Seven Days

In the last week I have:

fought a shrub fire on top of an 8,000 ft peak, worked at an international food fair, started a literary magazine, helped finish a hiking guide, road in the back of a pickup truck, read one book, drummed in a drumming circle, climbed 3 mountains, picked my nose 17 times, broke one waterglass, asked someone to make 50 copies, talked to one amazon parrot, got splashed with water in Loja, saw 10 baby ducks, met a wierd guy from Carthrage, Missouri, saw a belly dancer belly dance, used a jacuzzi and drank fanta from the tap.

I probably did some other things too.

Calling All Paths

At last I have called out to the universe and the universe has responded. It has taken me from the devil’s rotting cavern and thrust me upon the negative ions; a special spot where everything is amplified until it meets its highest potential energy and there it plateaus.

Yes, last week’s maniacal work came to an abrupt end upon meeting one of the world’s most active activists.

Where am I? This I cannot tell for the protection of all parties involved. But amongst the variety of orchids, organic chickens, and wilderness spa, it is safe to say I am in paradise.

Here in paradise I have had some fairly profound thoughts:

What is one supposed to do with the bits of food that come out of your mouth when you floss? If you leave it on the string you are running a high risk of putting it on your cheek when you go back in. I have been rinsing it off before going back in. But what if you don’t have water?

I really like donkeys. I like them so much that I have come to the sad and pathetic realization that the first three letters of donkey constitutes my entire last name and that I find that really cool. I am thinking of purchasing a donkey and riding it through South America. Undoubtedly, my donkey will induce less vomit than the bus.

Donkeys sound like sea saws. Donkeys sound like a rickety bed in which 2 or more people are making love.

You can be a complete and well-rounded individual without having any nose hair.

Clean it up

Up above the village of Vilcabamba, way up in the clouds, along a green mountain ridge, lay a path of dirt and rocks. Up there a rooster is the first to get a peak of the sun as its reflection creeps over the mountians summit. The rooster then alerts all the roosters below and gradually the town wakes to a peacful madness.

Town drunks empty there already empty bottles into their dry mouths. School children hold hands and skip across the street. Police men gather around a post and share cakes and croissants. And I walk upstairs to the bar so that I can sweep up dead beatles, mop their blood and decide what to do with the several dozen live beatles that scamper across the floor.

I feel dirty. Not because of the dead beatles nor because of their blood. And not because I havn´t showered in 5 days. I feel dirty because I am volunteering at a whore house. The owner calls it a hosteria which is supposed to be some form of hotel or hostel. But in reality it is a whore house. There are many whores and there are not many not-whores. But if it were just a whore house and I happened to be just working at the bar, the place that serves alcohol and fascilitates this sort of practice, then I might not feel so dirty.

Perhaps I wouldn´t feel so dirty if the owner slept with less guests. Or less employees perhaps. Or perhaps I wouldn´t feel so dirty if dishes were cleaned and if mineral water wasn´t from the tap.

But although it may sound like it, I am not complaining. Not only am I surrounded by beatles, I am also surrounded by lush, green, mountains. I am surrounded by mango and banana trees. And I am surrounded by roosters that crow all day. It might not be enough to make me feel clean, but I always have the option to hike to a waterfall and sit under it until all dirtyness is washed away.

Real Reality

Sadly, I have been reading next to nothing. I did read cosmo in spanish in which I learned how to detect a jealous friend. And I read the rotary club of cajamarca monthly press release. I have certainly read some road signs, price tags, and restaurant menus. And occasionally I read the logos on hats, shirts, and neck braces of those who pass by.

But I havn´t read anything quite of the substance that I am used to. A long novel, a collection of short stories, a newsweek feature. Those are the things that keep my brain from turning into a pot of cebiche. And although I have hit my head on cielings, fans, and other low hanging objects several times, I attribute the degeneration of my brain to none other than lack of reading.

This is not a plea for help. This is like a Severe thunderstorm warning that you see at the bottom of your television screen.

In other news, Ecuador seems to be a beautiful country full of banana trees and empañadas. It is a bit easier to poop here and there are parks full of curious iguanas. Some people say river, others say ocean. Nobody gets in a fight over this issue. And bowling does exist. In fact, the world bowling hall of fame might be in Ecuador.