Disaster at Hand

Bad news for us young folks. I've been reading this morning about a few recent revelations about climate change and it's downright terrifying. As in, it actually makes me feel scared. The first thing that got me was the fact that the U.S. Geological Survey just reported that 2/3 of the entire population of polar bears will likely be gone by 2050. I'll be 70 years old.

The second item I came across was about an island off the coast of Greenland that's being called "Warming Island." It was previously thought to be part of mainland Greeland, but now that the glaciers have retreated, it's apparent that it's a freestanding island. Here's an excerpt from the article in the New York Times, about how melting ice could change the shape of continents as we know them.

Until recently, the consensus of climate scientists was that the impact of melting polar ice sheets would be negligible over the next 100 years. Ice sheets were thought to be extremely slow in reacting to atmospheric warming. The 2001 report by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, widely considered to be an authoritative scientific statement on the potential impacts of global warming, based its conclusions about sea-level rise on a computer model that predicted a slow onset of melting in Greenland.

“When you look at the ice sheet, the models didn’t work, which puts us on shaky ground,” said Richard Alley, a geosciences professor at Pennsylvania State University.

There is no consensus on how much Greenland’s ice will melt in the near future, Dr. Alley said, and no computer model that can accurately predict the future of the ice sheet. Yet given the acceleration of tidewater-glacier melting, a sea-level rise of a foot or two in the coming decades is entirely possible, he said. That bodes ill for island nations and those who live near the coast.

“Even a foot rise is a pretty horrible scenario,” said Stephen P. Leatherman, director of the Laboratory for Coastal Research at Florida International University in Miami.

On low-lying and gently sloping land like coastal river deltas, a sea-level rise of just one foot would send water thousands of feet inland. Hundreds of millions of people worldwide make their homes in such deltas; virtually all of coastal Bangladesh lies in the delta of the Ganges River. Over the long term, much larger sea-level rises would render the world’s coastlines unrecognizable, creating a whole new series of islands.

Is that freaky or what?

And while I was reading that article, I glanced over to the "Most Emailed Articles" column on the Times page, and saw that today's #1 story was about how despite reports that sea level rise should be our biggest global warming concern, the evaporation of freshwater could have even more severe consequences. http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif

Steven Chu, a Nobel laureate and the director of the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, one of the United States government’s pre-eminent research facilities, remarked that diminished supplies of fresh water might prove a far more serious problem than slowly rising seas. When I met with Chu last summer in Berkeley, the snowpack in the Sierra Nevada, which provides most of the water for Northern California, was at its lowest level in 20 years. Chu noted that even the most optimistic climate models for the second half of this century suggest that 30 to 70 percent of the snowpack will disappear. “There’s a two-thirds chance there will be a disaster,” Chu said, “and that’s in the best scenario.”

Sheesh. It's inconceivable really--that the same planet that is responsible for the beautiful northern California day I'm experiencing--birds tweeting, cat stretched out in the sunshine--might self-destruct in my lifetime. Or, in a slightly less extreme scenario, that it might destroy a good number of us humans.

You thought it was over

Little did you know. That navigating the wilds of muggy, beautiful Ecuador was the least of the challenges, I mean adventures, that have come my way in the last year. Turns out it's much easier to navigate public transportation in a Third World country than it is to find an apartment in Berkeley, California. Which, by the way, we're about to do for the third--count 'em, third--time since we moved out here from Minnesota.

More on that in a moment. But first, an explanation of why I'm undertaking this blog again. I miss you all. And I'm so busy with journalism school and all that goes with it that I don't get nearly enough time to check in with each of you as thoroughly as I'd like. Also, I have to write somewhat soulless articles for school all the time, and I'm finding I need an outlet for the quirky, bewildered me that doesn't get to express itself in my "general assignment newspaper reporting," which is the focus of this first semester. Anyway, hope you'll read.

Back to our adventures in real estate. Remember that adorable 2 BR apartment, with a huge, magical garden, that I raved about only months ago? Well, it's just as adorable as ever. And thanks to the 20 plus hours I've spent hacking through the thorns and overgrown weeds that were strangling the backyard, the garden is no longer threatening to take over the world.

But--and this is a very small capsule of what we've been deliberating over for months now--the neighborhood we're living in is sketchy at best. Which we knew moving here, of course, because we did our research. We looked up crime statistics, and we checked the place out at different times of day. We asked all the right questions.

