Candlelight and Llama Blankets, A poem

6 February

candlelight and llama blankets
bring memories of the day
the inland sea
vast and blue
stretching for ever
burning rubber of laboring engine
alone in the world
the breeze kisses and bites my neck
like an excited lover
clouds slung low
scraping the water and my skull
the idea of eternity
clearly presents itself
for consideration
and my brain accepts
balancing the eternal
with NOTHING
(libra’s attempt at eternity)
the scale tips sharply
in favor of the neverending
and I open myself wide

the candlelight also illuminates
memories of other times and places
all so far from this bone of mother earth
this mountain birthed in amniotic fluid
of Lago Titikaka
all places and times
converge in a swirl of creation
memories molded to stone
stone molded in memory

I suck into myself at 4110 meters
snap into body myself
clean and cold and wet
a shadow of life eternal
and then
breath caught in my throat
I see the mother before me
she is facing father across a short distance
which is really where they connect
to become two plants
from the same root
lovers and twins
split in half at some important moment
only the rocks can remember
and they do remember
only they are silent
unwilling to give up the secrets
which make them so hard
unwilling to yield
to any but their creator
and the lovers face each other
across the distance
intense in their devotion
desire has cooled to attentiveness
and memories are the blood

I remember then where I am
in the candlelight
in a llama blanket
sounds of native music
in the distance
native music with gringo dancers
haunting and low, beautiful
the sound the rocks would make
if they whispered their secrets
the sound of beauty and knowledge
deep and innocent and sorrowful
in the memories of this night

A Moment of Silence: Riobamba, Ecuador

16 January

Belonging

I feel alone
a lone star breathing
breath of the universe
universe-ity of life
life’s filled with desire
desire must be lonely
lyghts flicker quietly
quiet as the end of time
time raises questions
questions of belonging
belonging

I have decided to try a moment of silence – once a month on this day or two before I start bleeding. Before the physical pain and ovarian release begins. I will use this 24 hours of silence to center and find my peace. I can’t seem to find it outside myself. More often than not the things I do say on this day before my period are self-pitying and alienating. I am blank and confused. I see no need not to treat it as a day of fast and quiet – a day only for me.

[Months later, I remember this day. Jacob and I were at each other’s throats. Unable to see past our defenses. It’s interesting that I carry all the blame on myself. That I blame our inability to communicate on my period, which didn’t start for another week anyway. Why did I do that? Why did I let him make me feel so bad that day?]

17 January

Today we left Banos and arrived in Riobamba. Banos was beginning to feel like a big vortex sucking us in. We stayed too long (4 days?). My favorite thing there was our hostal, with it’s beautiful view, the whole top floor to ourselves, kitchen, clean bathroom and toilet paper included in the price, as well as the sweet old guy who has run the place for 30 years. I also liked the hot volcanic pools and cold waterfalls though for some reason we only went once, the last day we were there.

Riobamba is alive with people, not only tourists and those who serve tourists, but People. There were no angry signs in Banos, no graffiti, no call to action or armed protest, no demands for a government of and for the people. In Riobamba it is everywhere – people wanting and suffering, maybe even feeling revolution. Jacob seems equally happy about this change of scenery.

I ask “Why did we stay there so long?”

“We got sucked in”, he says.

The vortex. We agree.

At the Chifa (Chinese restaurant) tonight, we see a news story of student protests in Quito at the Universidad Central. It seems that many people were injured from the pictures on the news. There was tear gas, shooting, a burning bus, road blockades. We begin to get looks in the Chifa as we watch the news, not understanding as the news anchors speak quickly of the breaking story. I can only understand that students protested, that they were upset about a $.10 raise in the price of gas and prices rising for other things in the stores. I also picked out that the reporter focused on one injured student who was hurt very badly. We will have to wait until tomorrow for more.

I am reminded of Vipka saying that she can feel discontent bubbling just below the surface all over Ecuador. She predicted that it is inevitable or at least very likely that things will start to happen soon. I remember her story of Banos on New Year’s Eve. She told me that during the big New Year’s Eve celebration the people burned a large effigy of the World Trade Center towers and maybe one of George Bush. Everyone cheered and celebrated around these burning images in the center of town. I suppose my image of Banos was incomplete.

