Slow Train to Market – Ecuador

There needs to be a pretty good reason to get me up before the sun. One
such reason begins in Riobamba, Ecuador on a train…on the ROOF of a train.
That’s right, several hundred gringos take a seven hour ride on the roof.
Yes, they are absolutely all gringos…the locals obviously have far too
much common sense for this endeavor.

I really wonder if people looked at the guy who originally had this
idea like they looked at Copernicus and Galileo with their theories many
years ago. Today that guy appears just as brilliant as the roof is packed,
even rejecting hopeful riders to the standard cars in the rear. Somebody
somewhere is making some bucks!

The train runs roundtrip Wednesday, Friday and Saturday from Riobamba
to Sibambe. The final leg, from the town of Alausi to Sibambe, goes through
the Nariz del Diablo Canyon, where the riders have the pleasure and/or
horror of looking over the precipice as the train runs on the track just
feet from the edge.

The train is scheduled to leave at 7am, but to get a seat on the roof
it is suggested to be there promptly at 6am. I decide to beat the rush and
arrive early at 5:30. I beat the rush but I am far from early. The station
is already a beehive of activity, as this train has generated it’s own
economy. Vendors loudly hawk their food, drinks, and the most essential
item, cushion rentals. In hindsight I cannot imagine taking this trip
without one. The roof of a steel train car is as hard as the sidewalk but
the sidewalk does not sway and bounce.

Those that have arrived ahead of me have already filled the front car
behind the engine and half of the second. I climb up the second car ladder
and decide to take a seat right there in the rear, thinking it will be
easier to get on and off at rest stops and I also will be able hang my legs
from the side between cars. Travel with a very bad knee requires constant
leg room analysis.

As the rooftop fills I see this decision may not be the best. People
continue to climb up, convinced there is room to squeeze in one more. On
the end you do not get squeezed, you get pushed closer to the edge. Also,
vendors now are on top going from car to car, and an assumed responsibility
of this seat position is to help them over with their food and merchandise.

All the car roofs are now at capacity and we are about ready to go. I
look up and down and see a bevy of bundled bodies. Weather in the Ecuador
highlands near the Equator goes from one extreme to another. Nights are
chilly and days quite warm. I am the type who thinks it is too cold any
time you go out and have to put on more than a pair of shorts, so I have
layers of socks, long underwear, long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt and overcoat.
As the train departs I am pleased to be prepared as the breeze makes it
quite a brisk ride.

I am surprised that the train departs precisely at the scheduled 7am as
I have become accustomed to this continent where punctuality is not a
priority. As we pull out through town we are greeted with smiles and waves
from everybody, most with the same facial expression that you might see
from people watching bungee jumps…”that looks like fun but you’re f$%*ing
crazy!”

It is not long before we are greeted with a phenomonal view of the
snowtopped mountain Chimborazo. We wind through more incredible scenery
which exemplifies the remarkable diversity of a country as small as Ecuador,
with mountains, valleys, fertile farms and barren lifeless areas. We also
see the simple lives the rural people of Ecuador live. They do wash in the
streams, till the fields, shepherd livestock, and effortlessly climb nearly
vertical mountain paths with what appear to be impossible amounts of crops
on their backs. Everywhere the people, especially the children, excitedly
wave and some kids run close to the tracks. Their greetings are genuine but
they have learned that candy treats are sold by the roof vendors and are
thrown their way by the passengers. I feel blessed and embarrassed in my warm
clothes as most of the children are lightly dressed and barefoot.

As we progress it becomes evident that we are somewhat of a tourist
attraction ourselves, as tour buses are always parked at road intersections
which are blocked as the train passes. We look down along the tracks at a
sea of cameras and video recorders. Oooooohhhhhh, how I want to moon. For
one of the few times in my life common sense prevails and I sit on it
instead of showing it.

Conductors check tickets on top of the MOVING train

The job of conductor on this train is not for the feint of heart. They
walk along the crowded cars as the train moves checking tickets just like
any other conductor, only they move along the car edges where it is less
crowded, and of course less stable. It is impossible not to be impressed by
their sense of balance as they move back and forth in conjunction with the
train’s motion.

We journey about four hours to Alausi, where the final leg begins.
Some riders actually begin their trip here. Several more cars are added and
immediately the gringos ascend and scurry for seats. While this is
happening, those who have been riding are descending and scurrying looking
for bathrooms! I imagine this looks quite comical to the locals even though
they see it frequently.

