Am a foreigner in a familarly strange land

How much a stranger am I in India?

Here is an example: In Delhi, I stepped out one morning with the intention of hiring an autorickshaw in order to get to a place that was not an easy walk.  A cab driver approached me.  I got into my defensive mode, as usual.

"You want a taxi, sir?"

"No, thanks" I said, because I was not in the mood to spend that much more for a taxi compared to what it might cost me for an auto.

But, he persisted.  The way he spoke and behaved, I was convinced he can be trusted.

I hired him.

As we started driving, he introduced himself as Tasleem, and gave me his business card.  "You can also email me, sir, if you want to go anywhere" he added.  Imagine that; email has become so mundane!  How awesome!

Throughout the drive, I didn't breathe a word about coming from America.  Yet, of course, he knew.  We talked about America later on.  As we neared the destination, Tasleem said with all earnestness, "from here, when you hire an auto, sir, walk a little bit away and then hire.  Right here at this tourist place, there are cheats."  And a little bit more such advice.

I appreciated his helpfulness.  It was also yet another pointer on how much people easily figure out that I am a foreigner.

Especially in places like Delhi, where I was so bloody clueless with my very little Hindi.  I had vastly underestimated the pervasiveness of Hindi in Delhi.

I had an easier time in Quito than in Delhi; the irony is that compared to the few words of Spanish I know, it is almost as if I am expert in Hindi.  Yet, being a tourist was way easier in Quito.  Go figure!

My friend, "S," seemed to be worried sick about me loitering the streets of Delhi.  She called everyday to make sure I was ok, and had suggestions for me.  Similarly, when I didn't call my parents one evening, the following morning dad called and asked "why didn't you call last evening?  I was a little worried."

Perhaps they knew all too well that I will be a fumbling foreigner who would be severely handicapped by the lack of Hindi.

The heights of the lack of Hindi was when I wanted to get an autorickshaw to go to the Red Fort.  I walked up to a driver and said "Red Fort."

He looked at me with a quizzical expression, and asked me "लाल something?"  I recognized only लाल (meaning red) in what he said.  I nodded my head and we proceeded.  I still cannot understand why a touristy Red Fort is not as familiar in its English name as लाल क़िला is.   

That auto driver made it crystal clear that I am a foreigner in a land that is familiar and yet very, very, unfamiliar to me.

I never would have imagined that I will be so much implementing Freeman Dyson's advice to be a stranger during a sabbatical from work :)

Looking back, I can all the more appreciate "S" and "U" telling me, in separate instances, to simply keep my mouth shut and let them do the talking for me too.  Now, that is friendship when they know exactly how to deal with idiots like me.  Thank you, "S" and "U" ...

Comin' Home Baby. Am comin' home.

All good things come to an end, and so did my my trip to Ecuador.

The evening before my pre-dawn departure, I settled my bill at the hotel and asked them to arrange for a taxi to the airport, and headed out for one final stroll along the major thoroughfares of Centro Historico.  One last walk up to Plaza Grande.

The graffiti-art murals there caught my attention, yet again.  I knew I would never see anything like this in America.  Imagine such a mural by the White House at Washington, DC!

I took in as much of the sights and sounds as I could.  Because, I knew that I might never ever visit Ecuador again in my life.  There are so many other places I want to get to within my limited budget and re-visiting is an unaffordable luxury.

On my way back to Hotel Real Audencia, I stopped at the store two blocks away to get a couple of guavas.  The store was crowded, as it was during my two other ventures there.  I carefully selected two guavas--one ripe, and the other semi-ripe and much firmer than the other.

Even the express checkout line was long.  The lady behind me had a couple of bags of strange looking meat, which made me think about the Ecuadorian specialty of guinea pig. "Could this be?" I thought to myself.

It was now my turn at the counter.  The young woman's eyes were red, perhaps from the long and strenuous hours at work.  She probably can not even afford dreaming about the comforts that I take for granted in my everyday life.  "If I were a rich man" as Tevye sings in The Fiddler on the Roof, I might have just about emptied my wallet for her to go on a vacation. 

As I walked past the front desk at the hotel, I reminded them about the taxi for 4:30 in the morning, and for a wake-up call at 4:00.

"Don't worry. It will be here."

I slowly climbed up the two flights for one final time.

My phone's alarm woke me up a minute before the wake-up call ring reverberated in the room.  After a shower and getting ready for the long flight back to Oregon, I sat at the table and picked up a blank piece of paper.

"Sra/Srta, gracias para servicio" I wrote on the paper.  And placed on top of that paper two small packs of Trader Joe's chocolate bars, which are faithful travel companions of mine.  I hoped that the housekeeping women would enjoy them.

When I got into the plane, my mind seemed to be filled with equal parts of regret over the end of a wonderful vacation, relief that the stress of being alone in an alien land was over, and joys of going back home. 

Rudyard Kipling remarked that we are not able to call the entire world our home “since man's heart is small”.  Kipling, too, was a product of globalization—he was born in India to British parents, and spent his early childhood in Bombay (now Mumbai), which he described as “mother of cities to me.” Of all the places he had been to, Kipling felt that one place was special. He wrote about that in a poem entitled “Sussex”:

Each to his choice, and I rejoice
The lot has fallen to me
In a fair ground—in a fair ground—
Yea, Sussex by the sea!