18 January
(only one day later and such a change of heart)

Riobamba is loud and unfriendly. It’s the first place I have seen people actually laugh openly at Jacob’s appearance – his blue dreds and loose free-box clothes. It’s too close. The hostal is dirty. We go to Cuenca early tomorrow. There’s not much to do in this city. It seems there are few places to hang out and little escape from the push of humans everywhere. I think I would have appreciated Banos more if more time had passed between our arrival in Quito and our visit there.

20 January

random related thoughts:

1. like small stars we head south part of the ever-changing constellation

2. the return to Cuenca filled with memories and a feeling of loss

3. dodging water balloons and buckets I pick my way through central Cuenca. (then): drenched by a child oblivious to my mask in honor of some strange holiday only the children seem to understand

4. (then again): soft children with eyes of the ancient quietly begging for money for food for
life

5. (sometimes) I think it’s easier to respect things I am not than to accept things that I am

6. to Dan: I think the best thing that can happen to your faith is a loss of trust in the person who represents that faith

7. people are crying all over the world.

The Devil's Throat: Banos, Ecuador

14 January

I am finally and forcefully a part of my dreams. Banos is quiet tonight. Even the dogs seem to have found some peace, except that small one outside our room who is thankfully playing with a piece of plastic – thankfully because last night he cried and whimpered us to sleep in the rain. It’s Monday – the end of Monday in Tungurahua Province, town of Banos, Ecuador to be exact.

On Sunday we got here at 10:30 a.m., dopey, fresh off the bus, we trudged under the weight of too much stuff in the general direction of the hostal recommended by Hanis and Vipka. I trudge and shuffle, thinking of the absurdity of the amount of stuff I have carried with me to this distant continent. And then I smile at the absurdity of getting rid of it after carrying it this far.

Jacob and I had a great day. We hiked up from the valley Banos is nestled in and up and up and up once more. We were accompanied on the first and hardest part of the trip by a young boy with deformed hands, a sweet smile and a dachsund puppy which he clutched to his chest at all times. I helped him for a bit by carrying the puppy while he carried the sack he would fill with potatoes at his grandmother’s house. He says he walks that hill 5 times a week. I know better than to let this shock me.

He turned off and we kept going up, alternately catching the road and footpaths. The paths were deep shaded canyons, cool, moist, tropical, windy, dark and seductive, surrounded by growth on all sides. When we came onto the road we also came into the sun where warmth and brightness awakened senses with light, dry sweetness. We were really hiking very aimlessly.

I was drawn towards the volcano Tungurahua (Devil’s Throat) so we walked in the general direction of the peak. We pushed forward both physically and mentally today (speaking of politics, sex, food, love, alcoholism, etc.) We got to a certain point where the path overgrew and we had no choice but to turn around. After a short search for a new path to the road we returned along the same path.

I thought it might be difficult for me to be on vacation for such a long time, especially with the history of workaholics in my family. Instead, I find it totally invigorating. It’s like an experiment in the other life. I think I can only return to work if it is for the reason of saving money for another trip

Last night I woke up to the whole bed shaking rather intensely. In my waking thoughts, I believe it is related to the volcano, an earthquake, a minor stretch or clearing of the throat. In my sleeping mind, I believe it to be the exuberant dreams of the man I shared the bed with.

We are staying at the Residencial Timara, 3^rd floor for $2.50 per night. Jacob and I are sharing a bed here even though every other room in the place is empty. For some reason, it seems to be cheaper if we share a bed (matrimonio) rather than having our own (doble). Our room looks out on beautiful purple and red bougainvillea with a backdrop of the (not so insignificant) mound of earth that is supposed to protect Banos if Tungurahua erupts again – spilling her hot juices all over the land. This little mound of earth would laugh as she was gobbled by hot lava and sigh herself into hibernation as the smoke cleared.

Banos is a strange town, especially after Chugchilan and Quilotoa. There are tourists everywhere. The selling of culture is rampant – both foreign and Ecuadorian culture. The hostal we are in is a nice oasis. We have the whole third floor to ourselves and access to a kitchen. It is a bit of protection from the hordes of gringos with their fanny packs and sandals, their cameras and money, their entitlement.

