Deja Reve I started the day with an Ecua-style bus race along the crumbling roads between Cosanga and the small mountain town of Cuyuja. As the bus pulled up to our station, a small metal shack on the edge of the rain forest highway, the conductor seemed to almost tumble as he jumped from the steps with a flustered urgency. We were preparing to take off our backpacks, full of climbing gear, and stash them under the bus but were surprised as he ushered us up the steps with barks of “¿Adónde van? ¿Adónde van?”. The bus was already moving as I took my first step onto the bus and the squat conductor had to scuttle after us, ensuring that the driver would not leave him in the dust. I was quite confused at this odd boarding but my questions were answered as I saw the front of a competing bus line’s vehicle inch its way along the side of our bus. Jules looked to me and said with a hint of a smile, “Welcome to the races my friend”. For the next half hour I regretted my choice to bring an open coffee cup, as we bounced and sped our way through the winding roads the navigate the cloud forest. Unfortunately, our stop had been the losing move of our driver as we were slowly passed on an uphill section by the competing vehicle. The giant yellow bus marked “Baños” seemed to mock us as its warmed engines easily propelled the bus up the hill with ease. As it began to come into its last feet of passing, it seemed to play a game of chicken with an oncoming car and eventually forced our bus to slow to prevent a collision. Our conductor seemed annoyed as he came to gather our fares while the bus rocketed on at 100 Km p/h, as if his driving counterpart hadn’t made the appropriate move by slowing down. It seemed to me the the race had just begun as we kept a breathless three to four feet between us and the bus in front of us. I was wrong, I soon found out as the now leading bus took no chances and plowed through ruts and bumps that jolted the vehicle to precarious angles. Our driver gave up and decided that there was honor in second if not fare monies. Jules explained to me during the ride that there are so many competing services and such a lack of structure that drivers are pressured by their commission to beat their counterparts in these high speed competitions. As we pulled into Cuyuja, our final destination, I realized that this ride had dominated previous rides to Cuyuja by an impressive thirty minutes; turning our usual hour and a half venture to a hour long trip. We spent the course of the day climbing in Cuyuja. Enjoying the equatorial summer, basking in the humid sunlight as hummingbirds flitted around the vibrant jungle flowers and stick bugs made their halting way across endless terrain. After a day of French rated climbing, something I have yet to wrap my head around, we made our way back to Cuyuja’s town center for bus stop beers. As our bus pulled up, I was relieved to see that it held no competition and the drive to Baeza was much less harrowing. We got off just below old town Baeza and made our way to an overgrown track that lead into the dense rain forest that seemed to occupy every vacant area. We slipped and slid our way down a cobbled path overgrown with weeds, accompanied by birdsong and the sound of invisible jungle creatures. Leaves that would have made any wilderness survival shelter a shady cabana hung over our heads and mysterious pods dangled from limbs, suggesting the possibility of sweet meat within. As we made our way lower into the thick tangle of green, I began to hear the raw sound of rushing water. A sign marked Cascadas pointed us further downward into the forest and the sound grew stronger. We made our final descent on a timeless, moss covered stairway and entered the basin of a beautiful waterfall. The walls of the basin were overgrown with trees, bushes and ferns, any jungle greenery that was able to grip the sheer rock with their tangled roots. The water was irresistible and urged me to step under its pounding flow. As I passed through the barrier of water, I was surprised by the force at which the water peppered my scalp. I came out behind the falls with a mixture of brain freeze and the feeling of a rigorous head scratch. As always when I pass through a waterfall, I had the urge to look up and embrace the falling drops, allowing rivulets of water to run down my face, into my nose and mouth, and follow the lines of my jaw to my clavicle and further. The water was not cold but it woke me up and, as I sat on the sodden, moss covered rocks, I felt the true beauty and happiness that this place brought me. Not only this waterfall but this forest, this town, Sustainable Roots, and this country; it was all so beautiful and exactly where I was supposed to be. A beautiful sense of deja reve washed over me as I sat there and I smiled. As we sat enjoying our meal in the town of Baeza, I listened to the sounds of an uncommon tropical thunderstorm as it rolled down the forest clad hills. It brought with it the warm smell of summer, of growing plants, of mud and the ever ready torrential rain. I sheepishly threw my chicken scraps to the dog that sat always within the corner of my eyesight and finished the last of my beer, ready for the week of work ahead.
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Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit, and as vital to our lives as water and good bread.- Edward Abbey Archives
March 2020
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