The State of Ecuador

Shrunken heads in glass cases are all that remain of those that killed the Shuar tribesmen. Warriors hunted down the murderers and brought them to justice in accordance with the law of the jungle. It is said that the shriveled remains do not represent a legacy of retribution, but rather a restoration of the cosmic balance effected by entwining the souls of both murderer and victim in some swirling alternate dimension. Tell that to the murdered murderer, whose shriveled skin, cotton-bound lips, and lush locks now make for a strange juxtaposition against the shrunken head of a pig that was sacrificed and consumed on the anniversary of the vengeance.

The chanting of the shaman may have faded into the depths of time, but the supernatural war trophies of the tribe remain in spite of the government prohibition of the practice in the modern era. But who knows what happens deep in the jungle. That is one of the few places that exists outside the fringe of the known world. Perhaps a handful of outsiders have ever seen what transpires around those jungle fires in the night. But only a handful.

The mainstream always had its sights set on the riches of the continent (and shrunken heads were once prized as a valuable curiosity – at times created for the purpose of profit). The colonizers were more focused on metal. Back in the Spanish port of San Lucas de Barramedda, 185 thousand kilograms of gold and 16 million kilograms of silver entered old world coffers between 1503 and 1660. The forbidding depths of the jungle held the promise of vast wealth. To this day some remain impenetrable.

The wealth of this trade is visible in the colonial buildings of great cities. Faded glories sit beneath the dull facade of decay in the ancient buildings of cities. The new order is a different story. The wealth has shriveled and dried up. Quito is like massive slum sprawling around a historical centre full of colossal cathedrals and the heroic statues of the plazas. Inside the houses of god is one form of propaganda or another. Inca sun gods adorn the roof of one cathedral, while another is built on the site of an indigenous marketplace where locals bartered for corn while the missionaries bartered for souls.

Centuries old paintings tell a different history, a middle eastern history, filtered through the Vatican and reformulated for the savage souls of a newly discovered continent of heathens. There was no place in this new world for the jungle ways, the mountain ways, the blow darts, incantations, potions, rituals, bone shaking, sun worship, alligators, jaguars, birds, two headed snakes, or holy men who communed with animistic deities that embodied the wisdom and philosophy of creation. After all they had no book. Brutal and savage people that had built roads, great cities, trade, commerce and empire were now exposed to the path the truth and the light.

And here I am in the aftermath of it all, in a country with no cash, where the indigenous features of the ancestors live on in the faces of the people, and where the youth scrawl revolutionary nonsense on the walls of the cities. Mass political upheaval is the last thing needed around here. I can't think of a single revolucion in the last hundred years that actually brought a better life to the people. The spirit is appealing but there are more pragmatic approaches to development. The currency is shot and the country is only afloat on the back of the US dollar which took over as its official currency over a decade ago.

The moment I found that out, I knew immediately that there would be problems. Nobody has change for anything, and in the case that the change does in fact exist it is horded because it won't last long. How can a country of 13 million people import enough $1 bills for the day to day transactions of a poor population. This leads to constant frustration and ridiculous amounts of running around pleading with guys at cigarette stalls to break $10 and $20 dollar bills, which are far to big for ordinary expenditures. There is no cash in this country.

That doesn't stop people from constructing a fictitious facade of affluence. This is Gringolandia, the other side of Quito, an artificial oasis of modernity called Mariscal where nightclubs and bars occupy squat, square concrete buildings and play pop music all night. The place is popular and the prices are high. In it lies an implicit denial of the squalor that characterizes this crumbling city only a stone's throw away. That squalor spills over the edge in the ever present danger of knife wielding robbers who target gringos on the way home from the bar. My acquaintance with these types would come later. For now I decide it's time to blow this city.

The poverty intensifies as I continue my journey along the spine of the Andes. Switchbacks leading to high mountain passes afford sublime views of river valleys, snow capped peaks, eagles and vultures drifting on the currents. Old women climb the hills with determination, wearing thin brimmed panama hats, and with flowers embroidered on the fringe of faded red skirts. They carry machetes and bear the burden of agriculture on bent backs, slowly ascending alongside the dusty highway with bales of grass and twigs and a look of purpose on wrinkled faces. From time to time, the road descends from its path along precipices toward a village at the bottom of some mountain valley basin, a single story skyline of concrete blocks with metal rods protruding from unfinished rooftops and stray dogs underfoot.

I have come to believe that concrete blocks are simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to construction in the developing world. They permit the poor to build solid and permanent dwellings, but curse the horizon with scores of ugly buildings completely devoid of character, not to mention any of the features that were traditionally important to the community that lives in them. It is a far cry from the carefully cut rocks of the sun temples built by the ancestors. But try selling that to somebody moving out of a mud hut.

I end the journey in Cuenca, some beautiful and dangerous city where dusk ushers in an aura of insecurity. Every street is sketchy after dark. As I walk in the night, I am harassed for three blocks by two drunk junkies. There is no help at hand, so it comes down to me and them. I have learned that if you are playing a game with no rules, you must recognize it for what it is: if you play by rules you will lose. I don't try to reason with them or sort the thing out amicably (by handing over some paltry sum of american change), but rather show them I am not intimidated, talking big in Spanish.

One of the drunks wouldn't let up and was trying to sell me his filthy shirt for two bucks. After repeated refusals, he decided to snatch my hat. Bad idea. Beyond the disrespect inherent his horribly miscalculated move, I took the act quite seriously amidst visions of the last time my toque was snatched back in Madagascar. I reacted instantly, instinctively: there I was in the night, staring into the angry eyes of some miscreant with a firm grip locked around his trachea. I take no pride in violence, but was unprepared to be the victim in the situation. I recovered the hat as his eyes bulged, but ironically managed to rip the guy's shirt while attempting to diffuse the situation. He would have a tough time selling it to the next gringo sucker walking down lonely streets in the night. I spent the rest of the evening at a salsa club sipping the world's smallest beers, but unable to relax, distracted by visions of reprisals by scumbag drug addicts lurking outside my hostala. No rules, but real consequences.

It all came to nothing and the time had come to move on, toward another border and out of Ecuador, leaving behind a sense of uneasiness, and an unbroken trail of US twenty dollar bills.