Thought #1

It’s raining quietly
a dog has been unsettled – barking at its real or imagined invader
somewhere a tv or stereo is turned up way too loud
somewhere a baby cries
(though I can’t hear this)
I find myself alone
on the tiled transition between bathroom floor
and curtainless shower
unable to sleep
despite the exhaustion of the day
several other dogs join in the chorus
of rain and dog and sitting
I am aware of everything
and I know nothing
life is absurd
I can only stay awake
hear the laughter of dogs
and understand the intricacies of absurdity

Thought #2

Rain falling lightly
but not on my skin
my other senses
imagining for my skin

ears hearing smooth
drops of water playing tag
nose smelling
as earth drinks deeply
and plants behave as if drunk
eyes seeing life
through the tears of another
mouth staying shut
(so as to facilitate the rest)
skin is alive with anticipation
that will remain in the imagination
as the skin is also chilled
by this deep Andean night

life is good and I’m alive
I’m alive and life is good

15 January

Later – like moths to a flame, ants to a picnic, cows to a salt lick, we are drawn in droves, herds to this America/Europe/could-be-anywhere in the central Ecuadorian Andes. This bright shining spot of western revelry. Our culture is laid out here mockingly. You will buy and we will sell. And sell. And sell. I hate it but I stay. I am locked in, submerged in a broth I thought I’d thrown out with the trash – or at least set aside for future’s hunger. Even the people here have taken on the greedy, unfriendly, capitalist shine. They are numb to foreigners and unyielding.

Living in the Clouds, Quilotoa, Ecuador

7 January

We left Quito today to head south to the city of Latacunga. The bus ride was all that I remembered – barreling down the Pan-American “highway” swerving potholes, animals, other cars and buses and the occasional small child. Quito seemed never-ending as we drove out of it. People and trash everywhere – the leftovers of too much human presence and too little urban infrastructure to deal with the overflow. An indigenous family loaded a whole bed frame onto the top of the bus and then got off with us at Latacunga. The sweet smile of the wife coaxed out by a “Hola, como esta?” from me. I realize now she probably speaks Quechua first and then Spanish.

I finally regain a sense of direction outside the city. Now that I know which way is south I can picture myself in the world. We walked through the market today. Surrounded by fruits and vegetables, bread and cheese, all stacked and ready to be eaten. We bought vegetables, bread and aji and ate the first of many vegetable sandwiches – a staple food during our travels. We are staying at the Residencial Santiago in a nice 3^rd floor room with a view to the west and to the tops of roofs all over the city (3 dollars per night). Tomorrow we go to Zumbahua and a hike into the mountains.

I feel so at peace.

8 January

To the First Moment Alone

early morning
no distractions
rolling metal on metal of opening storefronts
just south of the equator
the cathedral that once dominated this town
of latacunga
sitting silent and dark
closed and proud
bright crystal blue in the sky
7:30 a.m.
everything so vivid
people honkingyellingmoving
standingsitting
action everywhere

a man sweeping the parque vicente leon with a palm branch
a small boy wants to shine my shoes
a man sitting across from me just watching as I am
a woman walking quickly on stiletto heels
2 very small boys cross the street holding hands
a couple indigena touching fingers, sitting very close

9 January

We are high in the mountains at the crater lake of Quilotoa after a three hour bus trip from Latacunga with our new German friends, 2 sisters named Uzla and Doerte. They are a geologist who wants to be a film producer and a pharmacist respectively. We are staying with Manuel and his family in a “typical Quechua house”. Manuel’s oldest son Javier recruited us straight off the bus with promises of a typical Quechua house, meals included, guided hikes to the mountains, etc. The bus had stopped at a large colorful archway over a dusty road that led to a rather unassuming gathering of about 10 buildings, which is the town of Quilotoa. Javier and several others representing other hostals in the town were waiting patiently at the colorful archway for our bus – the only one to pass that day – to unload its daily ration of tourists (there were 6 of us that day) and the few locals who had come from Latacunga and points between.