As much as Kipling treasured his corner in England, I too rejoice in the fact that America is my home.  It is ever with an excited heart that I walk through immigration and customs when I return.  This time, it was at Miami, just as it was in 1988 when our group returned from Venezuela.  A lot of water under the bridge over the twenty-three years since that first South American trip, and the twenty-four years since I came to America as a graduate student.

From the little I have traveled, there has been nothing to even remotely lure me away from America.  Not even from Oregon, it looks like.

As the plane took off from Miami, and I was on my way back to Oregon, I realized how much more familiar Ecuadors' hills and green felt compared to the concrete jungles down below.  I wanted to do a Pope John Paul act of kissing the ground when I reached Eugene--my own Sussex.  At least, for now.

Until my next trip!

Déjà vu, all over again!

As much as Ecuador was a new country for me, and knowing only a couple of words of Spanish was a constant reminder that I was a foreigner there, there were also quite a few times that places and things felt familiar. Déjà vu, all over again, as Yogi Berra so eloquently described such emotions.

And it is not because of my Venezuela experience either.  While that played a role, it was far too minor.

The sharpest of all such feelings of having experienced it before was when I was walking around in the museum/public library by Plaza Grande.

I looked down at the courtyard from above.

"I have seen this before."

I tried to search through my memory vaults, and opening and closing those doors isn't as fast and easy as was the case in the past.  If trying to recall things at this age is this difficult, then growing old will not a fun trip for sissies like me!

I walked around. Found the stairs to the terrace-roof, and those doors were open as well.

The cleaning crew was there.  Off to one wing of the terrace were the female crew of four.  And it was a mixed crew on the other side. I was the only tourist who was on the terrace, and was glad to be there by myself.

It was like the old days at home in Neyveli, or at grandma's in Sengottai.  Even at my parents' new place in Madras, where I go up to the terrace almost everyday when I am there, and often think of the times we have had mixed rice under a full moon sky during those Neyveli years.

My mind kept thinking about the courtyard déjà vu, like the tongue repeatedly trying to dislodge a food particle that is wedged between the teeth.

And then it hit me.  I figured it out.  It was "eureka" time.

I had seen a similar courtyard in Goa!

I suppose the Spanish and Portuguese colonial architectural styles were not all that different on opposite sides of the planet!

It was one of those many occasions when I missed having somebody beside me to share these thoughts.  I exited the building, and as I joined the masses down on the street, I was struck by the irony of "being alone" even while jostling my way through the narrow sidewalks, in a city of two and a half million, and in a world with nearly seven billion people.

Was a profound revelation that feeling lonely is merely a state of mind.  And that was no déjà vu.

We like theirs. While they like ours?

Walking around in Quito and Otavalo, and driving while being on the tours, and taking in the sights reminded me of the colors in the built environment that we lack in the US.  It is the same case when I am in India.  I suppose it will be the situation in most countries in South America, Asia and Africa.

Buildings like the one here were not uncommon at all.  And was a pleasure for my eyes especially after months of nothing but gray brought on by the overcast and rainy conditions at home. 

Speaking of colors, only now do I notice a rather dull pattern in the couple of photos that I have of myself from this trip--I am wearing only black t-shirts and long-sleeve versions.  A colorful personality I am not, literally!

Not difficult to understand then why my father finds it rather annoying when day after day all I mostly wear are grey and black when I am in India, while the rest of Chennai and its peoples are clothed in all possible colors of the rainbow!

Whether it is in India or Ecuador, as I walk around absorbing the differences, and the riotous and vibrant colors and sounds, I do wonder whether most of them are tired of what they have and would prefer the relative sobriety of the North American urban landscape.

I am reminded of a conversation when on a train ride in Italy back in 1998.  I struck up a conversation with the Italiano in the adjacent seat.  He was a management consultant and was fluent in English. 

I shared with him my excitement about the scenic Italian cities, and asked him if he had ever been to the US.

I remember his comments even after all these years.  He said the place he loved the most was Los Angeles.  Why?  "Because everything is new. I love the freeways there."

A day or so later, we went to small town  outside of Florence, for which we had to take a taxi from the train station.  I, of course, tried to chat with the driver. Told him how beautiful it all was.

He was curious about America, and was excited when I told him that we were visiting from California.

The driver was ecstatic.  "I love California. Very beautiful. Good scenery."

The way he said that, I was convinced he had visited California and asked him about that.

"Saw on TV. Like to go there."

I suppose many of us are fascinated with the beauty that we perceive to be somewhere else.  Only that can explain why in the charming small town of Otavalo, people construct buildings like this one that stand out oddly amidst more traditional architectural styles.

Perhaps people in Quito and Ecuador might find the structures and colors of North America to be more appealing then?

That certainly seemed to be the case as I looked down at the valley from the hills of the Bellavista neighborhood in Quito, where Museo Guayasamin is located. 

Across was a McMansion with its own tennis court, which could easily be a replica of a rich estate somewhere in the exclusive neighborhood of Montecito near Santa Barbara.

If we are what we wear, then what about me?

Even as a kid, I didn't care much for fancy clothes.  And now, life in the US and more so in academe has spoilt me even more.  While traveling, all I seem to pack are a whole lot of underwear, undershirts, t-shirts, shorts, socks and, perhaps a light sweater.  Not even jeans anymore--they are too damn heavy!

In other words, the typical American tourist I am!

It seemed as though I could spot fellow American tourists even from a mile away while I was in Ecuador.  The Saint Michael College student I chatted with for a few minutes was obviously an American for simply the way he was attired, though his college t-shirt also helped.

