They run with smiles on their faces

On the state of student protests, Ecuador 2002

They run with smiles on their faces
dodging tanks and tear gas
they run like children
playing hide and seek
they throw stones at police
in a game with no end
they take classes on the side
studying engineering in any form
optometry, general high school
anything so they can forget
anything to earn money and get ahead
send their children to the US
they run with smiles on their faces
because they get a day off school
they scatter unorganized
while they taunt la policia
they break windows and rip up streets
angry about what
they run with smiles on their faces
playing hooky from school
while the revolution stands cold
they pick their fights carefully
so they can sleep easy
so they can drive cars and wear nike
and then one of them is dead
killed in “battle”
carrying a fake gun and wearing rock wounds on his head
and now there’s a real reason to fight
but everyone’s confused
and they still run with smiles on their faces

Protecting the watershed

24 January

We have spent the last few days in the mountains at Stuart White’s hacienda. Stuart is an American geographer who is married to an Ecuadorian woman. He has lived in Ecuador for 30 years. I met him when I came here with the university two years ago. It is a four hour drive to the east from Cuenca. We made the trip with Steve, a British ex-pat who is friends with Stuart. Stuart followed in his own truck. We stopped in a small village along the bumpy road and bought some bread and cheese and beers. We sat on a stone wall across from the tienda and drank beers and talked about the work Stuart is doing.

Stuart’s property contains cloud forest, paramo and lots of wooded land he is trying to protect from destruction. He is working toward an eco-tourist project sometime in the future. His main goal is to protect the watershed and the highland forests. There are plenty of opportunities for work here but you have to pay quite a lot to volunteer.

There are several other volunteers working and living at Stuart’s – two British girls who are hilarious – Kate and Sally. Allyson from Ohio University (who later became my friend and housemate), Tyler from Canada, Jessie from somewhere down south, Dan and Carrie from the Boston area. They are living in the clouds here, almost. A steady stream of clouds cuts the immediate view in half. There are alpaca everywhere, with their curious little noses and funny faces – like intelligent sheep.

We have camped for the past three days, which was great since we had a very effective rain fly and it rained a lot. Our time here has been peaceful – or tranquilo as they in Spanish. We hiked up to the paramo today where Allyson showed me what Stuart thinks is a Canari (pre-Inca) trail about one foot wide running along the top of a ridge. She also showed me what is thought to be a Canari ceremonial site, a wooded hill jutting up sharply and flattened off at the top. Lots of archaeology could be done here, though these projects would probably be hindered by lack of access and lack of money. Regardless, I feel drawn in a different, unknown and as yet unarticulated direction.

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.”

21 January, 2002: Anniversary

21 January

2 year anniversary of the last government coup in Ecuador. The overthrow of Mahuad who now teaches at Harvard and the installation, after several attempts at other presidents, of his vice president Naboa.

Today the tanks are rolling
smelling tear gas in our hotel
while speaking of revolution
students teachers protesting
death of a student protester
mysterious
fires in the street
people on the move
protesting – angry about prices
going up
prices rise, salaries fall
sit stagnant
and people rise, unorganized
but impressive in their fight
organized sector declares a month of protest
fighting
struggle
change starting today

People are crying all over the world.

I am at a loss for words, trying too hard to be brilliant, too hard to have an “experience”, too hard to force pieces of the puzzle so I can make sense of the bigger picture.

There’s something about traveling that is utterly exhausting. It breeds some kind of laziness as if traveling itself were the hardest job you ever had. It is so present, so immediate, so vivid; whereas daily grind is stuck in thoughts of the future. Where will this day’s money go and is there enough food in the house? And memories -- associations of sense make the mind’s eye forever aware of what has come before. But traveling brings new stimulants, it opens the present wide, not knowing what to expect we live in this moment. Carpe Diem. It sets memories aside in order to make space for new sensory perceptions, new memories of this vivid moment and this and this. This is especially true traveling in a place where a different language is spoken. The mind is split open like a coconut, the juices stirred and mixed with new . . . everything and then resealed but with a slight hole, a crack that will grow wider the longer the immersion lasts.

El Universo newspaper reports 56,000 people dead in Afghanistan. Victims of my government’s war on terror. And I am a jobless tourist. I’m here to spend my US dollars so I can do my part to make the world go round. It’s sick. Disgusting. How can I make my stand? How can I show the world or at least myself that I have something to give back besides money? I feel like I need to prove that I am not just what my country represents but a person who cares about those 56,000 people, each of them and their families too and all the other people who have been killed around the world in the name of my flag. My freedom. People die, starve and suffer so that I can hear George Bush assuring me that my freedom will not be compromised. I don’t want his bloody, evil freedom. 56,000 is so many people. 3000 people killed in the September 11 bombing. 3000: 56000. Even if Universo is exaggerating and this is very likely true, still one quarter this many (14,000) is too many. One is too many.

No wonder people want me to say something about this war. When Ecuadorians ask me about it, they can probably see their own vulnerability as a nation. They can probably see how easily their little country could be (and already is) colonized by our government. It’s different but no less scary. Afghanistan is not so much colonized as demonized, pulverized.

And I’m here telling people that I have no job and no reason to go home. But I do have money to spend and a passport that can get me anywhere. Not everywhere safely but almost anywhere. Money to spend. Money to burn. Money to choose. My choice. Money.

I feel a need to mourn these people and others. I feel a need to mourn them actively by doing something, by being more than a tourist with money to spend. I’m out of practice. Or was I ever in practice? Life seems so full now, so necessary – pregnant with possibilities and ready to burst. I feel a need to realize my SELF in a fucked up world. To honor my desire to be part of something different, something not of selfish capitalistic gain as in its essence tourism is. “Travel” seems to offer a different possibility. Time to re-evaluate. Re-instigate.

When I return to the US I will fight to change US foreign policy. I will fight so that I do not feel so implicated – so guilty. I will fight so that my life can represent my beliefs. I will fight because I am selfish in my desire for meaning. And I am tired of passive choice. I am tired of being so god damn ironic.

People are still crying all over the world.

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.