But sometimes a block just goes sour, and although if we OWNED this place, we'd be attending community meetings, and nagging our councilmember, and bringing pineapple upside-down cakes to all the neighbors, it's just too much for right now. I'm really, really, busy, and I don't have time to bake pineapple upside-down cakes. Or rather, to learn how to bake pineapple upside-down cakes and then to bake them.

In short, here's what has happened our neighborhood in the last 2 months: Several burglaries, one homicide, unknown bouts of dog-fighting, a few drug busts, weekly cop visits, countless domestic violence incidents, and one hit-and-run of our neighbor's puppy. And a partridge in a pear tree.

But enough about why we're moving. It's also, by the way, so we can be closer to campus--it's a 40 minute bike ride now. We'll be emphasizing that point during the Open House being held at our current apartment today. "Great place-- how's the neighborhood?" they'll ask. And I'll have to defer to Eric because for some reason he's much better at answering honestly without going into every last dramatic, heart-wrenching detail.

Anyway, so goodbye to our radiant heat concrete floors, our secret garden, our open-floor-plan kitchen, beautiful master's bedroom, second bedroom, and hard-won paint job (four coats in the office to make it "plum" and we might have to paint it back). And hello to whatever plain, functional place in a good neighborhood close to campus that we can find. We looked at a few yesterday that would work. The one we really liked was cheap, simple, and located right smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood where the only sounds you hear at night are children begging their parents to stay out and play hopscotch for one more hour.

As for how journalism school is going, stay tuned for some crazy anecdotes. I won't disappoint.

About Time

It's been a hundred years since I lay motionless on a saggy cot, dehydrated and demoralized by traveler's diahrrea, wishing away the 90 degree humid heat with all of my dwindling might, closing my eyes and dreaming of home-- oh, home-- so soft and spacious, so full of potable water and free of pickpocketers...

And then, as if I'd never packed my suitcase with my hardiest clothes, as if I'd never dreamed up this crazy trip to Ecuador, I was home, back in my old apartment, with its refrigerator and cat and running water and ample supply of cute clothing. It's so good to be home.

In the three weeks I've been home, many people have asked me about my trip-- "Was Ecuador INCREDIBLE?" they wonder. "Did you just have SO MUCH FUN?!!!"

I remain stumped as to the appropriate answer to these questions. I'm still looking for a word that says how I really felt about the trip-- "fun" and "incredible" simply don't do the trick.

I'm looking for a word, perhaps you can help me, that means that I learned a ton, I struggled a little. That means I met lots of people with whom I had varying degrees of connections and that I saw my preconceptions about developing countries crumble like so many pieces of plastic thrown in the streets to be carried away, eventually, by floods, to the ocean.

It's hard to pinpoint how my perspective on that part of the world has changed. One significant change is that Ecuador, and by association, South America, holds less mystery for me-- and not in a bad way. Rather than picturing an enchanted land of snow-capped mountains and green pastures, women in beautiful traditional dresses and brightly painted buildings, I think of it as simply another place in the world. Like the United States, Ecuador has its pockets of remarkable beauty-- as well as its ugly pockets. It has greedy corrupt people, and mean, spiteful people-- and it has kind, generous, welcoming people, too.

So, I can appreciate the joy of travel-- the amazing discoveries, the constant learning, the thrill of what's next-- without wishing to do it full time. Staying in the same place, wherever that place may be, actually leaves a lot more room for discovery. When you're not preoccupied with where you're going to sleep for the night, and where your next meal is coming from, you can actually enjoy yourself a lot more.

Speaking of places, and being in them-- I've decided where I'll be moving for grad school this fall. I'm goin' to Berkeley!

I wish I could say it was a difficult decision-- because doggonit, I put a lot of work into all of those crazy applications. But basically, it came down to Columbia and Berkeley, and when I visited both, I was practically hit over the head with the realization that Berkeley is the right fit.

Berkeley's program is full of smart, interesting, quirky, passionate people who have chosen journalism because it's the best way they've found to engage with, and make a difference in, the world. When asked what distinguishes the program from the pack, a faculty member responded by saying that there are a lot of great schools out there, and that you've just gotta find the right fit, but that Berkeley's approach is to create an environment in which professionals can grow, take risks, acquire new tools, and benefit from mentorship and community. And that's what I'm looking for.

Meanwhile, Columbia was darn impressive-- and I can't say I didn't nearly swoon when I first laid eyes on the big stone gates outside the J-school, with their imposing and commanding presence. Columbia has a killer reputation, and it opens a lot of doors for students. That was what their faculty panel focused on-- how many sweet opportunities you'd get access to upon graduating from the program. A seductive promise, indeed. But that's not why I want to go to grad school.

