¨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.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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.
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