sinking into sunshine hammocks, music sounding softly through my cocoon, escaping the shanty stretch of sand and boats bustling, blocking our entry to the calm waters of lake titicaca...
sputtering slowly by archipelagos of ancients, believed to be the origin of sun and moon and stars, whose heavenly bodies gave birth to all living beings...
isla del sol, a stairway to heaven where donkeys serve as vehicles to ascension and llamas descended sporadically spitting...
shivering on stones to watch a sun that never set but sank into a bank of cloud cover, casting shadows across the bruised landscape...
sailing back on the bow of the boat, past dragon tail mountains and lone trees...
a road of rain to la paz, leaking buses, leaching in, locals falling asleep in isles, floating backwards on barges,arriving into a canyon of crystal lights, drowning the night dancing irish jigs, flips, gliders, suspended motion...
sudden downpours and spoiled church chicken, smiling into shared milkshakes...
brujas whispering incantations, directions demanded of rattle snake shakes and herbal remedies to preserve and protect, trying not to make contact with hollow eyes of burned bodies and skins of souls...
maneuvering through market stalls, pumping, purifying and peeling to give gracias and tradition to a troupe of irish potato eaters...
handmade turkeys and hedonistic headdresses, toppling totem poles, circled gracefully...
a drunken dash to the wrong bus, passengers peering warning peligroso, the ayudante casting us out into the rain to search for safer slumber...
dawn ripens on peach mountains, while white cristo towers upon the crescent moon...
crayon colored parks match cinnamon sorbet, tracing palace paths through forebidden rooms...
a basketball player with nike swoosh tatoo, numero 69, aged accordingly, blockheaded blundering but our superstar scaling him to reach the rim...
white russians mixing with coca quid, tongue in cheek, dancing til dawn in high school circles to block potential prospects and
predators...
a woman on the sidewalk nursing her baby bundle bares breasts in slumped slumber...
conchas collection of synesthetic energy, women in white spring hats and velvet pleaded skirts gathered eagerly around innovations, pouring through piles of panties, plastic doll shoes, pastries, asking to try on a t shirt, translating into taking advantage of the manikin, meat melting red streams of sidewalk, spit settling onto clothes, clinging unbeknownst, a boy asking for help to say "i´m thinking of you" to a girl of unknown origins...
tea and tasties in a room with straw hats hiding light bulbs...
desert dissolving into clouds, creeping in rifts of ridges, greenery as silt settling among dew drop bird nests, hiding behind eyes winced shut from bolivian belly aches...
a giant swing with women soaring, an old one stumbling to dance between kisses and cries, the music moaning invading tranquil tree house...
wading in the shallow waterholes, scrambling up sandstone perches, painting paz with red rock, watching cutter ants move mechanically...
monkeys on manos scrambling over their human counterparts, the tiger escapes and the ice cream boy laughs at danger...
a doctor declares me perfecto as i announce sickly symptoms and liquid mierda in contaminated cups, then announces my fate, amoebas...
fiona painting roses on walls while we talk of things to come...
slender mine shafts swallow the last speck of sun, breaths choked with dirt, sweat streams like tears in the silver potosi where dynamite comes earlier than cigarettes and kills quicker...
stretches of salt flat, hexagons sealing the surface, white light as far as the eye can sea melts into an oscillating horizon of projected sky pools and ink blot mountains...
an island of cacti rises from the midst, grey hairs revealing untold wisdom, their postures frozen from dancing in the darkness...
flamingos frolic across a placid pond, where desert foxes prowl grass gathered into groups like an army hedgehogs...
rainbow eucalyptus mountains, peeling pastels, whose twins are trapped by liquid mirrors...
swirling snow settles among the salt flakes as we bounce over boulders in a jeep driven by a deaf mute gnome whose smile describes it all...
Friday, December 28, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
dios le pague
¨Somos pobres, pero no tenemos habre.¨ We are poor, but not hungry, an old man told me, noticing my eyes swollen with pity. His declaration epitomizes the strength of the people of Ecuador. Huddled under homespun alpaca sweaters and shaded by felt hats, they shuffle along the dusty roads, trailing strings of goats like kites. Their skin is calloused leather, their hair a worn white grey woven into long braids, but their eyes and smiles are full of resilience and compassion. As the bus jostles through the countryside, I notice not much has changed in thousands of years. Huts of stick and mud shelter the poor from heat and rain, market stalls stacked with pyramids of colorful fruits and veggies cluster near roads, and women burdened by babies tied in thick cloth to breast and back walk by selling their wares. This country has managed to maintain an element of indigenous authenticity despite the radical influences acting upon it.
