¡Achachay!

"Achachay!" That's what people in Quito say when it's cold.

It is a Quichua word. Quichua is derived from the old Inca language, Quechua, the lingua franca used in the polyglot Inca empire before the Spanish conquest in the 1530s. Quichua is still spoken by the native inhabitants of the Andean sierra that runs down the center of Ecuador, dividing the steaming Amazon valley in the east from the hot and dry lands of the Pacific coast. There are a number of Quichua words in common use by the Spanish-speaking majority in Ecuador today, but to me, none has the same resonance, the same onomatopoeic ability to capture that bone-chilling feeling when an Andean wind whips down from the summit of a nearby peak. "Achachay!" Or -- as has been my situation these past few weeks -- when you step out of a warm bed into the chill of an unheated Quito apartment. "Achachay!"

For people from temperate climates, the Equator can conjure nasty images of extreme heat, of undulating waves of hot, sticky air, Conrad-esque scenes of languid Europeans driven half mad by the sun and the heat. At best, the Equator can evoke thoughts of a cool drinks sipped under a leafy palms or on the veranda of an exotic hotel with a decadent, imperial sounding name like the Raffles, or maybe the Peninsula.

But here in Ecuador -- a country that takes its name from the Ecuator itself -- it's freezing. That's right, North America and Europe may be suffering through heat waves this July, but here on the Equator I'm wearing two shirts and a sweater and am considering pulling on some long underwear.

I'm not exaggerating. The temperature in Quito hasn't risen above 70-degrees in the past two weeks and every day has brought bone-chilling rain, often buckets of it. At night, temperatures regularly drop into the 40s.

Despite the withering equinoctial sun, the high altitudes of the Andean Cordillera keeps Quito's temperatures mild. Mornings and evenings tend to be cool while the days--warmed by the fierce sun high overhead--are balmy and can even get quite hot for a few hours at mid day. This makes for the ideal climate, not unlike Cape Cod or the coast of Maine in the height of summer where residents swap shorts and bathing suits for long pants and sweaters as evening falls. In

fact, the temperatures in Quito are normally so mild that houses are built with neither air

conditioning nor heating. A friend from New York who spent time in Ecuador calls it, "the best climate on the planet."

The problem with this climactic model, however, is that when it's rainy--as it has been every day this month--the sun's warmth doesn't penetrate the clouds to warm things up and the chill of the high Andes predominates (Quito sits at 2800 meters/9,300 ft). Repeat this day after day, and the ground gets get colder and colder and colder and people suffer more and more. (See a picture of cloudy Quito, at right.)

I'm not the only one bewildered. Quitenians themselves don't know what to make of this weather. It seems as if everyone I know is sniffling and coughing and wearing scarves wrapped tight around their necks. Yesterday, I saw a woman in a knit cap and gloves. A common greeting on the streets these days is the questioning lament, "Why is it so cold?" The response is to blame climate change or of all things, global warming, and the underlying tone betrays a real fear this state of affairs is here to stay.

Last year at around this same time I arrived in Quito and stayed nearly two months during which time I didn't rain once. It seemed like paradise then. I'm starting to have doubts about paradise. ¡Achachay!

This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land...

News this morning the Argentine government has called for restrictions on vessels traveling to the Falkland Islands -- which it insists on calling Las Malvinas -- has renewed fears of another military conflict over those windswept, treeless islands. The Argentine president, Christina Fernandez, stated that from now on, all vessels intending to travel to the Falklands must first obtain permission from Argentina. The British are not amused.

Why the British take seriously anything Fernandez (right) has to say is beyond me. By the way, she is the wife of the former president, Nestor Kirchner; governing Argentina, it seems, is a family affair.

Without getting into the details of the competing Anglo-Argentine sovereignty arguments, it should be pointed out it was the French who established the first settlement on the Falklands, not the British or the Spanish -- from whom Argentina derives its claim.

All this has me thinking about the mess of competing territorial claims and the number of long-simmering border disputes in South America today. We tend not to think about it too much in the United States, but the continent to our south has seen its international boundries fought over for much of the two centuries since the colonies started to break away from Spain. Practically every country in South America has had a border dispute with one or more of its neighbors. Borders there seem to change at a pace that is positively European.