When everyone is on the train, the clothes are coming off. It is now
quite warm and most riders have removed as much as possible. It is a relief
as the train starts again with the cooling breeze as we head into the Nariz
del Diablo. I do not know what that translates into and I sort of
understood a conductor’s explanation the the Diablo is actually the biggest rock in the
valley. The trip is the descent from the highlands into the lowlands and
features many starts and stops and changes of direction, frequently close
enough to overhangs to be very intimidating. Sibambe is at the end, and I
am still trying to figure out just what Sibambe is, because damn if there
was a town or even a human being when we commenced our return to Alausi. I
enjoyed this final leg immensely but actually preferred the initial four
hours. The scenery was much more varied and there were many people.

The train stops in Alausi and the great majority of riders get off. It
is possible to take the train back to Riobamba but most opt to bus back
there or to their next destination. Being a glutton for punishment, I decide
that after seven hours on the train I can handle five more riding hours on a bus
to….

Saquisili

I am amused when BootsnAll contributers choose to lambast Lonely Planet,
lamenting inaccuracies and attaching unflattering nicknames. It seems the
mode of thought is this criticism annoints hipness to the writer. By their
very nature, guidebooks tend to be obsolete when they are printed, but I
find the great usefulness of LP to be in their suggestions of itineraries
and tidbits of advice which do not become dated. Saquisili is recommended
as having the best indigenous village market which occurs every Thursday
morning. This is a scenario I yearn to experience, as I am a little tired of
watching tourists haggle over crafts around the world. LP also states
hotels fill fast Wednesday afternoon in Latacunga, a nearby town where
lodging is available as it is quite scarce in Saquisilli. I learn in
exasperating fashion the accuracy of this statement.

I jump off the bus outside of town on the highway called the Panamerica.
In Ecuador it is common to not be taken to a terminal. Bus riders
frequently disembark right on the road, as well as embark by flagging down
buses by reading desired destinations in the windshields. I take a taxi
into town and begin my search for a room. Every hotel, listed in LP or not,
is full. I am not a happy camper. This means that after 12 hours of
train/bus rides, I likely need to hop on again and go to Ambato, about an
hour away, to crash. Though he speaks no English and my Spanish basically
consists of pointing at words in a dictionary, the taxi driver figures out
my dilemma through the trip all over town. He takes me to a dark and fairly
deserted section and points to a sign half-hanging from the second floor of
a building that says “Residencial.”

I climb the stairs and quickly see by
the conditions that this is not a past, present, or future franchise of
Marriot to say the least, but I am happy to be informed that a room is
available. I ask to see it and as I walk down the hall several doors open
with women looking out and then close. Ah-hah. I am horrified, thinking
the clerk believes I want to know if a room is available with company.
Luckily he understood me and I am shown an unoccupied room with four beds,
three of which are broken in pieces and in disarray. The fourth is in one
piece and my inspection determines the mattress is, well, tolerable and the
sheets are clean. No bloodstained wall evidence of bedbugs. I decide I can
handle the peeling paint, the broken window in the bathroom, and the
likelihood that I am spending the night in a brothel. As I settle in to
sleep I snicker a little at wondering how the beds got broken.

For the second day in a row, which may be a record for me, I am up
before the sun. I want to get as early a start as possible to not only see
the market but also it’s formation. I flag a bus on the Panamerica and
arrive in Saquisili at about 6:45. Major portions of the market are already
up but many vendors are still arriving with their goods. I walk towards the
main square and am startled as a cow jumps out of a pickup right next to me
and begins to run. Two people give chase and humorously finally corner him
and get a rope around his neck to lead him to a walled area next to the
their truck. I now am repulsively greeted by the reason the cow probably
sensed he better make a break for it and fast.

This cow and many others, along with goats, sheep, pigs – you name the
animal – are being slaughtered right in the street. Their throats are
slashed, they are hoisted and drained of blood, heads
are severed, and then the meticulous process of dicing commences. I am
amazed by the speed of the process and sickened by the spectacle. Add this
one to the list of jobs I do not want: blood sweeper. It is one guy’s job
to sweep the blood into a very inadequate drainage system, the result being
he is in ankle deep. I have had enough of these macabre moments and tote my
queasy stomach along to the main square and principal market site.

Severed Head Stew. Note heads on plate at right.

I am early and the market is being set up. Despite my unsettled stomach
I am quite hungry and stop at one of the many street food vender tables.
There are three big pots of soup or stew and they smell good, although I
have no idea what each is. I decide on the one with what appears to be a
cream broth, and while the lady begins to stir and ladle my breakfast, I
spy a plate of severed animal heads next to the pots. I am not sure what
kind of animal – maybe a goat – but they are definitely heads. And then I
see one in the pot from which my breakfast is being served. Oh good. I am
really giving my stomach a test. After watching the carnage of the animal
market I am about to indulge in some “severed head stew.” Actually, it was
not bad. Full of what I assume were vegetables and meats and no severed
head in my bowl. Much to my amazement, my stomach not only did not revolt,
it actually seemed to settle somewhat.

