded with sewage, that your back pack broke as you were getting on the bus, and that you didn't bring duct tape with you to the Amazon (who goes to the fucking Amazon without duct tape?). Of course, it WAS his fault that he'd sold me a false bill of goods with this trip, a fact becoming more and more clear with every bend in the road—but it was too late to do anything about that. We were well on our way to wherever we were going, for good or ill.


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In case you are wondering, it's a SealLine.
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We'd stopped, fortuitously, in front of a belt shop. I strapped a heavy leather belt around the bottom of my backpack, tied my shoulder strap to it, and was good to go. Thank god, because the sun was high, the streets were uneven, and the heat of a jungle city is damn near unbearable. We walked several blocks as Eduardo looked for our next bus stop. We wandered through a market, picking up some last supplies. We found our stop, Eduardo bought tickets, and we waited. And waited. And waited.

And then we waited. And we waited. The driver of the bus was nowhere to be seen, and no one was going to get off and go look for him. The bus was completely packed with breathing, transpiring, and perspiring bodies. The heat was unbearable, and not a breath of air stirred.
There was a mother with a crying infant sitting in the front seat between me and the window. The baby's face was red and its hair was plastered to its head with sweat. I was afraid it would get heat stroke. I was certain, in fact, that it was in the process of getting heat stroke. It gasped for breath between wails. I tried to open the window next to them to get some air in. Several other people also tried to open the window. The window did not budge. I had my Spanish-English dictionary in my hand, and I tried to fan them with it to no avail. I think someone gave her a bottle of water to dampen the baby's head with. We started to realize that this was a real situation. This baby was going to die if the bus didn't start moving. Finally someone went to get the driver, and managed to drag him away from his dinner so that we could get on the road.
The name of our bus line was Petrolera. The oil pipeline followed us the whole way.
Lovely blog great vibe and enjoying your paper on icaros and plant human spirit relationships. Important work Id say.
ReplyDeleteJean-Francois Sobiecki
Jean-Francois, thanks for your comment; it's good to hear from a colleague. And glad you are enjoying the paper. Keep checking back here; I've got a lot from this current trip to Peru that I look forward to getting up asap.
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