To give you a sense of how tangled are those lines that look so clear on our maps, here is a quick tour of South America's simmering border issues, those that I know of, at least:

• Paraguay has claimed land held today by Brazil and Argentina but, to make up for this sore, they took land from Bolivia after the Chaco War of 1935.
• Bolivia, while upset about losing the Chaco to Peru, is still smarting from the earlier loss of its access to the sea at the hands of Chile in 1879.
• Peru, too, has claims on land taken by Chile in that same war; Chile wanted the rich nitrite and copper mines just beyond its northern border so it went to war with both Peru and Bolivia, defeating them handily.
• But Peru can play the agressor, too, as Ecuador well knows. That country still longs for its lost eastern lands -- nearly half of Ecuador's territory. These were taken by Peru in 1941 (see right) when the rest of the world was preoccupied by land grabs elsewhere. With that territory went access to the Amazon over which Ecuadorans believe they have a cultural claim dating back to 1541 when Francisco Orellana set out from Quito and explored the entire length of that river.
• Colombia also took jungle land from Ecuador but that doesn't stop Colombia from pining for her own lost territory, now called Panama. Panama won its independence from Bogota thanks to the Teddy Roosevelt -- who wanted to build a little canal there.
• Now Venezuela, under Hugo Chavez (right), has been toying around with the biggest land redistribution of them all, an idea that was the dream of his Venzuelan idol and founding father, Simon Bolivar. Under Bolivar's plan, Ecuador, Venezuela, and Colombia (including those pesky Panamanians), would have become one nation called Gran Colombia ruled, no doubt, from Caracas. Chavez thinks this is an idea whose time has come again.
  

All these disputes are shown in the crazy quilt of a map at left.

But don't think this territorial jostling is ancient history. Besides the Falklands War in 1982, Chile and Argentina almost went to war in 1978 over three frigid, uninhabited islands near Cape Horn. Troops were mobilized and on the brink of attack and only the intervention of the Pope -- that's right, the Pope -- brought the two countries back from the brink.

Where does all this territorial discord come from? Not surprisingly, the disfunction has its roots in Spain's colonial empire. During nearly 300 years of rule, Spain never worried too much if one part of its empire merged at its edges with another. After all, what might cause headaches for local magistrates in America was of little concern to the King. It was all Spain, at the end of the day. But, when that day finally did end and Spain was kicked out of America, the independent states it spawned wanted border clarity and clarity usually goes to the one with the stronger military. Latin diplomats since independence have been digging out old, often contradictory, maps to bolster their claims by showing what their former rulers had in mind regarding the Empire's internal boundries. It's interesting to note that while Argentina today bases its right to rule the Falklands on Spain's 18th Century presence there it fails to acknowledge that in those same days all of Patagonia was governed from Santiago, not Buenos Aires, meaning we should all be raving about the quality of Chilean beef, not Argentine.

This territorial angst explains why there is now an arms race in South America, an arms race the United States has inadvertently helped fuel. The US, in its efforts to assist Colombia crush the drug trade, has made Colombia the leading military power in the region. This, in turn, has caused Colombia's neighbors, Venezuela and Peru -- goaded by Chavez's fiery appeals to Andean-Bolivarean solidarity -- to increase their own defense spending. Chile, seeing Peru bulking up, has put its significant finances to work preparing against an attack from the north; and while they are at it, they might as well strengthen their border with Argentina, just for old time's sake. What does this cause Argentina to do? You got it, they start chewing over that old bone, the Falklands, and we've come full circle.

Passions over the Falklands run high in Argentina. Visitors there can't help but be astonished to see a Falklands memorial (see left) in every town. These serve not just to honor the fallen soldiers of the war but as reminders that "the Malvinas are Argentine." That slogan is repeated everywhere in Argentina, from flags and beach towels to bumper stickers and t-shirts.

I was recently made aware of how deeply ingrained is this longing for those inhospitable islands and why the belligerence won't go away any time soon. Last year I met a couple from Austria -- no stranger to the pain of lost territory. They had been living in Argentina for several years but had recently decided to take their elder son out of local kindergarten classes. "We knew we had to do something," said the mother, "when he came home from school one day singing a song about how the Malvinas were Argentine and how they were going to get them back with the blood of their sons. They teach this in kindergarten! That was enough for me."

They have since decided to move back to Europe; they are planning to settle in Spain.

In Praise of Santiago de Chile

Events of the past few days in Chile have compelled me to revisit this post I started a while ago but never finished. (I started writing this in early February and now it is the first day of March.) As I scan the news, I realize with sadness that many of the beaux-arts buildings I mention about below were damaged, some severely. But my post has nothing to do with the earthquake. Instead, it is about my impressions of a city I have recently grown to care for very much, as it appeared to me in happier times.

