Another Place

(NOTE: View a larger picture by clicking on the photo(s) above.)

Here is the deal. Since we are sitting still in one place for awhile, we have little “travel” to blog about. So, I thought I would tell you about a previous adventure. A different time. A different place.

The place is Ecuador, South America. The time is the early 70s, say 1971, give or take a year. You know how memory gets after a while. The map is to get you oriented. We lived in Latacunga and Ambato at different time. The story takes place around the city of Santo Domingo de Los Colorados. You can find it on the map. Find the place, then we will continue. Got it? It is west of Quito. OK!

First, you need a bit of background information. The Andean Mountains run the length of Ecuador, north to south. There is a large jungle area to the east of the mountains in the Amazon basin. There is a smaller jungle area to the west of the mountains outside Santo Domingo de Los Colorados. The Taschila (pronounce it like TA-chee-la) Indians live here. They are commonly known as Colorado Indians, which is actually a nickname given to them by the Spanish. “Los colorados” translates as “the red ones.” The name derived from the color of the men’s hair, which after being cut in an inverted-bowl shape, was colored bright red with a vegetable dye and allowed to harden into a “helmet like“ style. They then painted black, horizontal strips around their bodies to ward off evil spirits. They wore only a short skirt of varying design. The women dressed likewise, without any top covering, but no red hair. At times the Indian women could be seen in town wearing a bra with no covering. Some did, some didn’t. You see here a picture of a young Colorado Indian boy.

There are different Indian groups that live in Ecuador. The majority of Indians in the mountain areas are descendents of the ancient Quechuas. It is members of this latter group that are involved in this story. The Ecuadorian government allowed groups of “mountain” Indians to move into the western jungle area and stake off 15 hectares (About 37 acres of land. One hectare = 2.47 acres.) which could be theirs without cost if they would farm the land for ten years. Numerous families took advantage of this opportunity. So, that is the background. Now here comes the story. Those few of you reading this that experienced this adventure with me can correct me if I get some of the details wrong.

Representatives of the families homesteading in the jungle came to our organization requesting help in setting up a school in their community to teach their children. As a result, several of us, Ecuadorians and “gringos” set up a trip to explore the possibilities, I being one of the group. Our jumping off place to the jungle was Santo Domingo. We (that is I, Carolyn and daughter Debbie) made our way down the winding mountain road to Santo Domingo. Carolyn and Debbie were going to stay with the family of one member of our group who lived there, while we “guys” were off in the jungle.

The plan was to drive as far as we could in a four-wheel vehicle to the edge of the jungle. Some Indian homesteaders were to meet us there with some mules for transport back through the jungle to the village. It was a day’s travel. Did I mention it was the rainy season? Well, it was! During the rainy season it doesn’t rain----it pours! This day was one of the few rainless days, but there was nothing but mud for a road, if one could call it a road.

The Indian party that met us had three extra mules. There were six of us in the party. Some of us would have to walk. We decided that after a bit, those who were riding would switch with those walking. I don’t remember the selection process used to determine who rode first, but I ended up walking. No, that is wrong. I was not walking, I was sliding, stumbling, falling and generally looking like an inebriated clown trying to keep upright. I wouldn’t call it walking. After an hour or so of this, an Indian farmer came up behind us leading some pack mules which had just carried goods to market and were now free of burden. Since we were all going the same way, we asked if we could share his mules. At last! A ride.

The mules wore pack saddles, which were made of “x” shaped pieces of wood across the mule’s back, connected by horizontal pieces of wood in the center between the “x“s, held onto the mule with an inch-thick piece of hemp rope around the mule’s middle. It certainly didn’t look comfortable, but maybe better than crawling in the mud. We each picked a mule. I approached a very large red mule. I wondered if I could even get on top of him. When I got beside him, the top of his back was about at my shoulders. I put my left hand on a section of the “x” in preparation to try and get aboard. As I started to attempt the mount, that’s when it happened. The mule turned his head, looked at me, lunged forward and kicked back with both feet. He got me with both. One on my lower, right leg, the other on my left thigh. The next thing I know, I was lifted into the air and landed on my back several feet into the jungle. The event seemed to be funny to my companions, but for some reason I failed to see the humor. I couldn’t feel my legs and wondered if I could get up.

When the laughter died, they came to help me up. It was quickly determined that I could no longer walk, though nothing appeared broken. I was helped onto another mule with a better saddle, a wooden one carved from one piece of wood in the shape of a western saddle. I kept a wooden saddle like that all these years, until we started RVing. The journey continued for hours more.

The farther we got into the jungle, the deeper the mud seemed to get. It was necessary at times to hold one’s feet up in the stirrups to keep them out of the mud. It was that deep. The mule’s legs made that familiar sucking sound with each step as he pulled his leg out of the mud. The road got more narrow and the jungle got more dense. We crossed streams on split logs only wide enough for the mule’s feet. With each step the mule took, the pain in my legs got worse. The mule’s negotiated down-ward muddy slopes in a unique way. They hunched down on their back legs, put their front legs forward and slid. It was necessary to grab hold of the mule’s tail to keep from flying over his head.

