The Peripatetic.

Everyone I talked to in Ecuador told me that Colombia was far more beautiful and far more dangerous. Recently, the Colombian government pursued some rebels into Ecuadorian territory, and Ecuador was furious. Colombia hadn’t asked; they just came in. My Colombian friends say that, in Ecuador now, Colombians are suffering.

Beyond that, there is a palpable police presence here in Colombia. Guards and guns abound. I did notice that, but after growing up in Israel where military service is mandatory, and men and women in uniform — and armed — are everywhere in public, guns are no longer shocking.

Ecuador is far more chill. No doubt. More than once, people would tell me, “We’re a third world country.” It explained late performances and canceled meetings or, in my case, the fact that there was not much for me to do after I left the wedding and headed south.

There was much to learn if not to do. My friend’s family lived 40 minutes from the city at a different altitude — which meant that it was always summer where they were, almost always sunny and warm. It became my favorite house in the Andes.

From top down:
-hot chocolate with CHEESE not unlike marshmellows,
-pork and one of the many types of corn,
-Quito at sundown,
-Plantains with peanut butter and cheese (cheese, cheese, cheese — salty and abundant, but never in the smelly varieties you find in France),
-a couple of traveling Argentinian musicians who came up to our restaurant to play at the request of a friend smitten with that woman (and chill Ecuador, the restaurant owners didn’t say a thing).

In Loja, I learned that the little city was developed primarily by four families. The major buildings around the city square were each owned by one of those families. My tour guides were high school and college buddies of my Ecuadorian friend. Together, they started filming shows to promote local tourism — come here, in your own country before you go to Europe!

They also ran English classes with a drive that reminded me of China. “Learn English! It’s your key to the world!” They gathered friends and other students together so they could afford teachers for a variety of levels, and Bam! English classes every day, all day. I sat in on a few, to “help,” but nothing was planned or organized. I would just show up, the guys running the foundation would tell the teacher, and there I was standing in front of ten or so students explaining why I was there.

Ecuador, chill Ecuador. None of the teachers ever complained; they’d do whatever they could to help. The same happened in a university class — suddenly I was in front of twenty or so students in an international relations course. Wherever we went — on an impromptu visit, unexepted, sometimes uninvited — we were always welcomed.

We were interviewed by two radio stations about our travels and our impressions of Loja. “Pure hearts” was the first thing out of my mouth. Yes, people seemed to have great hearts. Genuine smiles.

Back at the perpetual-summer home, an American who worked in a variety of professions in Ecuador for the past few decades, married an Ecuadorian who took on the care of her sister’s children when her sister had medical problems. They were beautiful. Their house, a work in progess for as long as the summer (i.e. perpetual) had a special no-flush-no-water-toilet/out-house that did not smell. They built everything themselves. There were two hammocks, one outhouse, two computers, three dogs, one little boy and his mother, one girl, one young woman and two parents who lived there. The house had its own energy, and was a welcome reprieve from hours traveling to, from and around Loja.

Of course, they all warned me about Colombia.

My Ecuadorian friend gave me strict orders, as my overnight bus pulled away from the station and I hung out the window saying goodbye in hopelessly broken Spanish.

Smiles, cheers, jokes and then, “There is something very serious. Very important. Do not tell anyone in Colombia about me, my family, my house — nothing! I am very serious.”

“Why, are you afraid of kidnapping?” I was half kidding.

“That’s part of the reason.”

He refused to say more. I was angry, partially for the inherent prejudices in that statement and partially because, well, he wouldn’t tell me why! I hate that. I couldn’t even brush my teeth when I was little without knowing exactly what would happen to each tooth if I didn’t.

That two-minute interchange was indicative of much of my Ecuador trip. The over-cautious concern for my well-being, the solicitous care, the patience with my poor Spanish, the fact that my friend even came to the window of the bus to wish me goodbye, the jokes, the laughter, and the fear of that great, Northern neighbor.

It was also indicative of the fact that even after all this travel, I am still more “American” than I realize at times: brunt, up front, and disdainful of anyone who tries to give me orders. Dialogue? — Sure. Consultation? — Great. Orders? — What?!

My friend, however, was speaking as someone who had grown up in a part of the world I had only seen for a few weeks. What do I know? Not much.

So far, so good, though.

I met an old guerrilla fighter — who happens to be the governor of a southern state now — and the Minister of Infrastructure spent a few hours explaining the workings of the governement to me, from the President down to his spacious office in Pasto, Colombia. More, much more, on that to come. And more, too, on what was learned in Loja. For now, the rest of Ecuador as I saw it . . .