By the time I finish this gourmet treat, the market is rockin’. What
appears to be chaos is actually quite organized as specific goods are
available in specific areas, and everybody knows what and where everything
goes. I watch spellbound at both the quantity and diversity of products and
the method and speed in which they are moved. Backpackers would be amazed
at the head-strap contraption and the amount of weight these people can
carry with it. It is basically a huge satchel, with the market goods on
their back and the strap across their forehead. They walk fast, almost
stooped to the ground. Pottery is stacked with straw between the individual
items as padding, and although it looks like quite a few pieces would break
in the tumultuous truck and trek journey, I bet not one is damaged. Every
type of grain and vegetable grown in Ecuador is available, and the buyers
are quite astute as they carefully examine the quality of the produce.
There are many smaller animals: chickens, guinea pigs, rabbits, kittens,
puppies. None of them seem to be for sale as pets, and their method of
transport is quite cruel. Heads and legs protrude from wire cages. I
suggest activists from PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals)
avoid this market. (Actually, they should be quite prepared for the shock
of how animals are treated in general in South America.)

Color of commerce, Ecuador style

As I watch, I think to myself that a skilled or professional
photographer would thrive in this environment. Besides the fascinating
activity, the amount and contrast of color is striking in the traditional
dress of the indigenous people of Ecuador. The socks, skirts, blouses and
ponchos are almost flourescent shades of green, red, blue, orange – I am
definitely omitting quite a few hues. The full range of human emotion is
evident on all faces to be captured on film: the exertion from carrying
goods weighing many times that of the person carrying it, the anticipation
of a sale, the exhiliration when it occurs and disappointment when it does
not, the omnipresent fatigue in the lines of faces resulting from
hopelessness and desperation. And of course the children who always provide
endless photo ops. Everywhere in the world their resilience is the same.
Regardless of the situation, they find ways to play and cause mischief. It
was watching a group’s revelry that plunged me into a very frightening
situation.

A young girl was playing hide and seek. Evidently she thought getting
behind the tall gringo would be an ideal hiding spot. Which it was as long
as she was fairly still. I am amused that I am an integral part of the game
as I see the others search for her and she ingeniously moves around me
depending on where her pursuers were to stay concealed. The problem with
this is her hair became tangled in one of the buttons on my coat which
neither of us realized. She finally moves in a fashion which made her hair
pull which I am sure hurt and frightened her. She begins crying – loudly –
and tries to run, now pulling her hair quite hard.

What this could appear to be to onlookers makes me more frightened than
her. I now have two options, neither of which bodes well. I can run with
her, making it look like a crazy gringo is chasing a crying child, and risk
the reaction of the crowd, which would understandably not be pleasant. Or I
can stand and hope the child stops before literally pulling her hair out. I
am genuinely afraid especially because I cannot explain what is happening
and be understood.

I cannot handle hearing her cry and seeing her hair taunt from my coat
so I nervously move with her. Naturally this attracts attention and
thankfully one of the first to see is an old woman who noticed the
situation, stopped the girl and calmed her down. It took her several
minutes to unravel the hair while I was surrounded by an inquisitive and
suspicious crowd. It is probably good I could not understand the incessant
spreading chatter. When finally separated, I try to move away as
inauspiciously as possible, which is not easy when being the tallest and
lightest skinned person there. I finally feel free of the stares and then
manage to entangle myself in another brouhaha when I forget the old
expression that the road to hell is based on good intentions.

A very old woman drops a dollar bill. (The U.S. dollar is the official
currency of Ecuador.) I instinctively stoop to retrieve it for her. This
woman moves with the speed of a cobra striking and snatches the bill before I
get to it, actually cutting my hand with her fingernails in the process, and
begins screaming venomously at me. I am once more genuinely afraid. She
would not understand my explanation that I was trying to help, but I
understand clearly – even though I don’t understand a word she is saying –
that she is convinced I was trying to steal her dollar, which very possibly
could be the only money she earns all day. Again a crowd gathers, and again
I try to steal away (poor choice of words?) inconspicuously.

Think of this next time your backpack feels heavy

It is said things happen in threes and I was not about to test this
theory so I make haste to leave. And as I go I think to myself that maybe I
don’t belong here, even without these incidents. This is life’s reality for
these people. The market is a critical portion of that life and I am not a
part of it. All day people moved more or less not around me but through
me, jostling me constantly as they went about their business. Never rude
but never apologetic either, as they have things to do and I was in the way.

A huge surge of relief came over me as I left and realized I had
avoided two potentially dangerous incidents. I feel lucky in many ways:
that no problems resulted and also that I am fortunate enough to lead a much
easier life. I am also impressed with the fortitude of these people who
daily confront a challenge for survival with determination and dignity.
Plain and simple, it is courage, an attribute which these people are not
lacking.