I am not referring to the senior-citizen American travelers--somehow they end up wearing a lot more presentable clothes.  It is the typical 18-55 age group population that travels with this "I don't care about my clothes" attitude.

You can then imagine how fascinated I was whenever I spotted a tourist whose clothes were not shabby.  One of those sightings was at Plaza Grande.

I was seated on a bench at Plaza Grande watching people, most of whom were locals.  And, of the Quitenos who were also idling their time away, it was almost often senior citizens.  The younger Quitenos seemed to be there only to participate in some demonstration or the other.

 One of the older men walked up to me and asked where I was from.  I gave him my standard reply of the US and India.

"I have been to Bombay" he said.  "I can give you a guided tour of Quito.  For cheap."

"No, thanks."

"You want genuine Panama Hat?  For cheap"

"No, gracias."

He walked away.

I continued with my people-watching undisturbed.

And then I spotted two women who were not at all shabbily dressed.  Nor were they the local office-going women, who rushed around in their high, high heels.  These two looked like mother/daughter tourists.  And, it seemed that they were being led around by a local guide.

I was positive they could not be American tourists, only because of how proper they were!  I stealthily took my camera out, zoomed the lens as much as I could, and ... click. I was done. 

From what seemed as Asian features, I wondered if they might be from Peru and related to the Fujimoris there.  If so, then they would be talking in Spanish, I hypothesized.

I had to figure this out.  And the only way was to walk up to them, and kind of listen in.  If the guide was talking in English, then the Peru angle was off.

I wore my hat, picked up my backpack, and casually strolled by them.  The guide was explaining in English.

As I continued walking, away from the Plaza, I was reminded of an incident from a couple of years ago.

I was in India and I convinced a high school buddy, Venu, to go with me to visit with another classmate of ours at his parents' home in Bangalore.  It was a pleasant train ride, during which Venu and I caught up with each other's lives since high school.  As the train neared Bangalore, Venu headed to the bathroom and came back a changed man--he was now smartly attired in trousers and a fresh polo t-shirt.  I was wearing the same old crumpled clothes.

"What's the deal?" I asked him.  "Don't expect me to change out of this"

"You are ok" Venu said. "You are coming from America, and are a college professor as well.  You can wear whatever crap you want and people here will be ok with that."

God bless America, at least for this reason!

Andean and Indian women are keepers of traditions. Men?

Even in the active city areas of Quito, it was quite common to see women--young and old--in traditional outfits.  I was awfully tempted to take photos of them, and almost always better sense prevailed.  A couple of times, particularly in Otavalo, I clicked in a hurry, pretending to be looking at something else, and while using to the maximum the zoom feature in my simple camera.

I could have easily filled up the camera memory card with photos of women and girls in different traditional, indigenous attires.  The clothes and the women were lovely sights to behold.  But, all I have are a couple of photos that I hastily took with an enormous sense of guilt as if I were peddling illegal drugs in dark alleyways!

It was even more heart-warmingly pleasant a sight when young schoolgirls were chatting and giggling away in their outfits.  But, I was never too far away from them to hurriedly snap them up.  As I was walking back towards the van, I spotted a few schoolgirls; but, darn, they were not in the old-style outfits, but in this:

So, I did the only thing possible: I stopped outside a clothes store, and took a photo of the displayed outfits.

I rarely ever spotted a man wearing comparably traditional clothes.  Even poncho-wearing men were not as common a sight as I had initially assumed would be the case.  A few men with long hair, yes. And some bunched up or even braided. But, that was the extent to which men outwardly displayed anything traditional.

I suppose this is no different from the case in India. Even going back to my grandparents’ generation.

The one grandfather who lived long enough to play with his grandkids got rid of his traditional brahminical tuft by the time he was off to college.  There are photos of grandfather as a college student--back in the early 1930s--and he is in shorts and trousers.  On the other hand, his wife--my grandmother--continued to wear the traditional nine-yard sari and the works.

Andean men, too, seem to have easily walked away from their traditions.  I am not sure how much the women continue with the traditions out of choice, and how much the continuation is because of the relatively un-free and restrictive conditions for women.  I would hypothesize that if girls and women had as much freedom that men--in India and the Andes--have, then they would echo Annie Oakley's "Anything you can do I can do better; I can do anything better than you."

There was one photo of a woman that I took after asking for her permission.  At the market in Otavalo, I bought a couple of small items at a stall run by a woman.  After paying for the goods, I asked her, "photo, ok?" 

She smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. 

Without guilt, but still in haste, I clicked.

Columbus discovered America. Confusing all of us Indians.

Almost six years ago, I spent a couple of days at Sengottai with my uncle and aunt, whose home is across from grandma's home, which was sold a few years after grandma died.

My cousin, who lived a couple of hours away, had also come over with her two children.  Her son, who might have been about eight or nine years old, hesitantly walked up to me and asked, in English, "you live in America?"

"Yes. I have been there for a long, long time now."

The kid was now feeling a tad more confident.  "We learnt in school that Columbus discovered America."

I could not let go off the teacher within me.  "Oh, really!  Terrific!"  And then I added, "so, Columbus discovered America?"

"Yes. That is what the teacher told us."

"So, before Columbus discovered America, there were no people there?  He was the first person to go to America?"

"No.  Our teacher said there were people there."