********

If Buenos Aires is the Paris of South America, the austral City of Lights, then I like to think of Santiago as the southern hemispheric Nice or, to stretch a point, Barcelona.

To me Santiago de Chile is a like a Mediterranean city which eclipsed by the boulevards and architectural glories of the capital city in Paris (or Madrid), nevertheless possesses its own, more relaxed charm, benefiting from better weather, brighter light, and a spectacular natural setting. So, while Santiago may be overshadowed by the romance, the reputation, and the sheer size of its sister capital on the other side of the Andes it is well worth a visit by anyone thinking about a trip to South America.

To the first-time visitor, Santiago de Chile seems more European than Latin with wide, tree-lined boulevards and gently curving modernist apartment buildings. Bike-lanes crisscross the city and leafy parks are seemingly everywhere. The confident Santiagoans take ample advantage of both. At rush hour, young women race to work on bicycles, their skirts billowing behind and in the parks, the crisp Mediterranean summer sun is filtered by the leaves and lovers, oblivious to the gawking pedestrians, embrace on shade-darkened lawns.

My favorite of the parks is Bustamante, a wide strip of peace between two boulevards not far from the commercial center of town. Here I first discovered the joys of the cafe literario. A relatively new phenomenon in Santiago, these are city libraries that double as internet cafes. They are extremely popular. In Parque Bustamante, the cafe literario is an airy, two-story glass and concrete structure whose lines are mirrored and elongated by a reflecting pool (see right, in a nice night-time picture). The ground floor -- where eager cafe customers jostle for the rare unoccupied seat -- is entirely open to the breezes. From there, the vista is one of silver water reflecting blue sky and a ring of green all around. The effect is idyllic.

Santiago does not have an old colonial center like many other Latin capitals. What it does have, however, is a wealth of beaux-arts and Modernist buildings. It is as if in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the city tried to make up for its deficit of memorials to the distant past by an enthusiastic embrace of the contemporary. At the end of the 19th century it was the beaux-arts movement that held sway in the city. Chile's leading families and the capitalists, newly rich from the copper and nitrite mines in the north, poured their money into urban palaces. Today, these ornate structures, heavy with cornices and statuary and imposing arches and lintels point to a desire for bourgeois respectibility in a country attempting to show itself and its new wealth to the world.

One of my favorite neighborhoods, downtown, near the Universidad de Chile, is composed entirely of beaux-arts buildings. Narrow cobble-stone streets wind through Paris-Londres, as the neighborhood is called. It is named after the two main streets. Car traffic is rare in Paris-Londres and students and tourists generally stroll down the middle of the streets, the better to admire the stately buildings on either side.

As Modernism was sweeping Europe in the early decades of the last century Santiago, not to be outdone, abandoned the beaux-arts and rushed to embrace the new style of construction. Heavy ornamentation was left behind in favor of Modernism's clean, curving concrete forms and corner-wrapping windows. To the lover of this style of architecture, Santiago is endlessly fascinating. Entire city blocks were built in the 30s and 40s and the mechanicalinear lines of those blocks have been pleasantly softened over the years by rows of stately trees.

Today, Santiago is a bustling, contemporary city of five million people. It is also surprisingly efficient. To the traveler who arrives directly from another South American city it is this efficiency that may be the most striking sign of Santiago's difference, of its non-Latin character. Where other regional cities -- Mexico, Quito, Guatemala -- are terrifying for pedestrians, in Santiago the automobile, at least in the urban core, seems an afterthought. A web of pedestrian malls make strolling downtown a joy. Outdoor cafes fill these streets and compete with ice-cream vendors, newsstands, and shoeshines for attention. And even where there is traffic, the pedestrian reigns supreme. Unlike in many other Latin cities, drivers in Santiago strictly obey the traffic lights and are scrupulous about stopping for pedestrians.

One warm summer day, while sauntering beneath the trees along one of these walking streets I came across a large crowd. About fifty or more people were standing in a rough circle, chattering excitedly, and point their arms upwards. I immediately thought there must be a jumper on a ledge and scanned the rooftops with excitement and dread. I soon realized my gaze had gone too high, however. The crowd was looking not to the buildings, but rather to a tree just in front. There, on a branch halfway up the tree an owl was perched. It was large, tranquil, and seemingly very much in its element, oblivious to the stir it had created in the crowd below. I was amazed. Hours later I passed the spot again. The owl was still there.

