It is safe in this syrupy stew, Cuenca Ecuador

To F. Scott Fitzgerald

Upside down images
of a sky turned black
the inside of a skeleton
lost in shadows
blood pulsing inside my tubes
the sunshine drips
drips and covers me
like sweet molasses
it is safe in this syrupy stew
swimming in circles
inside circles
inside squares
leaning toward remembering
and then back the other way
I am left on the right side of life
the road leading away is
clear
the road leading here
cluttered and heavy
with boxes,
great secret trunks
full of memories
memories that slide around
inside circles
inside squares
life is funny
the way it follows lines and curves
to certain spots of light
to images of beauty
like strands of connective tissue

I visited my old host family in Cuenca tonight. They were so nice even after my two-year absence. They told me their house is still my house – to come back anytime. Cristian, the oldest son, tells me that the 16-year old protester who was shot and killed by the military 2 weeks ago was a friend of his. Cristian tells me the boy had a fake gun or a gun with no bullets in it and he pulled it out during a protest. The cops, thinking he had a gun and was going to shoot at them shot him instead. This seems like a strange story. I wonder how much I miss in the translation and how much Cristian is just making up. It seems so meaningless and such a silly way to die. Supposedly there was also evidence of several blows to his head adding more confusion and mystery to the story.

The tanks were shooting las bombas lacrimogenas (tear gas) at protesting students from tanks late into the afternoon. They moved from the Parque Calderon (the center of Cuenca) to one block away at the market, scattering kids everywhere. Business people and passersby pull out their handkerchiefs or hats and cover their mouths, speeding up their gait in order to leave the tear gas behind more quickly. They are accustomed to these disturbances, just as they were two years ago when I was living in this city.

The students seem to have no vision. They just want to be pissed off, throw rocks and run from gas. It’s the same routine as when I was here two years ago. Protest, gas, run, protest, gas, run. It doesn’t seem there is much forward movement or even a clear idea of what they hope to achieve. They seem stuck in some impotent cycle that is perpetuated year after year.

This is in sharp contrast to the organized indigenous groups who have been known to effectively shut down the entire country with strategically placed road blockades. They were the ones who led the protest on the capital that forced Mahuad to resign his presidency two years ago. The indigenous make up 60% or so of the population here and are a force to be reckoned with.

There are two kinds of bombs in Cuenca: las bombas lacrimogenas y las bombas aguas. One makes you cry and one makes you furious. Water balloons are thrown at pedestrians by squealing, hiding children on every street here. Buckets of water are dumped from balconies. Water guns are aimed from car windows. All are prolific in these mountain towns – I am told that it is the preparation for some holiday I still can’t quite understand. These water bandits have no mercy and are especially pleased when you yell at them and get angry. They seem to enjoy targeting tourists. Can’t say that I blame them. I imagine them keeping score as they giggle in the safety of their balconies or cars. Tourists are 50 points, locals 25 points and men in suits and women in high heels at least 75.

Claude Levi-Strauss (Tristes Tropiques)
“A journey occurs simultaneously in space, in time and in the social hierarchy.”