I want to grad school in order to grow, experiment, stretch, take risks-- you get the idea. Berkeley is my kind of place.

And so it is that I, that Eric and I, will be moving to Berkeley come August. I will miss Minneapolis dearly.

In the meantime, I've decided to write a book. It's not going to be a fancy book--nothing high-brow, or demanding of intensive research (that would just be silly). It's going to read a lot like this blog-- and it's going to be a sort of memoir, not of my life really (though that will play a part), but of life in America before the climate went haywire. Or at least, that's my "plan" as of this moment. Could change momentarily. If you have any thoughts, having followed my ramblings over the last few months, about what I should write about, or what you think people will want to read about, please leave me a comment.

On June 1st, I leave for a 2-week writing residency where I'll give this whole book-writing thing a go. I've got an interested publisher, so it's not entirely a shot in the dark. But then again, isn't life always kind of a shot in the dark?

Lost in Translation

From where I am sitting in JFK International Airport in New York, at 2:45am, I can hear cartoons playing somewhere in the distance, the high-pitched voices bantering in English. What an unfamiliar sound. For over 2 months the sounds I've moved through have included sheep bleating, buses squealing, monkeys howling, and vendors greeting me with a "senorita" or "a la orden." The cacophony was at turns jarring and romantic, comforting and seemingly inaudible. And in the midst of all of those sounds, many of which I didn't recognize or couldn't understand, I was free--free to explore, free to begin each day without a plan, free to be Ecuadorian or American, unknown or known, as I pleased.

And now I'm back. I'm back to being American Andi, at home where my language is the dominant one, where my clothing is typical, where my skin color is at the least common and at the most privileged.

I don't know what to think of my new life back here in the states, the one I'm greeting with new eyes and a certain sense of accomplishment. As exhausted as I am in this moment, and as unprepared to be excited about anything until I get a decent night's sleep, I have to say that touching down in New York did inspire a tiny tingle of pride in me. Remember the melting pot? Remember that idea we had about America being a place for the weary, befuddled, lost, castoff, afraid, and dejected all to begin anew? A semblance of this dream, it seems to me right now, is still here--for this is one of a precious few places in the world where many languages are heard at once and where practically no style of dress could possibly warrant a stare. Having felt like an outsider in so many situations in the past months, I can relate to the lure of a place where everyone, supposedly, can belong. In fact, it made me think about how remarkable of a place this city would be as a setting for graduate school--so many layers of hope and conflict, dreams and master plans.

My last week in Ecuador was so rich that it's a pity it won't get its own post. Nothing happened as planned.

For one thing, my arrangements with my artisan friend Letty fell through. We couldn't get out to Intag to see how the fibers were harvested because heavy rains had made the roads impassable. And we couldn't get out to the workshop to see how the bags and lamps were created because they were moving their operation to a new locale and everything was in transit.

And so, with the three days I had planned to dedicate to that outing, I decided to do something else I'd been longing to do. Eric and I had been able to go up to the mountain town of Otavalo, which is famous for it's giant weekly craft, produce, and animal market, but we only got a tiny taste, and I'd yearned to stay longer. So, I took my Rough Guide's recommendation and called up a place called "La Casa Sol," which turned out to be the best lodging experience I've ever had.


La Casa Sol is set up on a ridge above the tiny weaving village of Peguche, just a kilometer or so from Otavalo. It's got one of the most amazing views I've ever seen, and thanks to the beautiful balconies in every room, I got to soak it up to my heart's delight. The place is run by a variety of Otavalenos belonging to various indigenous communities in the region, and they were some of the most gracious hosts I've ever met. They were friendly, energetic, humble, interested, and so proud of their special place. I was the only one at the lodge for the two days I stayed there, and in that time I got to talk with several of them. While Rafael got the fire in my chiminea going, he told me about how hard it is to save up any money in Ecuador, where it's standard to make no more than $200 a month working full time. He has three kids, and says he often thinks about going to work in the United States for one or two years, so he can pay for his daughter's college education. He would just do it to get ahead financially a little bit, he explained, and then he would return. But the fact is that Rafael's dream is common, and the return home he imagines hardly ever comes true.