Santiago has the most efficient public transit system in Latin America. Its subway is a thing of beauty and the people are justifiably very proud of it. Trains are frequent, clean and crowded. They are so crowded in fact that during rush hour you generally have to let one or two trains pass before one comes along with enough room to squeeze in. But, they come with such frequency that I can't recall ever waiting longer than two or three minutes between trains. The subway was started in the years of the military dictatorship in Chile but its expansion continues today with several new stations opening every year (see left).

Skyscrapers have sprouted up in new neighborhoods that threaten to pull business away from the central core. I met several residents who admitted to seldom visiting the old downtown anymore. Their loss, I thought, but the movement to the taller neighborhoods may, sadly, be inevitable. Paradoxically, it is these new skyscrapers, with their tendency to draw the eye upwards, that serves to remind Santiagoans of the most powerful aspect of their urban environment, the mountains.

Santiago is a city surrounded by the high Andes. And on days when the smog has lifted, the white-topped mountains look so close, so bold as to appear unreal, like a stage set built behind the city as if to remind us that no matter how high we strive, no matter how tall the skyscrapers become, nature can always do better.

Buenos Dias, Don Fidel

For the vast majority of my life I have suffered the indignity of hearing my surname butchered. Most Americans just can't seem to wrap their tongues around those French vowels. Although, I must admit, it's a great way to screen for telemarketers. "Good evening. Is Mr. Du...aah, Mr. Dup-ROY at home?" Click.

My first name -- however unusual -- presents no problems of pronunciation for my countrymen.

But that's not the case here in South America. Like the seasons or the directional flow of a flushing toilet, things here are reversed. My last name is not problem. It is my first name that trips people up. So, to make things easier, it was suggested I adopt a nickname. I've become Fidel.

It works wonders. A few weeks ago I was on the phone trying to make a reservation for a minivan to the airport. Here's an excerpt of the conversation:

me - Good afternoon. I'd like to reserve a minivan tomorrow morning to the airport.

she (reservation agent) - Your last name, sir?

me - Dupuy.

she - First name?

me - Fielding.

she - What? I didn't get that.

me - Fielding.

she - Again, please.

me - Fiel-DING!

she (playing the audibility card) - I can't hear you, sir. Your name again?

me ("sigh") - Fidel.

she - Ah, claro! Fidel Dupuy. Your phone number? ....

The next morning, bright and early I'm outside the hotel waiting as the minivan pulls up. Smiling broadly, the driver hops out and shouts, "Buenos dias, Don Fidel!"

So, I've become Fidel. It saves a lot of time, actually.

Defending the Revolution

That photogenic populist, Rafael Correa, President of Ecuador, is in Cuba this week.

First the papers here in Ecuador reported he was going there for vacation with his family--I would too, if it weren't such a hassle. Later, the papers mentioned he'd be getting a medical check-up while there. Strange. Ecuador has good doctors and, as president, you'd think Correa could pretty much get whatever medical care he might need right here. (I wonder what Ecuador's doctors think about this?) The latest report from Cuba shows Correa in a tete-a-tete with a very hale Fidel Castro.

It is no secret Correa is an admirer of Cuba--he is firmly in the left-field of Latin leaders--and in this he's joined by most of his countrymen, who tend to feel rather kindly towards Cuba. This doesn't bother me. What does trouble me, however, is Correa's recent decision to bring a peculiar Cuban innovation to Ecuador. Which of Cuba's attributes does he have in mind? Cuba's vaunted public health system? Its post-secondary education model? The island's excellent disaster response and relief program? Nope. None of the above.

What Correa wants to copy is Cuba's revolutionary defense committees (comites de defensa de la revolucion, or CDR).

The CDR is Cuba's grass-roots spying program, in which neighbors report on each other to the government which, thereby, knows the whereabouts and doings of each person in every corner of the country. This neighborhood network has been one of the most effective organs of repression in Cuba since it was founded shortly after the revolution. The CDR was designed, in Fidel Castro's words, to be "a collective system of revolutionary vigilance" and to report on "who lives on every block, what everyone does, what relations each has with tyrants, and with whom each person meets." Yikes!

The other country in the region that has adopted Cuba's revolutionary defense committees is Venezuela. And what has happened there since Hugo Chavez instituted them? He has gone from being a one-term, interim president, to someone who seems to covet a sojourn in office that can only be described as Castrian. So far, he's at year eleven of his "revolutionary" reign and showing no signs of stepping down soon.