I boarded the bus early in the growing light and slipped past vendors hawking popcorn and dried fruit. My breath led the way up the stairs in crisp puffs of steam. I watched the landscape flash past my window, the steep slopes that formed fertile valleys, which were scattered by huts made of adobe and topped with recycled tile or thatch. Long fields were speckled with grazing cattle and the toddlers milking them. When I arrived in the tiny provence of Ona, I found myself in the midst of madness, as the only market for miles and days was already in full swing. Each vendor introduced their family, and with the same pride various verduras they had to offer. Their warm toothy smiles and soft hands welcomed me into the community. We found an escape by squeezing onto a flatbed camioneta, and rode up to the top of the hill overlooking the county, where a dilapidated church and single cow peered out at their world: the clouds of the Amazon rising in the east, the mountains separating us from the coast to the west.
Adventures drove the next day and me out of bed. We gathered strength from encembollada soup, a fish stew, and rode a wretched bus along the winding road to Cajas, the national park. As I disembarked, the frigid air seared my skin, and my plastic poncho blocked my steps but provided little protection from the hail that flew down and scattered, skittering across the frozen earth. The rain seeped in through the socks I wore as mittens, and I soon lost feeling in my extremities. While my body shut down, my eyes went wild, surveying the rocky peaks that surrounded me. Vibrating lakes reflected the clouds and gathered their tears in hollow bowls. Jade moss slipped over the hills, and melted under our steps like snow as we sunk into the moist earth. The fog feathered in through inlets and my vision became fluid. The sky pulsed, growing and receding with my breath. Even the crags, the mountains towering before me, moved in waves of radiating energy, filled with fluctuating power, the ebb and flow of life. As the trail came to its close, it narrowed into a path, edging through muddy slopes and across boulders back to the broken asphalt that foreshadowed civilization.
Cuenca´s independence day was characterized by chaos. Celebrations filled the streets and funneled into parades of dancing children dressed in embroidered skirts and blouses, canvas sandals and hairy pants. Reinas sat solemnly atop floats, pouting under sun umbrella and waving patiently from their thrones. At the fairgrounds pigs were splayed open on stakes roasting over fires, and caballeros tore at the meat and took shots to gain confidence and loose their reason. The rodeo came later that night, with mariachis wailing away, torros thrusting their riders, and snow white mares prancing to the music. The locals drank heavily and hollered ¨Viva cuenca¨ in unison with the announcer, until haunting echoes and horse’s neighs filled the night.
I boarded the bus early in the growing light and slipped past vendors hawking popcorn and dried fruit. My breath led the way up the stairs in crisp puffs of steam. I watched the landscape flash past my window, the steep slopes that formed fertile valleys, which were scattered by huts made of adobe and topped with recycled tile or thatch. Long fields were speckled with grazing cattle and the toddlers milking them. When I arrived in the tiny provence of Ona, I found myself in the midst of madness, as the only market for miles and days was already in full swing. Each vendor introduced their family, and with the same pride various verduras they had to offer. Their warm toothy smiles and soft hands welcomed me into the community. We found an escape by squeezing onto a flatbed camioneta, and rode up to the top of the hill overlooking the county, where a dilapidated church and single cow peered out at their world: the clouds of the Amazon rising in the east, the mountains separating us from the coast to the west.
Adventures drove the next day and me out of bed. We gathered strength from encembollada soup, a fish stew, and rode a wretched bus along the winding road to Cajas, the national park. As I disembarked, the frigid air seared my skin, and my plastic poncho blocked my steps but provided little protection from the hail that flew down and scattered, skittering across the frozen earth. The rain seeped in through the socks I wore as mittens, and I soon lost feeling in my extremities. While my body shut down, my eyes went wild, surveying the rocky peaks that surrounded me. Vibrating lakes reflected the clouds and gathered their tears in hollow bowls. Jade moss slipped over the hills, and melted under our steps like snow as we sunk into the moist earth. The fog feathered in through inlets and my vision became fluid. The sky pulsed, growing and receding with my breath. Even the crags, the mountains towering before me, moved in waves of radiating energy, filled with fluctuating power, the ebb and flow of life. As the trail came to its close, it narrowed into a path, edging through muddy slopes and across boulders back to the broken asphalt that foreshadowed civilization.
