Chronicles of the Wayward Moot

WELCOME TO THE MOOT, oh world-wanderers and word-whisperers. After two years of Peace Corps. After 2,200 miles on the Pacific Crest Trail. What. Comes. Next?


Random Ecuadorian bus terminal love. FIRTS CLASS all the way. All the way. And I virtually guarantee that the third symbol which says "acondicionado" is a lie. No buses here EVER seem to use the air conditioner. Or headlights. Or windshield wipers. Or brakes. Etc...

Here is one of the local school classes I've taken out on salidas or excursions. The aim is to take the kids away from their rigid jail-like school atmosphere and get them talking about the natural world and their relationship with it while playing games and experiencing first-hand the systems and institutions that exist to bring them what they need to live. In this picture we're visiting the municipal water supply tanks and chlorination facility.

Before a big party the other week in a parroquia called Huertas, I ran into this merry band of hooligans tear-assing around town in their homegrown Mad Max buggy. The horn could be honked by touching a wire lead to a battery terminal and the fuel tank was a plastic two liter Coca Cola bottle with a hose sticking out of it. Naturally I wanted to share the adventure with them, and so I did. We went joyriding around town and the surrounding areas for maybe an hour and a half, stopping every now and then to drink some Pilseners, the cervesa de los Ecuatorianos. Gross. Delicious.

Hanging ten off the side of the buggy while riding past gape-mouthed onlookers in Muluncay. Half of my body/pants/shirt was covered in mud from splashing through puddles and slick spots. I had to shake the mayor's hand all covered in mud when he arrived at the party post-joyride.

Rodeo fun in Guizhaguiña. The clowns were a riot.


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