"So, if there were people there already, then it means that somebody discovered America before Columbus did, right?"

The kid was stunned.  He hadn't thought about it.  His teacher hadn't told him that somebody else had known about America before Columbus.

Thanks to Columbus, who originally set sail to India, we have ended up referring to as Indians a whole bunch of different peoples with different cultures and traditions in an entirely different part of the world!  I joke with students that "I am an Indian from India, and not an Indian from here" whenever I want to highlight this insane historical accident.

In a matter of a few years after Columbus, the lives of the original peoples of the Americas changed. Forever. Dramatically. For the worse.

Observing the Andeans, even the mestizos, I was always left to wonder how chaotic the disruptions would have been when the Spaniards came into their lives.

It seemed as if this older woman at Plaza Grande carried in her, and in her face, all those old stories.  One wrinkle was about Columbus. Another was about Pizarro. A lot of lines, recalling a whole lot of people who messed them all up.

Even what she was selling at the plaza made it easy for me to relate to her and her culture: plantain chips, along with a spiced up mix of onions, tomatoes, chilies and lime and beans.  Reminded me of a similar concoction that is a hot favorite in India, especially at beaches and carnivals.

As I sat watching her, I wondered about the stories that might have been handed to her down the generations.  Or, was she, too, taught at school that Columbus discovered America?

My final day in Quito, I went to Museo Guayasamin.  I admit to being clueless about art. It is always a humbling and educational experience whenever I go to an art museum, especially in foreign lands.  A wonderful reminder about how little I know and how much I don't even know that I don't know!

I walked slowly by the exhibits. I was the only one in the museum, and was in no hurry. Some of the pieces reminded me of the village gods back in Pattamadai and Sengottai--the "maadans" who are not in the spectrum of the Hindu deities.  Perhaps the Indians, on either side of the planet, were praying to the same gods.

 I sat outside in the courtyard for a little while.  It was yet another lovely day in Quito, with a blue sky, and scattered white clouds. Ample Sun and a light breeze.

It was in such a paradise that the peoples lived until "Columbus discovered America."

Simon Bolivar and I, in Venezuela and Ecuador

It was in the summer of 1988 that I went to Venezuela.  In a technological time frame, the big thing then was a laptop computer, which was terribly expensive, had very low battery life, and was way beyond the reach of all of us who were starving graduate students.  It was also the days of roll-film cameras.  I could not afford anything more than a simple and inexpensive automatic camera, and had also decided on a budget of the number of rolls that I would use.

One of the fellow-graduate students in that trip was another student from India, Shivsharan Someshwar.  Shiv, who was a couple of years older than me, and a lot more experienced about the world, described the need to get out into the open in the early hours of the day for the best photographs.  In Maracaibo, which is where we spent most of the three weeks, many mornings did I walk about and rationed my camera shots--from mango trees, young boys playing soccer, the weekend trip a few f us took to the beach, cityscapes.  

These photos were my prized possession, along with a poster of Carlos Andres Perez, who was a candidate for the presidency and later won the elections.  Even though I had very few possessions as a graduate student, and even though the few photos from the Venezuela trip were immensely valuable to me, they are now lost--thanks to the number of moves from one apartment to another, and then from one city to another. 

After returning from Ecuador, a couple of days ago I remembered to ask my father whether he has any of the copies I had sent my parents.  "I don't remember seeing any of those photos" he said.

But then in 1988, my parents too were in transition.  Dad was in the last few months of his contract as a consulting engineer at a project in Orissa.  They returned to Madras after that project ended.  I suppose my Venezuela photos were meant to be lost, forever!

Oh well! 

In Venezuela, wherever I went there was some reference to Simon Bolivar--the cinematic Venezuelan hero who fought for independent rule, and had dreams of unifying many of the newly independent countries into a political unit that would be without any Spanish influence. 

After 23 years, Simon Bolivar once again featured in my Ecuador experiences.  For starters, the hotel where I stayed in Quito is on a street named, yes, Bolivar!

I walked a lot in the old town, Centro Historico, where my hotel was located, and more--even beyond the park where the new town begins.  At this transition is is a huge statue honoring Simon Bolivar--riding a horse and leading the charge.

I have memories of taking photos of Bolivar portraits and statues when I was in Venezuela. If only I can track them down.  But, it is not as if I have lost nothing else in life!  I suppose in life we gain some, and lose some.


Bolivar himself can never be lost in the shuffling around in history though.  After all, one of the countries that he led to its liberation is named after him--Bolivia.  I hope this does not mean that my next trip to South America will be to Bolivia.  I have nothing against that country; I would rather get to Argentina first.

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.

Difficult to let go of the baggage!

Claudia, the office manager for Hotel Real Audencia, told me when I came back from exploring Quito that both the day trips were confirmed--one to Otavalo, and then to Cotopaxi the day after.  "Be ready by 8:00.  They will pick you up from here."

It was close to 6:30 when I woke up the following morning.  Only after 7:00 would the free breakfast be available.  "Free" as in it was a part of the room charges.  So, I spent some time organizing my backpack, and straightening out the bed.

The dining area was on the top floor of the hotel, with a fantastic view of Plaza Santo Domingo and the Virgin on the hill.  I walked up the stairs a few minutes after 7:00, and two, in their early twenties--graduate students, perhaps--were already half-way into their breakfast.