After hours of travel, we came to a clearing in the jungle that was used as a rest area. We stopped. I couldn’t get off the mule. I was helped off and laid out on a split log to rest. My lower right leg was swollen to the size of my thigh. We were still two hours from our destination. Had to go on. Couldn’t go back. I was placed back on the mule and we continued on. The day was nearing the end when we arrived at our destination. I was taken off the mule and helped up the steps to a typical jungle house. The last picture above is of that house.

The house is built on polls. The living quarters are above and the animals (chickens, pigs, etc.) are below.
There is little furniture. The rooms are only hanging cloth dividers. Everyone sleeps on the floor. This was my “hotel” for the stay. When the family here saw my situation, they wanted to help. They had “jungle” remedies. The Father told the Son to go into the jungle and collect a certain type of leaf. What was brought back appeared to be about the size of an elephant ear. I was told its name, but can’t remember it now. They boiled the leaf in water until it produced a thick, green goo. They soaked rags in the goo and bathed my legs with it until the water became cool. I thought they were scalding me. They then wrapped my legs with the leaves and rags and I spent the night that way, wondering if the rats and bugs from below would be crawling over my face. The next morning, to my surprise, the swelling had gone down. Our breakfast consisted of rice, boiled chicken and coffee.

This next morning was to be a consultation day. As for me, all I could do was hobble around a little while the others did what we had come to do. Getting up or down the open steps of the house was a chore to me, so I generally stayed put. Dinner here was comprised of six different kinds of bananas (You didn’t know there were that many kinds did you?) all prepared in different ways. The drink was a tasteless concoction they called “quacker“, because it was made from Quaker Oats. We had water straight out of the streams. How safe it was we don’t really know, so we tried to purify it with our little tablets we mixed in the water, coffee, etc. We survived!

We were to leave the next morning, but during the night it began to rain, and rain, and rain. In the morning it was pouring so hard one could hardly see through it. We decided to wait and see if it slacked. It rained harder. We stayed another day, waiting. The following day it was still raining without letup. We decided we had to try and make it back out in this deluge. We packed up, mounted our mules in pouring rain and started the long journey back to our families, who had to be worried because we were a day late. It rained all the way, the whole day. Everyone was soaked to the skin. Fortunately, the weather was warm. When we returned we found that our families were about to organize a search party and come find us. We saved them the trouble.

My legs were still fairly useless and painful, especially after the long ride out of the jungle. I wanted to get back home and go to a doctor to see how badly I was injured. Each time I tried to stand, my right leg would balloon painfully. We had hours to drive back up the mountain to home. There was only one problem with getting there. There was no longer a road. Because of the heavy rains a 200 foot section of the road had washed down the mountain. No one could pass. We waited for days to allow the road to be made passable. The only alternative was a long route around half the country, which I was not up for. Finally, we heard that the road, although not fixed, was crossable. So we started.

We loaded our car, a large Ford Station Wagon with a mountain transmission, for the trip home. Our luggage included six very long, three inch diameter bamboo poles nearly as long as the station wagon. We strapped the poles on top of the car, attaching them to the built-on luggage carrier. The poles were to be used to construct a
“Quad” antenna for my ham radio. Remember, this was the days before desktop computers, laptops, fax machines and cell phones. The best way to communicate back home to the States was via ham radio. A new antenna would help boost the signal.

We finally started our journey back home. Carolyn was driving, Debbie was in the front passenger seat and I was stretched out in the back seat. In due time we reached the section of the road where it had been washed out. Carolyn stopped the car at looked at the newly “repaired” road and said, “There is no way I’m trying to drive across that!” What was called a “passable road” was a 200 foot long chasm filled with large boulders. Not “rocks,” boulders at least a foot in diameter. Water was still cascading down the mountain and over the boulders to a 1,000 foot drop below. A car in front of us attempted the crossing and began to bob and slide slowly across. We thought at times that he was a goner, down the mountain, but he finally made it.

“No way,” says Carolyn. We had to get home, so I decided to get behind the wheel and give it a try, bad leg and all. I knew that once we started there was no stopping or we would be stuck and in danger of slipping down the mountain. I took a running start as fast as I dared. We hit the first boulders and began to bounce up and down fiercely as we moved forward. The bamboo poles on top of the car were knocking the roof with loud bangs each time we hit a new boulder. We kept going. After much effort we reached the other side safely. We changed drivers again and hours later reach our home in Latacunga.

It was too late to try and reach the doctor to see about my leg. The doctor was in a hospital in Quito, 80 miles up the Pan-American highway. We struck out the next day to see the doc. He confirmed that nothing was broken, but my leg was badly bruised and nearly all the blood vessels in my lower leg had been broken. The blood was what was causing my leg to balloon when I stood. The up-shot of it was, I spent the next two weeks off my feet in bed. Maybe I would have been better off playing the clown in the mud than attempting to ride a kicking mule.
But, that is hind sight and I don’t want to be “hind” another mule. We discovered that the bamboo poles had caved in the top of the car while we bounced across the chasm.

That’s the story. I know it’s a long one. I hope I haven’t bored you too long, but this is just one story. I have more to share with you. Maybe another time.