Preparation

Andacocha is a destination for prayers of people who are subjected to inequalities so common, especially outside of the towns and cities. It used to be a place for prayers to protect animals or children from illnesses and the like but it has evolved within the last twenty years into a place to pray for safe migration to the United States or elsewhere, often illegally.

They say you have to suffer on the way to get there, and I got a good idea of what that entails. We climbed up steep rocky, muddy, swampy trails until we reached a pass between two higher mountains that is undeveloped, where a church and plaza stood. Depending on the type of suffering required for the type of prayer you are asking for, some migrants climb the slopes barefooted or even by crawling. The thought of either of those is remarkable. It was bad enough with a pair of tennis shoes.

As we climbed, we went along houses that have developed along the way now that a road leads up to the church. The church used to be a small little outpost, but now it is a grandiose building, reconstructed with the thousands upon thousands of dollars from migrants sending money back to pay homage and thanks to their miracle.

The church is home to a miracle, thus making it a miracle working place of worship. The story goes that a worker of a large hacienda found an icon of Jesus, no larger than the length of my hand, out in the middle of the páramo. The owners took the image down into the town below on three different occasions, each of which end with the image miraculously making its way back to the place it was found, close to the poor disfortunate workers of the hacienda. After the third miracle, it was decided that they would construct a chapel there, close to the indigenous people, to serve the indigenous people. Now, the less fortunate go there asking for a change in the inequalities of society here, by allowing a safe passage to the United States.

I made my own sacrifice in reaching the top, hiking the steep trails, and I had a little prayer of my own. One that the heavens above had heard many a time from where I lit my candle. I asked for my safe arrival into the United States. The church itself was lavishly decorated in stained glass windows, paid for with migrant money. They also had a museum paying homage to all the successful migrants who made it to the United States and who are making money to help their family out of debts and suppression. The room was not very big, but it was littered in photographs and plaques professing their thanks and devotion to Señor Andacocha.

After a long night of basically torrential downpour, I asked my sister if this was an unusual occurance, and her answer was "the rains come for Carnival." I progressively got better of the course of the week and as I entered the weekend was feeling almost fully back up to speed.

Friday night I made sure of it by sleeping well over twelve hours in the course of naps and sleep. So come Saturday, with nothing to do, I made my way downtown alone on a hope to find something to entertain myself with the absence of half the group on a large camping trip and the other half seemingly sick. I took the fourteen bus, which is the one that takes me from my house to school, on the continued route to find out just where it turns back around to head east again. After thirty minutes I found out that the furthest stop is at a huge market called feria libre. There I heard about a huge clothes market on Wednesdays that I think I will take advantage of on future occasions. But this Saturday, I also wanted to explore the park nearby my house before the rains started. The park is definitely the biggest of Cuenca, spanning the full distance between its two major rivers until they come to an unremarkable juncture when they cross paths. The park however was loaded with people on their weekend, enjoying the multitude of soccer fields, playgrounds, a pedal boat pond, and plenty of other places to either take in the sun or enjoy the shade of the tall eucalyptus trees. It is a place I hope to take advantage of later, if the rivers don't rise to swallow the park whole. Saturday night I got a call from Peter, who invited me to join him for a movie. I saw "When a Stranger Calls," which for a horror was not the worst blockbuster movie ever made.

Sunday, I got another call, an invitation to go to the market, which I thought would be a good way to get out of going to Sig Sig in the third episode of Zach as a third party to parental dating. So I took the offer and found myself going back to Guaylaceo and Chordoleg for the second time in three weeks to see the fiesta in the river and also the market full of fresh fruit with Morgan and Rachel. There, I had my fair share of mango, as it was only $.20/mango. But of course, as if I had GPS tagging on me, I managed to find myself where my host mom and her boyfriend were. They caught me red-handed walking among the throng of thousands of visitors for market day. I also did a more expansive tour of the jewelry shops of Chordoleg, the consequence of accepting to go to the a pair of girls to market day. So after thirty-five nauseating hours they finally gave into the requests to return home. Unfortunately at that exact moment came the rain. And so every single visitor of market day made the exact same decision as we did. After waiting a good thirty minutes in stand-still traffic right next to the bus station, hoping for the opportune time to just out and run for cover, we realized a growing hunger. The three of us went back into the market and got hit by another water bomb, while it was raining no less!! These kids take the game to new limits. I am going to have to stock pile for Esmeraldas I think for at least a respectable vendetta. At any rate, when we finally did take the bus back, it took two hours rather than one, and drained what energy I had from the ripe mangoes.

On Monday, we had a field trip with our anthropology class to Sig Sig in order to see Inca and Cañari ruins, but my day started out with a good twist. I planned out what seemed to me more than ample amount of time to arrive at school at the scheduled 8am departure, only that I made one mistake, a mistake I won't make again. Instead of taking the bus at the regular bus stop, I thought I would catch the bus empty before it seemingly goes around the corner and is always full. Instead, what I did was find myself going over the hills into towns in the opposite direction my supposed destination. I kept reassuring myself that the bus would just turn around and it wasn't worth jumping off and paying another fare to catch the same line going in the correct direction. Only after twenty minutes of falsely calming my growing anxiety did I turn to ask when in fact the bus returned towards Cuenca. The fashionably dressed cholo cuencana said "mmm, ten more minutes? This bus goes to one more town." I looked down at my watch. 750. I jumped of the moving bus and made my way with a added haste in my pace to scale the hill back to the town of Valle where I could catch the bus back in town. Then my I tried to call to inform everyone of my situation. Out of minutes. Ultimately, I was half an hour late, holding up the bus headed for Sig Sig, whose seats were already full. I squeezed into the seat accompanied with Xenia, the large lassie-breed dog of our anthropology professor, Lynn. After repressing the strong feeling of guilt, I spent the rest of the day enjoying the sites of Sig Sig and the country surrounding. I walked my first, but not last Incan road, carved below the natural grade of the slopes in the hills, and saw many other unusual and unexplained building built before the Spanish arrival. Even repeating for emphasis the beauty of the vistas does not do the scenic views any justice. I have come to the conclusion that, at least for the western hemisphere, you have not experienced mountains until you have seen the Andes.

Now I am in the heart of a three day week of school before my early departure for Esmeraldas. I am heading off Thursday night at six in order to arrive in Esmeraldas at six, twelve hours later. My energy is booming again with the excitement about an opportunity to experience South America outside of the fairly structured program of the overseas department. I have ten days to soak in, or reflect (hopefully) as much sun as I can on the beaches of northern Ecuador.

I don't think I saw the time in front of me ticking away. It's down to twelve hours before my first flight off towards Houston. In twenty-four hours I will be in another country starting a new life that I have never before experienced. I did finally get my packing wrapped up, but now that I am