I had made a habit of sitting at a different table every morning, in order to get a new perspective each time.  I walked up to get myself a cup of tea (as the guide-book had warned, regular coffee was no good.  The book's explanation was that all the good coffee was for export.)  By then, another woman, in her early thirties, had come in as well, and she was getting hot water and milk for tea. 

While I am typically eager to chat with strangers, particularly in foreign lands, I suppose I am a tad hesitant these days because of my self-consciousness over my status as a single guy.  In the past, in the company of  wife or daughter, or both, I was always confident that my intentions would not be mistaken.  But, now, there is always the possibility that I could be viewed as a cliché.

Finally, it didn't matter.  "Where are you from?" I asked her.

"Germany. How about you?"

This simple question dogged me throughout my trip.  Whether it was the taxi driver or a fellow tourist, when they asked me where I was from, I was always tempted to stop with "the US."  But then, I knew that they knew that I am from somewhere other than the US.  So, at a little after seven in the morning, when a young and attractive German woman asks where I was from, well, I am sure it is not difficult for anyone to imagine me trying to figure this question out.

"From the US. Have lived there for a long time after I moved from India."  I was happy with this answer and decided to use the same anytime people asked me this question during the rest of the trip.

As we walked back to our respective tables, I sensed some kind of an anxiety in her.  I sat across after asking for her permission to join at her table.  She could easily be from the US, I thought to myself.  And, like most Western Europeans, she spoke English very well, and her accent had very little of a German sound in it, unlike mine that is heavily loaded with an Indian tone.

"Where in the US are you from?"

"From Oregon. It is north of California."

Turned out that she was a dentist from a small town near Munich, and she was on her way to Cuenca for a five-week dental camp for the not-so-well-off.

"But, how did you figure out from Germany some place in Ecuador for this camp?"

"I am with Dentists without Limits."

"Oh, like Doctors without Borders?"

"Ja"

As we talked, I found out the reason for her anxiety. Her flight from Germany was via Venezuela, and her bag didn't make it to Quito after Caracas.  And her flight to Cuenca was only hours away. 

"I am so sorry.  I am sure it is terrible" I said.

"All the donations for the dental camp are in that bag.  And, I have no clothes other than what I am wearing now."

The tip of her nose was getting red, like how my daughter's used to when she was a teenager.  It was always a sign that my daughter was ready to explode into tears.  I looked at the clock-tower at the Plaza--it was already past 7:30.

In a way, it is awful that we have very little time to sit with and console a fellow human.  I decided to skip my shower and instead chat with this woman and encourage her as much as I could.

"Well, let us hope that your bag will come through.  The best I can offer is you are my clean t-shirts.  I have lots of chocolate that I can give you though."

"Thanks  That's ok.  I put all the food items from my fridge into my carry-on bag, and so have chocolate and cheese and cookies for now.  What do you say in English, "keep your hands together""

"Yes, keep the fingers crossed"

"Ja. Fingers crossed" she said.

"Look at it this way" I told her, "you will have some interesting stories to tell your friends after you return."

"I don't think I will tell them.  Because they will immediately say "I told you not to go anywhere in South America" ... all these countries have too much crime and violence and my friends didn't want me to come here."

"True. Anywhere in South America is awfully unsafe these days" I replied. 

It was almost 7:45. I told her I had to get going, because of the tour starting at 8:00.

"Where are you going today?

"To Otavalo, and stops along the way."  ... "I am sure your bag will come through."

"I hope so. It is not the money value, you know. There are items there--not costly--but items from my trips to Bali and other places.  Those cannot be replaced. And, of course, the dental donations."

"But, you have to go, right?  Enjoy your trip to Otavalo."

As I stood up to leave, I felt terrible that I could not spare any more time to help her out. There was nothing I could do--I don't know the language, for starters.  But, if only to chat with her.

"Hey,  good luck. Nice chatting with you. Bye."

I rushed to my room. Was glad that I had already organized my backpack. Brushed my teeth and got out of my pajamas. Deodorant, in place of a hot shower. Jeans and a t-shirt. Socks. Shoes.

The phone rang as I was getting my backpack. "Your tour guide is here."

"I will be down in a minute. Thanks."

Two flights of stairs later, I was at the desk and Ivan introduced himself as the guide.

We started walking to the van that was parked by the Plaza Santa Domingo.  Only now, as I type this, do I realize that it didn't occur to me to look at the window above and wave out to the lonely German woman who was visibly discombobulated over her lost luggage!

Dawning of a new day in an old world of Quito

“Are you going to a garage sale?” asked the teller at the local bank when I asked her to provide the money that I was withdrawing in ones, fives, and tens.  “It looks like there are a whole lot of garage sales this week” she added.

“No, I want smaller bills because I am traveling” I replied.  For some reason I didn’t want to volunteer any additional information on my plans.

But, the teller was curious, I guess.  “Where you going?”

“To South America. To Ecuador.” 

“Oh, in that case you want me to give you newer bills?  Because in foreign countries they don’t like bills if there is any small tear, right?”

By now I decided that there was no point holding back with the young woman, who, for some reason, reminded me of my daughter, and was genuinely interested in the satisfaction of this customer.  “No, that won’t be a problem at all. Ecuador uses American dollars.  They don’t have their own currency.”

She got visibly excited with this piece of information that was entirely new to her.  “Really?”

I thought about my student, "R," commenting that travel is easier when there is no need for funny money, and we can simply use the dollar bills instead.

“Yes, there are a couple of countries that operate this way.  Which is why I want the smaller bills while down there, which I can then use for expenses like food and taxi.”

