More Disjointed Thoughts and Shots

We had our first stateside visitors this month, as Debbie and


Katie came to see us; so now someone else knows what,

"Another day, another (mis)adventure means".


Actually, Debbie has now gone home after two weeks here and as I'm sitting here writing this blog entry Jo and Katie are two or three hours late from their field trip hike into the mountains. Strange as it seems, this is all normal. For instance, while Debbie was still here and the three of them were up North hiking, the indigenous peoples started a protest over the government privitization of their water rights by rolling huge boulders onto the freeway which stopped all the buses including the one our adventerous ladies were sightseeing on, but that's another story. And one which you'll have to get it from them because I wasn't there. However, I hear it entailed tear gas, rocks thrown at their windows and police in riot gear with plexiglass shields. I have been ensured that pictures will be forthcoming and I'll post them a.s.a.p.


While we're waiting for those pixs, however, let's jump in my time machine and go back a couple of weeks to the "ruined weekend" with Little Red Ridinghood and Meg, the English Woman. It started raining as soon as we left for El Tombo and its Canari Ruins. This is a picture from inside our hotel room after Jo had just purchased her polar fleece shawl.


And, here are a couple of shots out our hotel room's window.

Where ever we go there are surrounding hills with towns built into the basins between them.

I got up early and went to the Saturday Market. It was a sight to see.

The people were streaming in from every direction with things to sell that they had grown or raised. The afternoon before this spot had been a basketball court full of little girls practicing their dribbling and shooting. 12 hours later, there wasn't enough open space to even see the free throw lines!


So, I ran back to get the Sisters of Perpetual Anguish (SOPA) so they could see all the market activity before all the native vendors cleared out and headed back home up into the hills.

"Dead Man Walking"-In earlier blogs, I've shown you "Cuy" or guinea pigs on a spit in the roadside Bar-B-Q stands, well here they are on death row eating there last meal of fresh lettuce.

Anyway, the next day we went to Canar for their big Sunday market and Jo bought a nice Alpaca sweater from these street vendors who were up from Peru and Meg found some small purses for her sister and niece. The SOPA are practicing their haggeling more and more with less and less reluctance, so prices are falling and purchase satisfaction is rising. The reality is the sellers are happy or they wouldn't agree to the final prices and in the end these are win-win sales events.

These are quail (which are for sale, of course, because everything else is too); but they are more for display and proof of authenticity as the real hot item, quail eggs, are in a basket next to them. I can say these are pretty tasty because I had some on the coast when we went there during Mardi Gras or Carnival. A little boy was walking down the street selling them already shelled and with a pinch of salt, so I tried them out and wasn't disappointed with the flavor. I think they were, also, a favorite of Louis XIV, another Sun King with a Temple, over in France.

A couple of followers have asked to see where we live and so here it is...

you enter the skinny door on the right and go upstairs. On the right is the kitchen window, door and balcony are off the living room and that's a bedroom window to the left.

Here's the kitchen,

the door out to the balcony,

and ther living room.

And, here is the

rooftop view from our balcony looking across the street and over the neighbor's rooftop tiles towards the East's rising Sun.

Here's my little Miss Sunshine the morning after one of her misadventures. I'll try to be brief...

Jo says, "Let's go to Principal, it's a small town, near-by, and with lots of good hikes".
I say, "Can't we just lay around here, smoke Marlboros and drink martinis?" She says, "No" and off we go. We get off the bus, just as the sun is setting a.k.a. it's getting dark and scary, and discover the place is shut down. Tommorrow, EVERYONE is going to the big town next door for the Children's Parade and there are no guides available for hikes, no hats to buy from the Co-Op and, maybe, no rooms to let at the inn. We did find a room with a view, but the only restaurant in the hamlet wasn't interested in cooking, not with the big parade tomorrow; so we did end up having cigarettes and vodka for dinner anyway.

Parades are common place, but there's no conveying that as well as the experience of running into them wherever and whenever you go somewhere.

However, each is unique in its own way with its own people...check this guy out.

These are just shots of all the people gathering in the morning for the beginning of the parade.

And, because it's a Children's Parade that means they are the ones being proudly shown off. The only clothing store in town is doing a land-office business with lines out the door.

That's why no one is around right now because all the mother's are in there buying new socks and underwear to go with their children's freshly washed and pressed, brightly colored school uniforms. School bands with their brass instruments and their baton twirling drum majors are all shining and sparkling in the dawn's light.

The food venor canopies are all set up in front of the obligatory, ugly church waiting to feed the marching masses and we decided to get the hell out of Dodge because we've been here, done this and thrown away the T-shirt.

The next town over is quite a bit bigger and supposed to be known for its shoe factories. Of course, the Gold Dust Twins (Jo and I) can't find any of them, even though (we find out later) we are walking all around them.

We do find pick up trucks full of cowhides dripping blood onto the street, however, and you have to admit that is the first step towards a nice new pair of leather shoes. Even if it is a step you'd rather not take into consideration when slipping on something comfortable.

There you have it from one who doesn't know squat and is unsure why you're following him down the equatorial path. In my "Made in Anacortes" going-away-gift, T-shirt from co-workers and my shoplifted Sebos "Gorilla Crazy Glue" baseball cap; I sip my morning's coffee and, in conclusion can only sign off with, "Fare thee well".