Cuenca´s independence day was characterized by chaos. Celebrations filled the streets and funneled into parades of dancing children dressed in embroidered skirts and blouses, canvas sandals and hairy pants. Reinas sat solemnly atop floats, pouting under sun umbrella and waving patiently from their thrones. At the fairgrounds pigs were splayed open on stakes roasting over fires, and caballeros tore at the meat and took shots to gain confidence and loose their reason. The rodeo came later that night, with mariachis wailing away, torros thrusting their riders, and snow white mares prancing to the music. The locals drank heavily and hollered ¨Viva cuenca¨ in unison with the announcer, until haunting echoes and horse’s neighs filled the night.
uno mas
We embarked on our greatest endeavor yet by venturing off the grid and beyond the roads to Punta Mona, an organic sustainable farm far from any town. We pilled our gear in the broad boat and set off, speeding over the small waves, past the sweeping shoreline of islands and inlets, cliffs, caves and crevices overflowing with garbled jungle vines.
We pulled up onto the sand and stepped uncertainly out, just before a small dilapidated shack belonging to Patty, the one remaining native, a shriveled grey haired man with an ardent love of baseball and cryptic psychic powers. We sauntered past his shed and up to the main house, a large open kitchen where we met the first members of our future jungle family. Molly was a jolly woman with huge dreads draped in fabric, who gave us a simple tour of the paradise called Punta Mona. She guided us through the dirt paths and plucked samples of cranberry hibiscus off of large maroon brush for us to taste. As we roamed the fertile grounds and swam in the warm waters, Punta Mona seemed a fantasy, a dream, a garden of eden with elves to tend it. The conch called us to dinner its low horn, and we held hands in a circle of appreciation for life. The food was simple but fantastic, the work of the sun, the earth and our new companions. We savored every bite, and scraped the scraps into a bucket for the chickens.
After dinner we headed to the beach, where we stripped off our dirty clothes and ran into the warm water. The waves glowed a light green as I spun slowly around, surveying the magic unfold. Each move created a surge of glowing glitter, fireflies circling us, mimicking our movements, transferring sound and swirl into liquid light. A local told us it was reflections of the stars, as though their bodies were bound by water while their souls soared freely through the sky. He said the full moon made them stronger, brighter, as if searching for her fallen children. We rinsed in the shower and returned to our nest, sending goodnight wishes to the nearest Golden Orb spider, who we named Nectar. We lay down under our mosquito nests, listening to the rat run by and the howler monkeys battle the roosters for control of the night.
The next day the fantasy became infused with reality. After a sleepless night, I rose to humid rain, and found my way to the bathroom, a muddy hole that fed the compost pile, where you shit standing up and cover your droppings with dried leaves. After a breakfast of porage we began to work, sweeping the screen windows from the inside for fear of the large but docile spiders that guarded each corner, mending mosquito nests with stitches that joined the gaping wounds of these mangled ghosts, pumping water as the UV filter failed in the low light. My body ached and I aided it after lunch, slipping into a clay pit of pond scum and covering my skin with rich grey blue scoops from the depths of the stagnant cesspool. We covered our brown surfaces completely and baked in the returning sun, blending into the black beach.
As the days passed by I became comfortable in the wilderness, a mudluscious puddle wonderful womyn, caked in earth and at harmony with the spiders and bats. I appreciated each meal that we prepared. One night a local caught a red snapper with nothing but a hook and a spool of line. I watched it take its last gallant breath, and we fried it fresh, the most flavorful morsel my taste buds have known. We painted a mural of the tree next to the mud pit, using our handprints as leaves and hoping that others would follow our footsteps. That next night we had a pipa party— an expedition to find, capture, and consume the freshest virgin coconuts. I used my machete to crack the thick crust and sipped the sweet juices that poured down my neck. We walked back along the beach, watching the lightning explode over clouds on the horizon.
