Letter to my father from December of 1999.

Bumpy, winding roads. Dust in my eyes and nose. A dusty film over my skin. Grit at the back of my tongue. A bus without a good shock system. A bus driver who swerved to hit more pot holes than he missed. And a back window that wouldn't remain closed. This was my ride from Ambato to Cuenca--a seven and a half hour bus ride. We left at 7:30 in the morning, piling our bags on the roof of the bus. I made the unfortunate choice of sitting over the back wheel. I would pay for this later when I was winded each time we hit a major dip in the road.

With the scenery itself, I was disappointed. Where were the usual cloud forests, the patchwork fields, the great variations of green that I had seen on other bus trips in Ecuador? Of course, I saw some green, some quaint houses and farms, the incredible campesinos tending to cows and sheep on steep mountain sides. Most of the trip, however, was brown. Brown rock jutting up from out of nowhere; only brown and shades of brown without anything obscured, anything hidden, nothing left to the imagination. The sun was harsh and strong on the mountains, and it revealed every brown corner or crevice of rock. It was ugly--ugly in the same way that a baby bird is ugly. The backbone of the mountain range had not yet been softened by the green down of grass and produce.

Needless to say, I was happy to arrive in Cuenca, and Cuenca was as charming as I had believed it would be. I had read in many guidebooks that Cuenca represented many tourists' idea of the quintessential Eucadorian town. I believe this to be false. Cuenca with a strong artistic community and university has quite a mix between Indigenous and European, conservative and bohemian and small town feeling with international influences. It is incredibly inviting with its cobble stone streets, wrought iron balconies filled with flowers, whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs, good international restaurants and nice hotels. The city is clean, even the river is without trash. The markets are quaint: food is arranged to be aesthetically pleasing, and rows of produce are shaded by striped canvas awnings.

There are outdoor flower markets, indigenous women walking the streets carrying baskets of flowers on their backs. People literally sing when they talk--at least that's what every Ecuadorian says about the Cuencan accent. I loved the city and I might live there for a month after I finish teaching. This is not to say that I don't love the other cities in Eucador, but there really is nothing that is not to like in Cuenca. It is the epitome of pleasant.

However, I was not looking forward to my bus ride back to Ambato, and I reluctantly boarded the bus at 2 in the afternoon at the end of my weekend. I now understand more than ever why Monet painted the Notre Dame Cathedral at three different times of day. What was brown and harsh now absorbed the shadows of the sun. All I could see were black humps rising out of a bottomless ocean of clouds. Every once in a while in the valleys of the mountains, we caught the pink and blue remnants of the sun. Although the glimpses were only for a few seconds, they were spectacular.

As, we continued our drive from the lower to the upper sierra, the sky became darker and more gray. I could feel the great depths of the drop offs as I watched the tiny road snake ahead of me along the side of the mountain. Once again, I recaptured a feeling I have often had in Ecuador: the feeling of being in a middle world, something between terror and awe and somewhere between earth and sky.

Take care,

Jane