“Wow. Something new every day.”

Transaction ended and she wished me bon voyage.  I had to check myself from automatically saying "you too."

The next day, I was off to Quito.

I didn’t have any plans on how I was going to spend the six days in Ecuador.  Of late, this has become my approach to traveling.  I did the homework though by reading the Lonely Planet guide and a bunch of websites, and had in the back of my mind the key things that I would watch out for once there.  But, the plans will be worked out after landing in Ecuador.  

All I had was a hotel reservation in Quito.  Everything else was to be ad hoc.

I didn’t even have to worry about the transportation from the airport to the hotel—I had pre-arranged for a ride, through the hotel. The confirmation email from the hotel noted:

Our representative, Trans Rabbit, will meet you at the airport the day of your arrival, when flight of AMERICAN AIRLINES 967 reaches Mariscal Sucre airport at 22h00.   It will be very easy to find him as he will hold a blue sign with your name (Mr. Khe) on it.

He held a black-and-white sign, not in blue.

It was past eleven in the night when I got into the room.  A spacious room with an old model television set that distorted the colors at its edges, and with quite a large sized bathroom.

A little after 6:30 the following morning I stepped out of the hotel for a quick stroll before breakfast.  I had barely walked a few steps when I realized how close the hotel was to one of the main plazas in the historic old town area—Plaza Santo Domingo.  I knew this from the homework readings, but still was quite a revelation.  A simple example of the textbook knowledge versus experiencing things firsthand.

My excitement levels quickly shot up when I turned the corner and caught a glimpse of the statue of the Virgin, up on a hill.  I walked a few more blocks until I got a good view of the statue.  I knew I was no longer in the good ol' US of A.   “Maybe I made the right call, after all” I told myself.

It was not even seven in the morning, and there was not much of any activity.  Furthermore, it was a Sunday morning, which was another reason for people not to hurry up.   

After circling a few more blocks, I walked up to the top floor of the hotel for breakfast.  I carefully separated out the ham from the scrambled eggs--I am yet to develop a taste for most animal products--and hoped that the refreshing guava juice would calm down my anxieties about visiting alone a new place with a foreign tongue as well.

And thus began my first day in Ecuador.

From the Neyveli "hill" to Cotopaxi. The mountain man, I am

With the exception of the ten weeks that I lived in Calcutta, and the few months in Madras, for the rest of my life I have always lived close to mountains.  And, in Ecuador, I enjoyed the Buena vistas of the peaks and hills even more than I have anywhere else.

In Neyveli, where I spent the first 17 years of my life, it was not mountains that resulted from millennia of geological activity though.  Instead, the sandy hills were the overburden cleared in order to get to the lignite buried under the surface.   

But, to a kid that I was, it didn’t make any difference how old those “hills” were.  All I had to do was to walk up a little and spot the light brown hills.   And be transfixed at the sight of huge machines spreading the overburden and the hills gaining height.  It almost felt as if those hills down the road and I grew up together.  Of course, as an older person, and a tide wiser, I worry about the tremendous impacts on the environment such a strip mining caused, and continues to have.

Almost every summer during those school days in Neyveli, we went to visit with the grandmas, whose respective villages were about forty miles apart.  While Pattamadai had unimpressive hills far away in the horizon, Sengottai had the lovely hills of the Western Ghats.  From the rooftop of grandma’s home, the hills were always inviting.   

As a kid, I always hoped that our train journey would extend beyond Sengottai because of the tunnels through which the train passed on its way to Trivandrum.  

The undergraduate years were at Coimbatore, where too hills were always visible from the campus and the dorm.  It was only a couple of hours of a bus ride to go up those Nilgiris with tea estates and verdant trees and shrubs, and end up in Ooty and Coonoor.  

In Los Angeles, whenever the rains cleared up the smog, it was an amazing treat to look at the San Gabriel Mountains and immediately understand the powerful dynamics that draw hundreds of thousands to Southern California every year, many of them settling down for good in the region.  After a few years there, and past the Grapevine, I lived and worked in Bakersfield which was at the southern end of a valley with mountains ringing around on all sides but the north.  What a pleasure it was to see the snow dusted Tehachapi Hills from the bedroom window!

It has been almost nine years in Oregon and hills and mountain ranges are a daily aspect of my life.  A few days ago, I had driven to the massive Fern Ridge Reservoir lake just a few miles from home, and it was one of those fantastically clear skies where it seemed like one could see forever into the distance.  And, all of a sudden, I spotted the Sisters—as much as I am ignorant about details on the physical geography and the flora and fauna here, I am confident it was those peaks that I saw.  I parked the car, and stood there for a long time, and gained a new insight into why people all over the world worshiped mountain peaks.

Against, such a background of mountains in my life, I thought I had died and gone to heaven in Ecuador.  The city of Quito itself is all ups and downs, and buildings dominate the hillsides by the valley.  Mountains all around.  And many of them volcanic peaks.

When I went to the monument that marks the equator, La Mitad del Mundo (the middle of the world) it only seemed that the mountains made the monument that much more beautiful.   

And from there, I went with a five other tourists for a short hike around the crater rim of Pululahua.   During the short, and sometimes steep climb, I paused to take a look around.  The valley of Quito was off at a distance, and various hills were strung around like a necklace to celebrate the equator.