We rose early, just after the peach rays had escaped the calm the waters, and began to warm the green land. We paddled out while it was still cool, our oars dipping quietly into the shallow waters, as our kayaks glided out across the shallow reef. I watched the translucent jellyfish flow by, nearing the island before me. The crabs scuttle across the rocks, and the pelicans watch from above me. The inlets invite further exploration but the promise of porridge drives me on. I circled the island, watching the open ocean beyond, and almost hoping for a stray wave to carry me out, but returned to shore and dragged my craft into the shed by Patty´s shack, hoping to avoid any ominous interaction.
My soul wants to stay but my body needs to leave. Over four hundred bites cover every patch of skin, and drive me to behave as a crack addict, scratching constantly while my jungle momma reprimands me. The jungle fever has left me unscathed but jungle rot hardens my skin and spreads in strange conditions. I can still taste the last shot of guaro, and the cranberry hibiscus that chased it as we pull away on Paco´s boat. My mouth is dry but my eyes sting with seawater and I blow one last kiss. I feel truly blessed to have found a home with so many beautiful souls, but I am still searching for something intangible that eludes me constantly. Still, every interaction awakens a part of me, as if fate desires that I be influenced by each connection. It seems the possibility for change is inherent within my heart, awaiting the catalyst.
We pulled up onto the sand and stepped uncertainly out, just before a small dilapidated shack belonging to Patty, the one remaining native, a shriveled grey haired man with an ardent love of baseball and cryptic psychic powers. We sauntered past his shed and up to the main house, a large open kitchen where we met the first members of our future jungle family. Molly was a jolly woman with huge dreads draped in fabric, who gave us a simple tour of the paradise called Punta Mona. She guided us through the dirt paths and plucked samples of cranberry hibiscus off of large maroon brush for us to taste. As we roamed the fertile grounds and swam in the warm waters, Punta Mona seemed a fantasy, a dream, a garden of eden with elves to tend it. The conch called us to dinner its low horn, and we held hands in a circle of appreciation for life. The food was simple but fantastic, the work of the sun, the earth and our new companions. We savored every bite, and scraped the scraps into a bucket for the chickens.
After dinner we headed to the beach, where we stripped off our dirty clothes and ran into the warm water. The waves glowed a light green as I spun slowly around, surveying the magic unfold. Each move created a surge of glowing glitter, fireflies circling us, mimicking our movements, transferring sound and swirl into liquid light. A local told us it was reflections of the stars, as though their bodies were bound by water while their souls soared freely through the sky. He said the full moon made them stronger, brighter, as if searching for her fallen children. We rinsed in the shower and returned to our nest, sending goodnight wishes to the nearest Golden Orb spider, who we named Nectar. We lay down under our mosquito nests, listening to the rat run by and the howler monkeys battle the roosters for control of the night.
The next day the fantasy became infused with reality. After a sleepless night, I rose to humid rain, and found my way to the bathroom, a muddy hole that fed the compost pile, where you shit standing up and cover your droppings with dried leaves. After a breakfast of porage we began to work, sweeping the screen windows from the inside for fear of the large but docile spiders that guarded each corner, mending mosquito nests with stitches that joined the gaping wounds of these mangled ghosts, pumping water as the UV filter failed in the low light. My body ached and I aided it after lunch, slipping into a clay pit of pond scum and covering my skin with rich grey blue scoops from the depths of the stagnant cesspool. We covered our brown surfaces completely and baked in the returning sun, blending into the black beach.
As the days passed by I became comfortable in the wilderness, a mudluscious puddle wonderful womyn, caked in earth and at harmony with the spiders and bats. I appreciated each meal that we prepared. One night a local caught a red snapper with nothing but a hook and a spool of line. I watched it take its last gallant breath, and we fried it fresh, the most flavorful morsel my taste buds have known. We painted a mural of the tree next to the mud pit, using our handprints as leaves and hoping that others would follow our footsteps. That next night we had a pipa party— an expedition to find, capture, and consume the freshest virgin coconuts. I used my machete to crack the thick crust and sipped the sweet juices that poured down my neck. We walked back along the beach, watching the lightning explode over clouds on the horizon.
We rose early, just after the peach rays had escaped the calm the waters, and began to warm the green land. We paddled out while it was still cool, our oars dipping quietly into the shallow waters, as our kayaks glided out across the shallow reef. I watched the translucent jellyfish flow by, nearing the island before me. The crabs scuttle across the rocks, and the pelicans watch from above me. The inlets invite further exploration but the promise of porridge drives me on. I circled the island, watching the open ocean beyond, and almost hoping for a stray wave to carry me out, but returned to shore and dragged my craft into the shed by Patty´s shack, hoping to avoid any ominous interaction.
