I was a mad hatter in Ecuador. But, no Panama Hat though.

Up until my Ecuador trip became real, which is when I started doing my homework about that country, I had no idea that the Panama Hat has its origins in Ecuador. A Panama Hat is really an Ecuadorian Hat.  Things, profound and mundane, that we find out every day!

As tempting it was, I didn't buy myself one of those Panama Hats. They simply do not mesh with the person that I think I am. Furthermore, most movie portrayals of characters with Panama Hats are of sleazy men :)

I did get a hat though. I was waiting at Mitad del Mundo for the tour to Pululahua, the volcanic crater, and walked in and out the stores there.  In one was a young woman, who seemed to have a lot more indigenous blood in her, though perhaps not entirely indigenous.  Her economic well being depends on tourists like me spending money, I thought to myself.

She offered me a Panama Hat to try on and I smiled my negation. She then pointed to a stack of felt hats.

"Mucho calor" I said, hoping my Spanish was correct.  Plus, I already have a felt hat at home that I don't use because, well, it just doesn't fit my persona.

She showed me another set, and said "you can roll this and pack into your bag."

I liked that one--not because it could be rolled up, but because I could see myself wearing that even in Eugene during the summer.

"How much?"

She flashed thrice the five fingers on one hand to mean fifteen dollars. I knew I was expected to bargain and pay a lower price.  At the same time, I knew that any additional dollar or two would mean a lot more to her than to me.  But, then, when in Rome, do as Romans do!  So, I showed my ten fingers and then three more. She agreed.

I had a new hat.

I have another summer hat at home. But, my favorite of all is a hat that I no longer have.  In 1994, when visiting the Amish areas in Pennsylvania, I fell in love with those Amish hats and bought one for myself. There practically wasn't a day that I did not wear that in Bakersfield, where the Sun was merciless.  I would have had it for a lot longer if not for that fateful day when my daughter rushed into the car and jumped on to the car seat.  The seat on which I had temporarily rested my Amish hat. I heard the hat being crushed.

I hope this hat will survive a lot longer than the few months that Amish hat did.

As I walked around with this new sunscreen on my head, I was watching people and listening to their conversations if they were in English. I heard one woman say "there are so many cultures all around." To which a man replied, "imagine how multicultural all of us will be as more and more people marry across cultures in America."

I couldn't resist the temptation.  "Where in America are you folks from?"  It looked like a husband and wife with their three children, the oldest looking like a pre-teen.

"From Pennsylvania. Lancaster. Amish country, you know."

"Oh, I love that part of the country. I was there many years ago, and bought myself an Amish hat.  I am from Oregon."

"We drove up to Crater Lake. Every summer we take our kids all over."

I looked at the eldest and said "hey, you owe your parents big time."

The dad jabbed his son and said "see, you owe us when you get older."

"Can you adopt me into your family and take me on your trips as well?" I joked with them.

While the parents laughed, the kids looked at me, perhaps wondering what to make of this brown-skinned guy with a local hat, but talking American, and yet with a strange accent.  Or maybe they thought this is how people from Oregon are!

Why Peguche in Ecuador felt familiar. It is Courtallam in the Andes

Ivan, the tour guide, and Oscar, the driver, made quite a team.  They seemed to be of the same age, about 25, and were part-time students at a local university in Quito.  Ivan was chatty, while Oscar was mostly quiet.  And, whenever he was not driving, Oscar seemed to be more interested in texting than in anything else.

"Is it a girlfriend you are always texting with?" I asked Oscar. I can't help but chat with drivers and tour-guides; in addition to my innate curiosities, it helps me understand the country and its peoples that much more.

"No, I don't have a girlfriend. No time for that. I am texting my primos--I don't know the English word."

"Help me out, amigo. Can you explain what primos means?"

Oscar laughed and after a lot of ers and ums, said "uncle's sons"

"Oh, cousins!"

We had stopped at a place from which we had to walk for ten minutes to get to the waterfalls that Ivan said was a gorgeous sight.  It was a few miles off the main highway between Quito and Otavalo.  There was no other vehicle where we stopped.  A couple of old men were chatting. Ivan pointed to the wall and the arch and started walking.

A typical hacienda style, I thought to myself, as I looked at the wall and the arch.

At the same time, the arch--along with the pleasant temperature and a light breeze--reminded me of the arch at Sengottai.  Not a Spanish hacienda arch, but not that different either.

We started walking. A few feet on the other side of the arch was the board that explained to tourists where we were:

Ivan was talking with the only other tour participant that day--a Chinese-Canadian, who is a theoretical physicist at the University of Toronto.  Oscar, of course, was busy texting and walking.  We paused for a brief while at the interpretation center, where Ivan translated for us that there would be big time celebrations near the falls to mark the summer solstice. 

A few kids passed us playing improvised games that kids are so capable of inventing. Otherwise, it was only us on the cobblestone-path.

And then I heard it. The sound of water rushing. As much as I am a mountain man, I love the flowing water too. More so when it is a waterfall. It is not Oregon's cascades that have spoilt me thus, but those warm and wonderful waterfalls at Courtallam.  Going to the falls was practically an annual event during my childhood days when we regularly visited Sengottai, which is less than five miles away from Courtallam.

I was excited.  The sound of cascading water got louder and louder with every step. And then, there it was.

  Bueno! Magnifico!

It is amazing how much a waterfall can make the heart feel so happy and content. Yet again, I had to remind myself that this was not Oregon, and not Courtallam, but Ecuador. "I am in Ecuador!"

A young couple, obviously in love, walked hand-in-hand towards us and the falls. Oh to be in love when young!

A middle-aged local materialized out of nowhere all of a sudden. I then realized that there was a path among the vegetation. He started speaking to me in Spanish.  My brown skin and appearance meant that most people assumed that I am a Spanish-speaker.  This was my experience in Venezuela a couple of decades earlier, as was the case in Ecuador.  He too, like others, sported a confused expression when I said "no comprendo. no espanol."  He continued to talk to me pointing his hand at the path from where he emerged. I shrugged my shoulder and repeated "no comprendo."

I noticed an observation deck a little higher up from the bridge.  Though Oscar was standing next to me, there was no point asking him as he was texting his primos. So, I turned to Ivan. "Is it safe to walk up there?"

"Of course. But be careful."

It was a little slippery and steep at times. But, was well worth it.  I paused for the love-birds to come down to earth, but quietly took a photo before they could notice me coming up. The young couple in love and the waterfalls together more than doubled the pleasure.

I could have spent an entire day there, walking around and watching the falls. But, to paraphrase Robert Frost, we have to get going in life!  And so we did.

Courtallam in the Andes started fading away in the distance, and soon there was no sight or sound of it.

We were back at the arch, on the way to the van. The comforting thought was that we were off to yet another beautiful place.