So, why would Correa want to replicate the creepy CDR program in Ecuador? And exactly what revolution is he so concerned about protecting?

Ecuador's "revolution" was a quiet one. In fact, it was no revolution at all. Correa may call it the "Citizen's Revolution" (la revolucion ciudadana) but it was really a series of populist reforms he instituted after his election two years ago, including a massive public works program, changes to the labor laws, etc. The culmination was a successful referendum to draft a new constitution, which was hastily done and rushed to a vote in a cowed--and soon to be disbanded--Congress. No Federalist Papers here, no provincial ratifying conventions, just Correa in the bully pulpit hammering away with the rhetoric of the citizen's revolution.

But now, Correa is concerned these changes may be at risk. In a recent speech, he warned the citizen's revolution is in jeopardy to unnamed elites in Ecuador. But what elites is he talking about? The right wing, business-dominated party that long controlled the county is in tatters after the death last year of its ancient and wizened leader. The press seldom criticizes Correa, so awed are they by his popularity and communication skills. He's changed the constitution and sacked the entire Congress; its successor, the national assembly, is full of Correa's political allies. So, with the assembly in his back pocket, a new constitution, a nearly silent press, and sky-high approval ratings, one wonders what Correa is so afraid of.

The answer, it appears, is Honduras. The revolutionary defense committees, he says, are necessary to prevent what happened in Honduras from happening in Ecuador. Correa is referring to the recent ousting of Honduras's populist president, Manual Zelaya, by the military--on the orders of the country's Congress, it should be pointed out--to prevent him from holding an illegal referendum to change the constitution. Correa is wagering that if he can effectively organize his supporters into neighborhood cells as in Cuba and Venezuela he'll be able to avoid being overthrown should his Assembly ever turn on him. (See those defenders of revolution, the red-scarfed Chavez and the dapper Correa, left.)

I asked a few Quitenos what they think of the revolutionary defense committees proposal.

"I think it is all a joke," said one woman. "He's just trying to take our minds off his other problems."

By other problems, she's referring to 1) allegations Correa's brother has been receiving preferential treatment in bidding for government contracts and 2) revelations Colombia's FARC guerrilla movement funneled money to Correa's presidential campaign. Given those headaches--particularly the second one--I'd probably be trying to change the debate, too.

But what about those scary revolutionary defense committees, I asked? Would these work in Ecuador? After all, they have been very successful in helping Chavez keep a vice-grip on power in Venezuela.

"This isn't Venezuela," said another Ecuadorian. "Venezuela's people have never overthrown a president. We do it all the time. We go into the streets. We'll do it again if he isn't careful."

Hmm. Perhaps President Correa does have something to worry about after all.

Is this what's worrying Rafael Correa?

Road Trip

Driving in Ecuador can be a pleasure.

The country's winding mountain roads weave through spectacular and varied scenery. In the course of an afternoon you can pass from the lush jungle of the Amazon basin to steep valleys where Holsteins graze on emerald pastures beneath snow-capped volcanoes (see left, and the magnificent Cotopaxi, above). Drive a bit further and you're certain to come upon a dry valley whose encircling mountains keep out the rain clouds, giving the land a rich golden brown color and turning the trees a dusty, olive-drab (see below, landscape near Quilotoa).

It's as if you are passing from the jungles of South East Asia to Switzerland and then on to the goldenrod hills of California in the space of just a few hours. I've never visited another country that can boast such variety in so small an area. After all, at about 270,000 sq. miles, Ecuador is only the size of Pennsylvania, New York, and New England.

But for the most part, driving in Ecuador is pure terror.

What makes it so bad? Well, let's start with the narrow, precipice-hugging roads themselves, festooned with white crosses to remind the driver that certain death lies just a few feet to right?

This stress is not fleeting. It lasts hour after hour. I recently drove from Quito to the country's third largest city, Cuenca, in the south, a distance of 432km (268 miles), a bit longer than the distance between New York City and Washington, DC. The trip took 10 hours. The country may be small, but when you're averaging 30 miles an hour, it can feel like Siberia. (See an exhausted me at hour five. "Next stop, Novosibirsk?")

Generally, the main roads are more or less smooth. But almost all the problems result from their narrowness. So far, I've only seen two places in the country where the highway is two lanes in each direction. Most of the time there is one lane each way without any median. If this isn't hard enough to deal with, every few miles the road goes through the center of one small town or another. In town, all traffic slows to a crawl. Even late at night you have to slow down because you never known when there will be a speed bump just waiting to jar your spine.