The folks at Casa Sol helped connect me with a guide, who showed me around to several of the area's artisan workshops, or "talleres." First we went to a weaving shop, where the artisan told me that he never takes his goods to markets because if he does, others will just copy his designs and produce them for cheaper, on mechanical looms. Then we visited Segundo, my guide's house, where he and his family sew cotton clothing with traditional embroidery, and then finally to the home of Senora Matika, who showed me how she spins wool, and also how she makes several traditional foods, such as a soup made of coarsely ground corn, and a remarkably wide variety of beans. It was a beautiful day.

The highlight of this last week though-- and possibly even the highlight of this trip--was accompanying my radio pals to the tiny town of Montecristi, outside of Manta, where we met several of the absolute best Panama hat weavers in the world. My task, besides the occasional attempt at translation, was to take photographs for the story, a job that I enjoyed so much that 4 hours felt like 5 minutes. The story we were doing is so interesting-- it's centered around a former advertising executive named Brent Black, who headed down to Ecuador 20 years ago after a nasty divorce to find out how these storied Panama hats were made. He fell in love with the hats--and became determined to save the endangered art of hat-making, using his ad-savvy and connections in the Western world. 20 years later, he's selling hats for up to $25,000 to movie stars and other folks willing to fork over big bucks for something so unique, authentic, and full of local flavor. Whether Brent--who is, by the way, QUITE a character--has succeeded at "saving" this lost art is a complicated question, and searching for the answer to that question made for some great interviews and conversations during our two days in Manta. I may just end up writing a piece on it-- so I'll save the twists and turns for whenever that may be--with the promise I'll share it if I do.





Instead, I think I'll just share a few of my favorite, recent photos with y'all, and conclude rather inconclusively--since this trip won't really feel over, to me, until I've survived the predicted bout of reverse culture shock, rested extensively, and made sense of the odds and ends, field notes and souvenirs, that I've picked up along the way.

Expect a party, by the way, very soon. I'm putting together a sort of photo-montage-blogumentary-ish thing that I'll be "screening" for whoever has the inclination at some point in the next month. There will be fried plantains at the event, I promise, and possibly even some special prizes. Intrigued? Stay tuned. My most immediate plan upon my return is to take a long, long nap. I'll see you on the other side.

Saints and Semanas

I'm back from Cuenca, back at the old familiar L'Auberge Inn in Quito--en la esquina de la Avenida Gran Colombia y Yaguachi, as I've told one hundred or more taxistas during the last month.

Today, Quito seems frenetic and smoggy and boy have I mentioned how sick I am of being stared at? I can't believe there's a place in this world where I can walk around and NOT be gawked at for being tall and white and (relatively) wealthy and female and traveling without an hombre (!Que valiente!) I feel like I have dollar bills sticking out of my ears, Betty Boop lips painted on my face, and a sign on my butt saying "Ask me enough times, and maybe I just WILL buy your stinkin' Clorets! Maybe I'll buy them all! Put you out of business!" Oh the whistling. Oh the hassling.

Alright, alright, I'm beginning to sound bitter. Trouble is, I am. Okay, not really. It's just that I'm really almost kind of pretty ready to go home. Ready to brush my teeth with tap water and eat lettuce when it's offered to me and call people from my cell phone(!) rather than an overpriced cabina telefonica... Of course, as soon as I start fantastizing about my own bed, and shower, and refrigerator, I think of some of the fellow travelers I've crossed paths with on this trip--travelers who will still be hostel-hopping and bumbling through the local public transportation system long after I'm all tucked in, into my jersey sheets, with my down comforter...


I'm referring to people like my Norwegian friend Tore (prounounced TWO-RAH), who is leaving Ecuador for Peru in a few days, just one of many, many long bus rides he'll be making in the next few months (he's traveling for 14 in total). Tore and I met up in Cuenca the other day and shared some lovely moments-- this photo was taken when we were waiting for the bus, in the rain, to take us to a little town near Cuenca that has thermal hot springs. They're totally overdeveloped and you'd hardly know they were natural if you stumbled upon them, but boy-- was it heaven to doggy paddle around in an Olympic-sized pool of steaming water while it was drizzling the way it does every single day during the rainy season in this beautiful country. (By the way, I've had more than one cab driver refer to the weather in the Andes as "como las mujeres"...as in, constantly changing its mind. Ay machismo! Kinda funny though...).