It was a sheer 300-meter drop into the lush green crater down below and a part of me worried that I would slip and fall.  But the better part of me prevailed and enjoyed the scenery, and was humbled by the powerful forces of nature that carved out the landscape, and continues to reshape this beautiful pale blue dot.

The guide book pointed out the need to schedule this trip early in the day, because otherwise the clouds roll in.  And what a sight it was to watch the clouds literally roll in through the gap, as if somebody was pumping in dry ice from the other side.

I stood mesmerized looking at “Taita”  (daddy) Imbabura and “Mama” Cotacahi.  Imbabura from across the waters of San Pablo.  And later the snow capped summit of Cotopaxi.

As the vacation drew to an end, and as the plane started its descent into Portland, I saw Mount Hood through the window.  It was so reassuring to look at this familiar peak, and I wondered whether it was Taita or Mama!

To Quito with love, and very few dollars in my wallet.

“I do not know why more tourists from the US don't come to Ecuador” commented Mario.  “They think that Ecuador is like Africa, and they want to go only to Galapagos, as if Galapagos is a country of its own” he complained.

I nodded my head as we walked up the steep rise on the way to the Itchimbia Cultural Center from where, Mario assured me, I would be able to have a fantastic view of Quito, with the statue of Virgin Mary off on a hill in one direction, and the basilica in another direction. 

Mario was really getting into this tourism topic.  “The challenge is to figure out how to get the tourists who go to Europe and Thailand, because they are the big spenders.  The tourists we get now are not the tourists who spend money in France and Italy.”

I didn’t know whether I was supposed to feel complimented or insulted at that point.  It was true, however, that as a tourist in Ecuador I was spending very little money.  I was staying in a budget hotel and counting my dollars every night before I went to sleep.  

The tourists I encountered did not seem to be big spenders either.  Quite a few were students—undergraduate and graduate.   Two undergraduate students I met at a pizza place were from Saint Michael’s College in Vermont, doing research on how much Ecuador has met the UN’s Millennium Development Goals.  A larger contingent at another table seemed to be graduate students and, boy, did they carefully count the dollar bills and coins when they had to pay up!

The tourists I met on the tour to Cotopaxi –the Romanian, German, and the very bubbly Polish guy who was working and living in Austria—also seemed like budget travelers like me.  In fact, the Polish guy said that even Ecuador seemed to be more expensive than Argentina, where he said food and lodging cost even less.  I was then reminded of a Wall Street Journal report from a year ago that Argentina was the place to visit for the very reasons of the best return on the US dollar.

As we continued walking and panting, I thought about the typical question I was asked: “why Ecuador?” 

When people talk about their plans to travel to Ireland or Japan or even the Galapagos Islands, the listener has only appreciative things to say or ask.  But, with Ecuador itself, it is a question that almost seems like it is meant to question the mental capacity of the person wanting to travel to that country.

I had always wanted to go back to South America after my only visit there over the years—back in the summer of 1988, I went to Venezuela with a few fellow graduate school students.  We were to work on an economic development strategy for the region surrounding the city of Maracaibo.  The first two days we spent in Caracas, after landing there on a PanAm flight.  It is new world now where PanAm has been condemned to history!

The three weeks in Venezuela were wonderful.  I ate a lot of arepas with cheese and ketchup—I had yet to shed my vegetarian upbringing.  I was pleasantly surprised when charming Venezuelan girls tried to strike up conversations with me, much to the amusement of the gringo grad students I was with.  One day, John seriously asked me, “hey Sriram, what is your secret?”  My guess was that it was all because I looked like a local, and was less a threat compared to their very alien looks and John’s aggressive behavior.

Ecuador was not on the top of my list, however.  It was Argentina that I wanted to get to because of my interest in that country going back to my younger days in Neyveli when, as a news junkie, I was intrigued by the Peronistas who were screwing up the country.  Later, when the Falklands War broke out between Argentina and the UK, I was cheering Argentina only because I wanted the colonizer Britain kicked out from yet another place.  And was so disappointed when Britain and Margaret Thatcher prevailed.

Watching Evita much later in life confirmed all the more that I wanted to check out the Casa Rosada. 

Ecuador was, thus, my second choice.  Nonetheless, it was a preferred choice.  So, when I was asked “why Ecuador” my immediate thought was “why not?”

I didn’t tell Mario all these, but agreed with his bottom line that not many tourists from the States seemed to want to visit Ecuador.  I made sure I said “States” and didn’t repeat the earlier mistake of saying “America.”

We reached the top of the hill and the Cultural Center itself was a gorgeous sight.  Mario said it was also referred to as the Crystal Palace, and it certainly looked like one.

An Indian among Andeans. Otavalo, I love you!

A typical impression about Kerala is that anywhere you go on the planet, you can expect to run into a Keralite.  Hence, the joke that a Keralite welcomed Neil Armstrong with a cup of tea when he landed on the moon.  (BTW, the Keralite population living outside the state and remitting money, particularly from the Middle Eastern countries, has led to the state earning a dubious recognition as the "money order state.")

It was yet another experience along those lines when I was in the city of Quito, in Ecuador.  Even in this South American country, the only one in the world to be named after the equator, is an Indian restaurant—Chandana Tandoori.  It is located in the busy commercial part of Quito, very close to where many foreign tourists hang out, and is owned and operated by a Gujarati, who has been living in Ecuador for more than a decade. 

Is there any decent-sized city anywhere on this planet that does not have any Indian eatery?  

