I met an old man in the bus station when I first arrived in Ecuador; he had been travelling for over a year with nothing but a stuffed, scruffy briefcase and a walking stick. 
He was one of those wise bearded types, and seemed really comfortable amongst the hoards of backpackers who were waddling round the station with sweaty backs and packs nearly as big as their bodies. We got to talking about how he managed to travel around with so little stuff, and he said he had just never been the kind of person who needed much. I started thinking about what you could tell about a person by the things they carry, and how interesting it would be to see what people choose to pack; what special things they always take with them and what they leave behind.
He was one of those wise bearded types, and seemed really comfortable amongst the hoards of backpackers who were waddling round the station with sweaty backs and packs nearly as big as their bodies. We got to talking about how he managed to travel around with so little stuff, and he said he had just never been the kind of person who needed much. I started thinking about what you could tell about a person by the things they carry, and how interesting it would be to see what people choose to pack; what special things they always take with them and what they leave behind.I always try to carry a little but end up with a lot..having made the decision at the beginning of my trip to buy an accordion which I now haul round in a big black case. I also have a lot of seemingly impractical trinkits and momentos from home, and always too many books as I dont like to leave them behind in the book exchanges!
As we sit in the gray squares of the Quito bus station surrounded by stale smoke, I look over at Janes bag and spot a tupperware tub of wheat-germ and a copy of Richard Branson´s autobiography sticking out the top..read into this what you will :)
Half way through our wait two enormous suitcases are wheeled through the door by a perspiring taxi driver. A string of three small children follow being chased by the commanding tone of their mother who soon appears, cursing the Ecuadorians and her kids simultaneously with a Marlboro red hanging out of her mouth. It becomes clear immediately that this lady has a lot of baggage in every sense of the word, and before we know what has hit us she commences to tell us all about the particulars of her suitcase, and the burden of her children. A she does so one of the kids is coughing bronchially with his hands stuffed down his trousers, one is already wrapped around Jane´s legs, and the other is on the chair next to me pulling weird faces. It turns out that the two massive suitcases contain all their belongings, and they have left Canada to travel around South America in search of a new home. In the ensuing monologue I gather that she is carrying 2 large hunting knives in there (which she believes every sensible traveller should do), the remaining possessions of her dead father, and a computer (amongst other things). As we pile onto the bus, I wonder what she will pass onto her kids; what they will take with them and what they will leave behind as they grow older.
The bus is already crowded with long haul passengers from Veneuzala. A procrarious mountain of suitcases and duffle bags is stacked on the backseat behind us: exectutive black suitcases, checkered laundry bags, a roll or carpet and a stack of taped up cardboard boxes amongst them. I imagine the lives and secrets that are tucked away inside, the stories behind the trasit of the stranger items. If you emptied out all the bags, would you be able to match the people with their luggage just by comparing them?
After several hours we cross the border into Peru. 
The landscape changes into a sparse wilderness of sand banks and rocky mountains; the oily sun setting over a still, pale coast. Civilization is marked only by small corrugated-iron shacks which appear between the arrid peaks that line the road. We pass one such cell of existance with childrens washing hung out on a wire line. A rusted bike cart is parked at the front, its lone tyre track winding down the valley like a palm line. I imagine a whole family is living here, and that under that make-shift roof they have everything they need to survive.
The landscape changes into a sparse wilderness of sand banks and rocky mountains; the oily sun setting over a still, pale coast. Civilization is marked only by small corrugated-iron shacks which appear between the arrid peaks that line the road. We pass one such cell of existance with childrens washing hung out on a wire line. A rusted bike cart is parked at the front, its lone tyre track winding down the valley like a palm line. I imagine a whole family is living here, and that under that make-shift roof they have everything they need to survive. 
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