Tore and I also spent some time, on Easter, at the big marketplace where locals buy their produce and herbs and pig heads and things (and, as it turns out, if it's Easter, also where they party like it's 1999 to a band wearing matching polyester shirts and dancing in unison). I had my first negative experience with photo-taking at that market. Boy, I try to be so polite, and I absolutely always ask (if they notice that I'm taking the photo, that is... stealth is better) and people are usually quite gracious, but in this case, I was rejected twice, and rudely at that! Ah well. Supposedly, some people think that when gringos take photos, they're doing it so they can take them back to their countries and sell them for lots of money. Not a bad idea. Just kidding. Seriously though-- you do wonder where some of those postcards come from-- I keep seeing ones that feature indigenous women in the Amazon wearing no clothing from the waist up, and I can't help but wonder if that particular woman is getting a percentage of the proceeds??? Likely not.


Other beautiful, intersting Cuenca moments include my trip to Ingapirca, the most substantial Incan ruin in Ecuador. It was a remarkable sight--but boy, I couldn't stand listening to our guide. It was all so fascinating, truly! And yet, it was all I could do not to start throwing spitballs at my fellow tour-goers. "Booooo-ring!!!" some voice inside me kept saying. And so I kinda wandered off and took photographs and looked for pottery shards. Found tons of 'em-- they were just lying around like discarded cigarette butts. Crazy!


The best part of the day, though, was stumbling upon a Good Friday procession (as part of Semana Santa, or "Saint's Week"), winding through the green mountains, as far as the eye could see. Indigenous families wearing mostly traditional clothing, some on horseback, some carrying rather gory, lifesize replicas of Jesus, walking and walking and walking... watching them from behind was particularly breathtaking--they wear these traditional black hats, which blend into a dark, flowing sea when viewed from afar.

Tomorrow or the next day, if all goes as planned, I'll head out with my new friend Letty (the artisan I mentioned earlier) to the Intag region, to find out how they produce this unique fiber that use to make their crafts. If all doesn't go well, I may just head north, a few days early, to Cotacachi, self-proclaimed "eco-city," where I'm trying to meet with the mayor to find out what it means to be an eco-city. More on that later.

On Saturday, I head west to Manta, where I'll be accompanying my Round Earth journalist friends to visit Panama hat factories. They're doing a series of radio and print pieces on the globalization of Panama hats-- and I'm going to take photos for the web, as well as provide moral support and the occasional wisecrack.

Well, I suppose I may as well bust out the latest news--I made it into Columbia!!!! Whew. Very exciting. Crazy though too-- because for one, I have to race back to the U.S. and visit both coasts to decide where I want to go, and for two, it's preposterously expensive and I have no idea how I'm going to make that happen. I could always sell Clorets, I suppose...

Well, better sign off. I'm beginning to feel like I'm not in Ecuador, and that'll happen soon enough. In the overall scheme of things, after all, una semana es nada!

A Few of My Favorite Things

Sunlight and firm beds and gardens and good coffee and long hikes that make me sleep well at night. These, I've long known, are a few of my favorite things. Most of them are hard to come by on the road, the very bumpy road, down here in South America.

Enter Hostal Macondo. Thank goodness for this place. I mean, I realize I've already devoted way too much blog space to the topic of accomodations, but boy does this one deserve the praise. I am in Cuenca, Ecuador now and it practically feels like home, thanks to the big ole kitchen, the garden, the friendly, helpful staff, the firm bed, and all the rest. It is a breath of fresh air to be here, and that feeling does not end at the hostel door.

Yesterday, I took my first organized "tour" and it was fantastic. I went with a group of seven to Cajas National Park, a place I knew hardly anything about that turned out to be an absolutely breathtaking sight. The park is a combination of altiplano (don't know how to translate) and premontane forest (don't know quite what that means). Whatever the ecology, it's workin' for this place, because it's gorgeous-- giant pampas plants, huge mountains, tons of lagoons, and tiny, improbably beautiful flowers and lichen everywhere. It's very humid, and it's at an altitude of about 13,000 feet, so it's a truly unique environment. I took some of my favorite photographs yesterday. Here's a sampling:






But perhaps even more enjoyable than tromping through Cajas was sharing a meal with three fellow Minneapolitans who just happen to do for a living exactly what it is that I want to do for a living. One, Mary, has been an environmental radio reporter for 19 years, much of it for MPR. Her husband, Don, is also here. The other woman, also named Mary, is also a radio reporter. Together, the two Mary's started a non-profit production company called Round Earth Productions, and now they travel around Latin America doing print and radio stories for some really substantial media outlets, which include nearly every media outlet where I've ever fantasized about publishing something.