They love speed bumps in this county. Sometimes these speed bumps are marked. Sometimes they aren't. It only takes hitting one of these once at 40km/hr. before you become very alert to their presence.

Trucks are a constant menace on the roads. When laden, these only manage a few miles per hour on the steep mountain roads, causing long backups. No one can take the pain of driving 10 miles/hr for long so eventually you role the dice with fate and dart out into the oncoming traffic to pass. (See below, trucks in a work zone, on the main road east of Quito.)

The only thing worse than the trucks are the buses. In Ecuador, when you want to insult someone's driving you say they drive like a busero (bus driver). It's not that the buses go slow, far from it. They barrel down the road--generally the middle of it--at high speed. The problem is that they stop whenever and where ever there is a fare. Or a potential fare. And, of course, they don't pull over. They just stop. This, unless you are very far behind, will cause you to 1) slam on your brakes to avoid rear-ending the bus or, 2) pull out into the oncoming traffic to pass it. Your choice.

For a while I thought I could just stay safe in my lane and not pass anyone, even if it meant taking all day and all night to get to my destination. But this doesn't guarantee safety either. There you are, minding your own business in own lane and what do you see up ahead in the distance? A bus, in your lane, in the process of passing someone, and heading right for you. And what's the bus driver doing? Why, he's laying on his horn, warning you to get out of the way.

Another problem are the work zones. These pop up without warning. There you are, finally barreling down the road at speeds approaching 40mi/hr, happy to be making good progress and then--just around the curve--you come face to face with a bulldozer. As you slam on your breaks, the car lurches over the bumps and pits as the smooth asphalt road you were driving on disappears into dusty gravel.

There are very few road signs. And when there is a detour, there are even fewer. The message I took from this is, if you don't know exactly where you're going, you shouldn't be driving. Basically, you have to ask a lot of questions. The problem, however, is the iffy quality of the directions. My favorite was the woman in Salcedo who, when asked where the road to Quito was, pointed to her left and said, "It's just up ahead, on the right."

And did I mention that at night, people here like to drive with their high-beams on?

The highways of Ecuador are the great melting pot of the nation. All aspects of society meet and mingle on the roads. The poor hawk fruit and candies from the shoulders, rushing into traffic whenever it slows. When the poor travel they tend to pile into the backs of pickup trucks and seeing eight to ten people--sometimes with livestock--huddled in the bed of a small truck is not uncommon (see left). The lower middle class--commuting to work or traveling to visit friends and relatives in other cities--prefer to ride the endless stream of smoke-belching buses. It is vacation time and the upper middle class, their cars crammed with kids and gear, choke the roads to and from the beach in their Chevys and Toyotas. Meanwhile, the wealthy, in their shiny, silver SUVs speed past, arrogantly zipping in and out of oncoming traffic to pass the slower-moving vehicles, confident in the German-engineered performance of their cars.

But driving in Ecuador isn't all white-knuckles and adrenalin. I want to take a moment to pay tribute to one of the great pleasures of driving in this country: traffic circle sculpture. Every small town seems to feel the need to erect a piece of attention-grabbing art in the middle of their traffic circles. Sometimes the sculpture reflects local pride (like the giant ice-cream cone in Salcedo) but most of the time the subject matter seems utterly arbitrary. Regardless, they are all fascinating.

Here follows a portfolio of my favorite pieces of rotary art.

Maize. The ear of life.

A big faucet.

This one is fantastic. It looks like the moon is concentrating on trying to get some rest amidst the traffic of Riobamba. I can't tell if that bird is helping matters.

Homage to the hummingbird.

Look at this guy's right hand. Let this be a warning to art students everywhere not to skip foreshortening class.

Paying homage to the llama.

Ethnic pride near the Inca ruins of Ingapirga.

Honoring indigenous headgear?

Welcome to Salcedo, home of the multi-flavor ice cream cone.

Come on, kid, smile. You're in Salcedo.

This guy I call the pied piper of the the Gorgons.

Paying tribute to the potters.

Even the military gets into the act. Here, Pro patria; below, a soldier protects the strategic yellow starburst.

The institute of national development.

The shoe shine kids of Alausi take a break to play torreador.

And my current favorite, the enigmatic shoe-horn of plenty.

All of these sculptures must have a story. I just wish I knew what those stories were. Dissertation topic, anyone?

Feeding the beast. At a pit stop, near Salcedo.