My soul wants to stay but my body needs to leave. Over four hundred bites cover every patch of skin, and drive me to behave as a crack addict, scratching constantly while my jungle momma reprimands me. The jungle fever has left me unscathed but jungle rot hardens my skin and spreads in strange conditions. I can still taste the last shot of guaro, and the cranberry hibiscus that chased it as we pull away on Paco´s boat. My mouth is dry but my eyes sting with seawater and I blow one last kiss. I feel truly blessed to have found a home with so many beautiful souls, but I am still searching for something intangible that eludes me constantly. Still, every interaction awakens a part of me, as if fate desires that I be influenced by each connection. It seems the possibility for change is inherent within my heart, awaiting the catalyst.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
un sueno
Hollow ululations fill the night--the howls of monkeys, screaming as sea lions until the light of day silences them. They convene in clans, faces full of intense expression and chests bellowing ominous warnings. Giant grey brown ctenosaurs battle in branches, appearing as an apparition from the Jurassic ages. Black beaches stretch for miles empty of all souls, save the cacti that cling to cliffs like fallen beasts. Waves roll in and palm trees beckon them with open arms. The rain responds to the invitation, and I predict its patterns from the scent and texture of the air. It grows from a few wistful tears to a throbbing torrent, then subsides as the birds stir, mimicking its behavior with their own cries, tentative conversations whispered in clusters and congregations that combine into a cacophony. Jet blue butterflies swirl like the water, orbiting each other in front of trickling waterfalls and the surrounding forests of ferns and foliage. Reggae rhythms lay a base beat for swaying hammocks and the swishing skirts of schoolgirls. Fish frolic in the teal blue bay: some blend in with the brown lettuce coral and sand; others stand out with florescent flourishes. Each of these elements combines to create the tranquil harmony of a siren's song.
Monday, October 1, 2007
suave
El Salvador hides nothing. Children roam the muddy streets naked, sucking chocolates with crooked smiles and plucking flowers off high barbed wire walls that line the roads. Adults hang their undergarments in the open air and discuss the latest gossip: the new pregnancy and likely father, the success of a hostel owner, or the transgression of someone who dropped in on them during the last set. Even young men speak of the battles they’ve braved, and those they don’t wish too.
Dogs outnumber the people in the small cluster of tin shacks and stucco hotels called El Zonte, and they roam even more freely, following behind in my footsteps, marking their territory with feces or fights. I’ve come to understand where the term mangy mutt comes from, for most lack hair in large areas of their bodies, and they’re caked with mud and a sickness resembling churizo. The livestock meander the streets, turkeys and chickens pecking along, cows grazing and ambling across the highway, pigs bathing the ruts that catch the afternoon showers, and horses observing onlookers with weary eyes. Butterflies prance across the skies by day, and fireflies guide you home at night. In the morning an orchestra of roosters trumpeting and crickets keeping tune awakens me before the first light hits the sky. This afternoon a venomous snake fell from a tree outside my window, and the boys working outside killed it with a machete. They chopped off its head, showing me its fangs and theirs with a grin and flung its limp body over the fence into the road. It landed in the dirt and looked like a discarded stick.
Besides the loyal guard dogs, scattered snakes and incessant mosquitoes, the entire neighborhood is friendly. The people come and go as they please, they greet each other with smiles and besos. They seem proud of the little they have and willing to share. That’s not to say they wont rip off a foreigner by charging 40 bucks for a newspaper of mud that barely resembles mota, but they´ll come by the next day and ask what you thought of it. Here there are no borders, and the high gates crowned in barbed wire are easily crossed through secret holes, with telling smiles. The city is different. It looks tired, painful. There, the boundaries are impermeable. An armed guard stands solemnly at every door, and only those with heavy purses are permitted safe passage.