To some extent, Chandana Tandoori’s location is logical—in the contemporary global village, tourists and locals alike are typically used to various cuisines from around the world and, thus, an Indian dining place in Quito makes as much sense as a Thai restaurant, which was only a couple of blocks away.

Even more interesting was “Govindas,” which served up a hearty vegetarian lunch for a ridiculously low price.  It is run by the Hare Krishna folks in Quito, and the small place quickly filled up with foreign tourists sporting backpacks large and small, along with a couple of locals as well.

It was not the food at this Hare Krishna center that was surreal as much as the fact the women wearing saris and the men wearing dhotis were all native Spanish-speakers.  Thus, while the spectacle of saris and dhotis rushing around chanting “Krishna Krishna Hare Hare” was tempting enough to think that I was back in India somewhere, and while some of the women looked like they could easily be from India, I was pretty much the only Indian there.  Well, an Indian-American, to be precise.  

One of the women seemed to be delighted at the sight of me, because of my Indian roots.   She knew enough English, immensely more than the couple of words I know in Spanish, to ask me whether I wanted to pray at the temple.  After declining her offer, I felt rather bad to see the disappointed look on her face.  

I thought there couldn’t be anything more Indian to top Chandana Tandoori and Govindas as examples of how far geographically ideas from India have diffused.  I was soon corrected when I went to Otavalo.

Otavalo is a small town, about two hours of a drive northeast of Quito.  This town, with a population of less than 50,000, has for centuries served as the market for various indigenous groups who engaged in trade by swapping textiles, precious stones, etc.  Even now, Otavalo has a huge open-air market where the Andean men and women sell, among other things, jewelry, coats and ponchos made of wool from llamas and alpacas, and a whole bunch of hats of different types.

After spending a few minutes in the market, I walked around and less than half a kilometer away was a prominent sign that loudly announced a center for “kundalini yoga.”  Yes, kundalini yoga in this very old and historic small pre-Incan town of Otavalo, in a far, far away Ecuador.  

 I do not know whether the instructor in this center is a Keralite though!

US' standing in the world. What, me worry?

It was a pleasant and sunny midday in Quito, Ecuador, when I was waiting for the pedestrian light at the traffic intersection on my way to the basilica.  I nearly jumped when I heard “are you from India or Pakistan?

“India” I replied, and added for a good measure, “but I live in America now.” 

The guy laughed and said that Ecuadorians are Americans too, and rather sarcastically suggested that I was referring to Estados Unidos.

Our conversation continued even as we started walking after the light turned green.  He identified himself as Mario and that his mother was from Ecuador while his father was Brazilian.  I ditched any tour-book’s advice to be cautious with strangers and instead took up on his offer to walk to interesting sights away from the main touristy areas.

As we walked, Mario turned out to be the stereotypical college-educated left-sympathizing middle-aged person who was very well-informed about the world.

Mario’s commentaries became even more animated when I asked him about Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez in comparison with the Brazilian version of left-leaning politics.  Mario promptly dismissed my question and the underlying interpretation of Chavez’s politics: “you are repeating the US media and commentators who have never even set foot in Venezuela.”

Mario recognized the economic, military, and cultural hegemony that the US has in the contemporary world, but made no attempt whatsoever to hide his very dramatic love-hate feeling towards the US. 

The following day, I went with a tour group to Cotopaxi, which is one of the highest volcanoes in the world.  The drive took us from Quito’s elevation of 2,850 meters (about 9,300 feet) to the base at about 4,500 meters (nearly 15,000 feet) while the summit itself peaks at about 5,900 meters.

My three fellow travelers were from Poland, Romania, and Germany.  Triggered all the more by the feedback from Mario, I asked these three also questions that drew them to comment about the US.  Caesar, from Romania, was the most vocal of the three.  And, like Mario, with strong convictions.

“It is not a country, but an empire” emphasized Caesar.  “I am all pro-USA, but even until today cannot support what the US did in Bosnia” he added.  Through their polite quietness, the other two made it clear that they didn’t want to get into a controversial topic.

But Caesar was more interested to offer at considerable length his critique of the economic recovery efforts led by the US government and the Fed, even at the risk of completely losing the companions from Germany and Poland.

“The US is inflating the rest of the world’s economies because it is printing money without control. It is all because Nixon abandoned the gold standard” was Caesar’s thesis that he elaborated at lunch when we stopped at a restaurant located in an old hacienda.

Of course, conversation was easy because the three were fluent in English, and more.  The German and the Romanian were fluent in Spanish as well. Caesar said he was at home in Dutch and French, and was now beginning his lessons in Chinese.  I perhaps represented the stereotypical character from the US who is barely conversant even in the English language!

In a strange way, through their harsh criticisms, Mario and Caesar presented me with a comforting thought—these people talk about the US so much because the country continues to play an influential role in the world.  Even though they were fully aware of my roots in India, they could not be bothered to say anything other than their fondness for Indian food and yoga.  Caesar did comment at one point that he hoped to travel to China and India sometime soon because they could be superpowers in a few decades.  But, otherwise, with an occasional nod to the German economy, it was the US that captured their focus.

Despite the struggle to get out of the Great Recession, the continuing high unemployment, and other economic  issues, the US continues to command worldwide attention.  Perhaps we need to really worry about our global standing the day when the Marios and Caesars stop caring about whatever the US does.  I hope that day never comes.

Oh, by the way, I never did go to the basilica!