They are a beautiful family – Manuel, his shy wife and their 6 children, of whom Javier is the oldest at 13 – all of them rosy-cheeked and brown. The house is made of cinder blocks with a wood frame roof covered in grass thatch. Reed mattresses are our beds below the sleeping bags we brought with us. A chimenea where we can build a fire at night provides warmth and a gathering place for the four of us. They installed the light bulb in the bathroom last night when we arrived after a cold bumpy ride that took us up and up and up.

The bus went through some canyon country and high paramo landscape(1). There are many small thatched shelters squatting on the landscape like old women. We passed through a parade that blocked the roads for a short time with music and tons of people colorfully dressed, playing eclectic big brass band type music as they spilled over the mountainside in a river of color and sound. I have no idea what they were celebrating on this cloudy day high in these mountains.

1) paramo is a high grassland landscape where little grows but grass, cactus and stunted flowers. Some people believe these areas used to be heavily forested and are only grassland because of human use. This seems a plausible theory since these mountains have been inhabited for over 10,000 years and have been densely populated for much of that time. Also plausible because federally protected areas surrounded by paramo are covered in beautiful ancient quinoal forests. The paramo is one of my favorite landscapes. It’s misty, cold and magical.

The whole Manuel family sleeps and lives out of a room that is one quarter the size of the building they have built for tourists like us. The Hostal Chocita as it is called, is the newest addition to this town of Quilotoa which is becoming more and more popular as a tourist destination and which seems to consist of 4 hostals, 6 homes and one school. I, feeling an attachment to the thatch roof (after having spent the past year building one), had to work really hard to convince the German sisters to stay there. It was definitely more rustic than any of the other accomodations.

Yesterday afternoon the four of us walked halfway into the crater with it’s highly alkaline bright blue-green lake. The lake fills the bottom of the crater, whose sides sweep upward steeply to form a giant, narrow bowl. The Hostal Chocita and the whole town of Quilotoa sit on the rim of this bowl. The ancient volcano is silent now, the wild, dramatic sweep and curve of this basin the only testament to its more active history. The lake sits silent and deathly still, detached from the rest of the world. There are no streams flowing in or out of this body of water. Its root is deep in the mountain. They say that there are creatures swimming in the depths that are so strange as to be unbelievable. But when you see the unnaturally blue/green cloudy color of the water and its solitary stillness, you can easily believe that anything is possible.

That night, Manuel’s wife made a simple and delicious hot dinner of soup (served separately) and rice, french fries, a fried egg and a salad all served in the same bowl. I am again enchanted with these mountains and the people who navigate them. I find myself the translator here. It’s nice, forcing me to remember these words, language of my heart.

We are now resting during our afternoon hike at a cumbia (or peak) watching clouds roll in from the coast. If it weren’t so cloudy, Manuel says we could see the Pacific coast from here. We are far into the western cordillera. He took us to a cueva de los inca or an Incan cave stuck into the side of a hill. The Inca are constantly in my mind. In the presence of this landscape I find myself thinking that it is no wonder they thought of themselves as chosen – from the Sun.

Descanso

the clouds brush our faces
we see many things
sun beating close
lungs pulsing overtime
the flute leads us on
like Pan
to the source
el ombligo del mundo
up and down
across these mountains
following Manuel
our angel in rubber boots

Manuel tells us we have climbed to 5000 meters above sea level today. I find this difficult to believe despite my exhaustion. Regardless. We walked for 6 hours with some breaks for the gringos adjusting to the altitude, while Manuel played his flute to accompany our footsteps and heavy breath. At the end I was feeling very sick. Maybe dehydrated. Maybe just tired to the core. My muscles seem fine. It is my lungs and back that are difficult.

Jacob is a horse. He keeps going and going like he runs on batteries. It’s amazing. Yesterday he left the sisters and I to walk all the way to the bottom of the deep crater where the lake is and today he pushes hard almost effortlessly. The 2 German girls seem as exhausted as me and I wonder to my dismay if it is a gender thing.

Later, sitting by the hot, smoky fire in the town of Quilotoa, Ecuador, in the Hostal Chocita. It is freezing outside, cold, windy and damp. I realize this is what it feels like to live in the clouds.