I´ve spent my days here simply: I sway and still myself, fanning arid air into my face, watching the mango tree top that cradles me stir gently in the sweet breeze, and feeling the earth threaten from below. The sky is smothered by leaves that promise shelter should the rain come as the thunder threatens. Buttery sun bakes my skin, furrows my brow, and slants my eyes, my focus forward. Black crabs scuttle across the dark sands, bracing themselves against the grey green winter water. Waves shatter the shore and turn to chocolate churning milk. They´re born as barrels: curling from the point into crescents that provide the proud with a possibility to move in the wake of their harmony. Sun kissed kids morph into frogs and glide effortlessly across the surface: spinning over the top, darting back to the base and swinging a webbed foot out of the water onto their "boogie" to perch in the hollow before springing off the edge over the crest and disappearing back into the depths.
I’ve also been helping to fix up the Compound we have called home for the last week. It needs hard work and love, but every effort makes a difference. As my friends drove off to close the deal on their new palapa in paradise, the grass had already begun to spread across the yard, and the banana plants they raised are almost as tall as I am. I think it would be nice to keep marks on the wall and watch their growth like a toddler. My contributions have been small, but they’re very much my own. I helped put up flagstones on the bathroom walls, spending hours crouched in the little room piecing the puzzle together while cement covers my skin and cracks my hands. I painted a mural of sea turtles on a large piece of driftwood, and strung it up on the wall, the first aesthetic element on the barren brick. I wanted to help build the hedge, but the nursery was closed, so I left a small donation for a plumeria and directions to plant it near the patio so that when the wind blows west the air will smell sweet.
Dogs outnumber the people in the small cluster of tin shacks and stucco hotels called El Zonte, and they roam even more freely, following behind in my footsteps, marking their territory with feces or fights. I’ve come to understand where the term mangy mutt comes from, for most lack hair in large areas of their bodies, and they’re caked with mud and a sickness resembling churizo. The livestock meander the streets, turkeys and chickens pecking along, cows grazing and ambling across the highway, pigs bathing the ruts that catch the afternoon showers, and horses observing onlookers with weary eyes. Butterflies prance across the skies by day, and fireflies guide you home at night. In the morning an orchestra of roosters trumpeting and crickets keeping tune awakens me before the first light hits the sky. This afternoon a venomous snake fell from a tree outside my window, and the boys working outside killed it with a machete. They chopped off its head, showing me its fangs and theirs with a grin and flung its limp body over the fence into the road. It landed in the dirt and looked like a discarded stick.
Besides the loyal guard dogs, scattered snakes and incessant mosquitoes, the entire neighborhood is friendly. The people come and go as they please, they greet each other with smiles and besos. They seem proud of the little they have and willing to share. That’s not to say they wont rip off a foreigner by charging 40 bucks for a newspaper of mud that barely resembles mota, but they´ll come by the next day and ask what you thought of it. Here there are no borders, and the high gates crowned in barbed wire are easily crossed through secret holes, with telling smiles. The city is different. It looks tired, painful. There, the boundaries are impermeable. An armed guard stands solemnly at every door, and only those with heavy purses are permitted safe passage.
I´ve spent my days here simply: I sway and still myself, fanning arid air into my face, watching the mango tree top that cradles me stir gently in the sweet breeze, and feeling the earth threaten from below. The sky is smothered by leaves that promise shelter should the rain come as the thunder threatens. Buttery sun bakes my skin, furrows my brow, and slants my eyes, my focus forward. Black crabs scuttle across the dark sands, bracing themselves against the grey green winter water. Waves shatter the shore and turn to chocolate churning milk. They´re born as barrels: curling from the point into crescents that provide the proud with a possibility to move in the wake of their harmony. Sun kissed kids morph into frogs and glide effortlessly across the surface: spinning over the top, darting back to the base and swinging a webbed foot out of the water onto their "boogie" to perch in the hollow before springing off the edge over the crest and disappearing back into the depths.
I’ve also been helping to fix up the Compound we have called home for the last week. It needs hard work and love, but every effort makes a difference. As my friends drove off to close the deal on their new palapa in paradise, the grass had already begun to spread across the yard, and the banana plants they raised are almost as tall as I am. I think it would be nice to keep marks on the wall and watch their growth like a toddler. My contributions have been small, but they’re very much my own. I helped put up flagstones on the bathroom walls, spending hours crouched in the little room piecing the puzzle together while cement covers my skin and cracks my hands. I painted a mural of sea turtles on a large piece of driftwood, and strung it up on the wall, the first aesthetic element on the barren brick. I wanted to help build the hedge, but the nursery was closed, so I left a small donation for a plumeria and directions to plant it near the patio so that when the wind blows west the air will smell sweet.
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