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.

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.

From papa to aaloo. Locro for me.

"After we spend time at the market, we will have lunch in Otavalo before we go to Peguche" the tour guide, Ivan, outlined the plan. "You can have some of the typical Ecuadorian food."

After having grown up in a strictly vegetarian home, and even though by now I have spent more years in the US than in India, I continue to be mostly a vegetarian, with a few inroads into the animal world as food.  And, when I travel, am all the more ready to stick to the vegetarian food because my nose and tongue can't quite feel comfortable even with the familiar chicken meat that is cooked very differently from how I am used to in the US.

So, there was really only one Ecuadorian food I was keen on: locro.

There are many variations of locro, of which the one I was after was locro con queso and with avocado.  A basic potato soup with fresh cheese and avocado.

The previous day, Mario had talked to me about this soup. Actually, the conversation began with his question "there is something from Ecuador that is used a lot even in India. Do you know what I am referring to?"

I had no idea what Mario had in mind.

"Potatoes!  Potatoes are from here" Mario proclaimed.

"Not true. Potatoes are from Peru" I replied. "But, Andean, we might agree."

"Peru claims potato came from there, but we believe it is from Ecuador" was Mario's comeback.  And then he went on to describe locro as a basic food item anywhere in Ecuador.  A national dish, of sorts.

So, there was no doubt in my mind that it was locro that I was going to have for lunch.  And not that other Ecuadorian claim to fame--guinea pig.  Yes, guinea pig meat was an item in the restaurant menu.  In fact, it was even available at casual stalls all over.

I ordered the locro and a fruit juice, while Ivan and Oscar had the day's special. The only other tourist, the Chinese-Canadian, decided to try out a regional pork specialty.

While we waited for the food, the Canadian asked Ivan and Oscar, "a lot of South American women win Miss World and Miss Universe contests.  Do you also think that the most beautiful women are from the countries here?"

Oscar, who was not texting at the table, hedged--his mother is Colombian.  Ivan, as a typical tourist guide, was not too keen on providing responses that could be unfavorable to the customer.  I am a useless bloke at these topics because I think pretty girls are everywhere!  The topic died out.

Meanwhile, in the background, a local musician was playing an acoustic guitar and a pan-flute (not at the same time.)  But, he was playing to the audience--tourists--and spent some time on his version of Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge over Troubled Water.  I wished he played local melodies instead.

When the food came, I looked at Ivan and whined like a five-year old, "where is my avocado?"   Ivan translated that to the waitress and in a couple of minutes came a plate with beautifully sliced avaocado.

I added the hot sauce that every Ecuadorian restaurant has and had my first ever locro.  It was delicious.  The fruit juice was delicioso. The Canadian was having a great time with the pork and beer.  And Oscar and Ivan went after their meals with vigor.  Good times were had!

A few days after this, on my way to the airport at 4:30 in the morning, the cab driver asked me about Ecuador.

Buena vistas I replied.

"Guinea pig?" he asked.

I said no.

"But ... " and ...

I searched in my head for the few Spanish words that I know ... "Locro mucho gusto"

The cab driver gave me a wide smile.

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.

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!