Journal Entries, October 25th, 26th 2007

And the story begins with a cleansing--a period of sobriety that exists on many different planes. Being present. Sleeping when it's dark. Waking in the light and walking and being silent, alone. Adjusting--relocating to a new frame of mind, not just a new place. Starting to occupy a different life, and now the constraints aren't easier or better, but necessary, and different. Welcome.

The Calendrio Agricola Lunar of 2007 tells me the "energetic sensibilities" are high today. Apparently this is a good thing. The day did find me with enough energy and sense to pen a letter to Rachel after a day in sun and dirt. I think of her belly swelling with new life and how I am not there to see it. I think of Cooper and his strawberries and how they rival the berries growing here. I miss them. Now that Freebird has taken off into a new era of flight, Rachel has no computer, no email. Being forced to write with ink and paper is hardly a disaster, but I have no return address...

After a week at the base of magestic and dormant Cotopaxi, I am now in a verdant valley below the black and active Volcan Tungurahua. It last erupted in 2005, covering the towns on the other side of Baños with ash and rubble and shutting down tourism in this tourist town. She makes noise every day, puffing out huge dark plumes of smoke that rise to mix with the clouds. I awake every morning to find my things covered in a fine, black grit and sometimes the pink and red petals of the dahlias are covered in it, too. Last night I saw magma spurt from the mouth and light up the sky, falling to the slope and crackling black and orange as it cooled. I wonder if I should tell Mom and Dad...

I arrived here at my first "farm" just 5 days ago and already my hands have taken on a greenish-yellow tint and the dirt under my nails seems permenant, but I'm enjoying every minute of it--the weeding, gathering volcanic stones that Tungurahua resupplies every day, harvesting cabbage, carrots, chard and lemons just a few feet from my bedroom door with which to prepare my meals. I gather mint and oregano and lemongrass for tea. I boil water to drink. I am the only volunteer here for now, and so my days are spent in a Spanish world, working with Mario and Don Victor, who is 97 years old and still wielding a machete and caring tenderly for young lettuces. At night I am alone save for the rhino beetles, the rumbling of the volcano, the rustling of cane grass and the whipping of tattered banana palms in the wind. I make tea. I write. I retire early. All of this is welcome, as my head had gotten so overwhelmed there in NY--too much of too much. No clear space in which to think, not even in my head, and so I'm happy for this quiet solitude

Today was my day to make lunch for the "crew" and I prepared a chicken soup, complete with feet--a first for me. I did not eat them, for it was enough to cook them. They kept sticking up out of the pot like a bad Chinatown joke. I am proud of these lunches, and of my creative culinary experiments with things called Camote and Papa Chino.

It was humbling to realize I'd come here to farm and yet couldn't tell a weed from a plant. But I have learned. I have learned that carrots need little water, gentle earth cover, and lots of sun. Cilantro on the other hand needs very moist ground and plenty of shade. Clover secures nitrogen to the soil and can be sown as a natural fertilizer that has the added bonus of being beautiful and smelling delicious. Potatos grow by planting potatos, leeks by planting the ends of leeks, but still no one can tell me where to find the seeds on a carrot.

Conversations with Carol have been incredibly rewarding. Women like her, and Cherie (my hippie in Otavalo), offer me an understanding of how Ecuador moves, and how it has changed, in a language I can understand. They are like key masters, opening up doors that would otherwise remain closed. Thier knowledge is invaluable to me. Were I just playing tourist I would never get this--these relaxed moments at the end of a day where worlds of understanding unexpectedly unfold. One likes wine, the other walnut leaf tea. There it was a darkening garden cafe in a city, here it is a darkening garden in the mountains. I speak with Carol while lemonade cools on the stovetop, and leftover soup from lunch awaits me for dinner. Here a conversation meanders, it is not an interview or an interrogation, and it winds its way from talk of dogs and medicinal plants to politics and history.

Despite our language barriers, Mario and I have developed a rhythm of work and play. We struggle along, but we are also able to joke with each other, though sometimes I wonder if we're both just laughing because I have no idea what is going on! The work day is short when measured in hours. We begin between 7:30 and 8:00, work until Noon, depending on which one of us is making lunch, for then we get to stop at 11:00. We eat and then "siesta" or rest until 1:00. Then it's just two more hours until quitting time. On my first day I hoped for hot water in my much needed shower, but found myself luxuriating under the frigid spray regardless. It is as cold showers are: bracing, rejuvinating, a reminder that you're no longer at home. And right now, this is fine by me.