A Place Stuck In Time

I've just been to a place stuck in time. It reminded me of summers in Ecuador, when we'd go to small towns on the coast. Dirt (and some dirty) roads, old and simple buildings, precarious vehicles (and horses and motorbikes and pedi-cabs), all baking under a scorching sun, high humidity, and lack of nearly everything: sanitation and maintenance above all. But most importantly food: large store fronts in old houses and buildings showcase a lot more space than content. The odd cans of sardines, tomato paste and oil perched among basic school supplies and a couple pairs of pants and shirts hanging on the side. All this inside the size of a small 711 store. It's nearly empty yet people line up to get a shot at the new arrivals. And no matter how remote the town, rum was never (NOT ONCE) in short supply.

Unlike the Ecuador memories, where at least fish and meat were abundant, food basics are still rationed with cards that tell the attendant how many grams of each you can get. An old man yells at us that "at least we eat well" as he asks us for some coins. A lady selling hay fans asks me where I'm from followed by whether I have any old clothes for her son. A cake that someone carries is the most colorful food I've seen in days. It's all a little sad, yet I also feel on guard: there are double prices for everything and people all share the look of accomplices who know (or think) I'm the only one not in on the joke. Sometimes I fight for fairness, sometimes I wonder why bother: a cabbie kept us locked inside his car unless we paid double the agreed rate; a coffee magically cost more than a plate of rice and meat (and also was conveniently not on the menu) in this land of coffee and tobacco.

And yet it all also seems to work, however precariously. I wonder if having 100 varieties of yogurt is really necessary or, more importantly, better. After a few days of bland meals of rice (hopefully with beans and some garlic) and (questionable) meat, I really, honestly enjoy and appreciate a mint candy handed by a (probably working) girl we met on the street. A tiny bit of chocolate that came with an espresso reminded me of the joys of eating a sweet as a kid.

There's an air of innocence about it all: no overt sexuality being sold everywhere; there are few signs to shops and seldom, if any, brands: there is "bread" and "cola". The most obvious exceptions are the rum (and the beer) and tobacco. Nestle ice cream freezers are among the few brightly colored branded items inside certain shops.

I can see the people around me value their music and they love to talk and tell stories. One tells me about her former career as a psychologist for the government: a job with some security but little upside. Her son living in Russia asking her to join him but her wanting to stay in her home is a stronger feeling. So is her reliance on an excellent healthcare system for her diabetes and heart condition. Her hopes for a more open economy betray an almost blind belief that seems to be common: people pay for the decisions of their governments, even when some decisions seem more like the stubbornness of children who fought at the playground and now refuse to make peace. A man tells me of his trip on an overnight train, at 85 years of age, to get medicines for his ailing wife 300 km away. He's been to 3 towns and the medicine is simply unavailable. When he asks me for a coffee, I'm unsure if this is yet another possible scam or a genuine exchange. Finally, at an art gallery, an older artist tells me he is writing a book about 7 historical figures in Latin American politics. He rejoices that I'm from Ecuador, and tells me more about Juan Montalvo, one of the leaders of Ecuadorian revolution against Spain in the 1800's, than probably most Ecuadorians know: This is also a country with near perfect literacy rates and a highly educated population (I read somewhere that they have 70,000 medical doctors, while the whole continent of Africa struggles with 50,000).

Yet many seem to be little more than squatters living inside decaying, formerly grand buildings in the capital. It's a country of contrasts unlike any I've ever visited. Being stuck in time inside a modern world means that you can watch current American movies in theaters (and buy "subscription" videos every week with the latest episodes of your favorite series on burnt DVDs) while an hour of Internet (only available for the last year, and in public plazas only) costs about 10% of the average monthly wages. It means that reggaeton plays on the TV, while classic salsa plays live on streets and plazas (or from old record players while an old --very old--couple dances to the claps of their friends and family inside a small apartment. I can see all this from the street through the eternally open doors and windows that let some air in). It means that a teenager looks like the poor man's version of Daddy Yankee (wearing a ridiculous mock gold chain and matching sunglasses and sneakers) while a shirtless boy plays with a make-do (and homemade) skateboard. It means I can rent a room from a private home and my host will remind me what it's like to rely on old methods: he or she will call (remember there's no Internet) their friend at the next town I'm visiting and let them know which bus I'm taking and what kind of room I need. Their friend will meet me at the bus station and take me to their home and repeat the process: down to the very last town on my very last day, they all knew where I'd been and with whom I'd stayed.

They were all looking out for me and made me realize, once again, that it always comes down to that human touch.

Being stuck in time reminded me to walk a little slower, sit down at a plaza and listen to the music and chatter, and pay attention to the person in front of me and listen to their story. It reminded me that no amount of money (or brands) or technology, can ever replace that human connection. Being in a place stuck in time made me wish I'd had more time to be stuck in that place.