In other words, I'm in heaven. And at the moment, I'm trying to determine to what extent this serendipitous event may alter my plans for the next week or so. Next Wednesday, they head out to a rural area around here to interview some flower growers for a story about free trade and the Ecuadorian flower industry. They invited me along, but my ticket back to Quito is for next Tuesday. Yargh! We'll see... At the very least, I'll certainly be meeting up with them back in the States. Summer job, anyone?

Okay, well, I think I'll let the Cajas photos speak for themselves today. They pretty much sum up my current state of creative bliss.

If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

As Eric learned the hard way, I have a thing about hair. That is, other people's hair.

In the tub. On the pillowcase. On a wall, in a corner, or, worst of all, on the dining table (can you imagine?!) Good Lord. I don't know if I have what it takes to survive in this world. Much less the Third World.

I have had cups of coffee (Nescafe, usually) in dwellings with no windows, with huge gaps between the wooden slats that make up the walls. Places where chickens feel perfectly comfortable walking around indoors. Places that bats inhabit, under roofs that don't even pause before letting the rain pour on through.

And yet, a day and a half ago, when Eric and I checked into a luxurious (for Ecuador's standards) hotel, to indulge after our four wet, cockroachy, tiring days in the jungle, I couldn't keep my mind off the anonymous hair I found in the tub. Oh, western world, what have you done to me? To us?

I read a letter to the editor today, in the Miami Herald, that referred to housing as a human right. While I tend to support any social service that has the potential to improve lives, for some reason, that phrase jumped out at me. A human right? Not a need, not a basic human necessity, but a right-- just like Americans' right to bear arms, our right to speak our minds, our right to drive gas-guzzling cars and make lots of garbage... To me, there seems to be a fundamental difference between needs and rights.

I have seen and met people here who don't recognize the concept of a "right." They just use their hands and minds to get what they need. They build their shelters out of leaves and bamboo, because that's what's there. They raise chickens and pigs and kill them when they're hungry. They drink water, because they're thirsty--nevermind the parasites. And, as I mentioned in my last post, when they need land to grow food, and establish their communities, sometimes they just plain take it. As I imagine it, they see soil, and trees, and maybe a stream, and think, simply: "Why, that would satisfy our needs!" Does needing something badly mean you have a right to take it? Do these people have the right to be provided housing? Or the right to seek it on their own?

Forgive my ponderousness today. I dropped Eric off at the airport at 6:00 this morning, and his departure sort of took the wind out of me. Why am I traveling again? Do I really have to sleep at this hostel I just checked into, now that I've glimpsed two anonymous hairs on my presumably clean pillow? Sigh. At least they're clean hairs.

But oh wait-- I do have a purpose now. I discovered it yesterday. I'm going to travel to a mountain village to learn how to make earrings and purses and lamps out of a reed that grows in volcanic lakes. Sounds random. It isn't.

We stumbled upon this amazing women's cooperative yesterday, that sells the most knock-out purses, jewelry, and artsy lamps that I have ever seen. And they're all made out of sustainably harvested local materials. The women who sold us our rather hefty pile of goodies was smart and articulate (in Spanish, of course) and agreed to let me accompany the group next week as they harvest the materials, dry and process them, and make them into beautiful, beautiful things. And I'm going to write about it. For anyone who'll print it.

But before I do that, I'm going to head down to Cuenca, Ecuador's most beautiful colonial city (they tell me), for a few days, and then spend a day or two in Saraguro, known for its dramatic, traditional, Easter ceremonies (involving watchmen dressed in white on horseback, says my book).

And if I have time, I'm also going to sneak a tiny little glimpse of Peru, in the town of Piurna, known for its ceramic tradition. Eric and I met a great fellow who told me where to go to find someone to teach me how to make stuff. He even pointed it out on the map. He was one of our favorite parts of the last 10 days.


Speaking of the last 10 days, we went to the jungle. And it was quite remarkable. Dark, muddy water, tall, tall trees with weird birds called hoatzins (also known as "stinky turkeys") flapping around in them, caimans, pink river dolphins (which are beautiful and ridiculous at once), toucans, grasshoppers so big that they must have come straight out of one of Grimm's fairytales, and, last but not least, the biggest, most brilliant rainbow I've ever seen. This photograph is a poor substitute for floating beneath that majestic arc, with scarlet macaws flying overhead, and the pink light reflecting in the inky water below. Wow. One of my favorite moments yet.

I'm in the last stretch of my trip now, with an ETA of April 15. Hovering on the horizon is a image of home with all of the peace, joy, and comfort that go with it. And alongside that sweet anticipation is the reality of saying goodbye, for now, to this place that millions of other people call home. Leaky roof or no.