Banter, Bikes, and Buses

I’m not sure which was the more ridiculous exhibit during our week-long stay in Baños: my trying to ride the twelve-hand, six-hundred pound, ribcage-and-hipbones with a roman nose, a stiff neck and a lazy/stubborn/spoiled demeanor that warranted two or three sharp kicks to the nose; my trying to steer a bright orange mountain bike down the canyon road while avoiding dogs, cars, and very big, unyielding, fast-moving buses and while trying to remember how to shift gears and find the waterfalls without, you know, dying; or my trying to walk in flip-flops.

It’s a toss-up, really. But if you could see me trying to navigate my way down the sidewalk in a pair of those half-engineered, blister-giving, tailgate-missing, sorry excuses for footwear, you’d probably pin the blue ribbon on door number three. Poor Joy had to bear with me during packing time while I tried on multiple pairs of the dang things trying to find a set that wouldn’t squirt off the fronts of my toes every third step. Turns out, sometimes it’s not the arrows, it’s the Indian.

The horse-riding adventure was actually quite enjoyable and relaxing. I’ll let Joy expound on it if she wants, but I truly had a fun time.
 

The bike riding tour was also enjoyable, but far from “relaxing”. The sights- massive waterfalls, beautiful canyons, rapid rivers- were wonderful; the traffic buzzing by within inches of our sides, non-stop, was not. It was, however, pretty inspiring to follow Joy as she refused to throw her bike in a bus and let it take her the 19 kilometers up the steep canyon road back to Baños- as does every other tourist here- and instead insisted on pedaling every gear-grinding, sweat-stinging, sun-blazing meter under her own very fit and stubborn-fueled leg power. I turned out to be not the only one impressed by this battle of wills: a local, 70-odd year-old man literally jumped to his feet and began vigorously waving his arms and shouting words of encouragement (I assume- they were in Spanish, after all) at Joy as she rode by, vertically, with her teeth gritted and bared at the same time, periodically using the back of one wrist or the other to brush a wave of sweat from her eyes like windshield-wipers in a Fort Worth downpour. I, it also turns out, really need to learn how to ride a bicycle one of these days. I can’t look behind me or take a hand off a grip for even a split-second without risking my fate to equal that of a bug’s vis-à-vis the windshield of those big, unyielding buses. And at its two-handed, eyes-forward best, my bike riding still bears eerie resemblance to a monkey riding a border collie.

For me, it was a highlight of the trip thus far to see that old man cheering Joy. It was an uncommon display of genuine emotion by one of a group that is dually dependent on and depressed by the massive (this word is, if anything, an understatement) tourism industry in this area. The streets are lined with small, cookie-cutter booths filled with candies, clothes, souvenirs, and at least one bundled, weathered, hopeful face whose bearer probably considers the day a success if the booth’s load is lightened by a single cane of sugar or sack of taffy. The somewhat unwelcoming manner of the locals was baffling to me early on in this trip, especially because such a manner usually accompanies an offer of product or service for sale or rent. But as we’ve been down here longer, and followed the proverbial white wave from one destination to the next, I’ve come to understand a little better. I think.

You see, there seems to be quite a lot of Joys and Zacs down here. Everywhere you look. He might not have red hair, she might not be as beautiful (oh wait, that probably better state that ‘she definitely won’t be as beautiful'), but they’re there. Complete, at times, with the same REI backpacks that the original Joy and Zac tote around from ice cream shop to jewelry stand to clothing vendor to waterfall to hot springs to the café and then back to the ice cream shop again. And I’ve realized that even the original Joy and Zac aren’t very original, at least not to the people down here trying to get by on what they can. We are just this week. Just one of fifty-two of seventy or eighty or so. And it’s made me, I hope, a little more understanding as to why not everyone is thoroughly excited to see us this week, or to repeat themselves eight times- slower with each turn- until I can finally piece together where the bathroom is located.  Which reminds me, you should see the street cred we get from Joy’s Spanish-speaking abilities. People love her. Of course, that’s not hard for me to understand.

Okay my second cup of coffee has long run dry and this pen’s about out of ink, but I’d like to wrap up this note by saying three quick things:


1) Challenge Joy with anything. I dare you. My money is on her every time. 

2)  Me riding a scrawny pony in gym shoes and rolled up pants is only slightly less funny than the flip-flop walk I’ve adopted to keep them little bastards from falling off, and 

3)  I hate riding buses. It’s a feeling I can’t shake today as we prepare to begin the monstrous bus-riding leg of our journey. I genuinely, fervently, deep down in the depths of my body and soul deplore riding buses. But not as much as I would hate to swallow my pride and buy a plane ticket- so off we go!