Wednesday, December 5, 2007

On The Move

"You lived in the mountains as if cupped in a puzzle of unclimbable blue ridges and uncrossable gorges. To travel through that place, you needed to know not only where you wanted to go but also that roundabout was often the only way to get there." --Charles Frazier, Thirteen Moons.

Well, I have left Misi Wasi, the last farm I was working on, a week earlier than originally intended. The reasons shall not be made known in this forum. Suffice it to say I had some needs that could not be met, and some beliefs that could not be compromised. However, make no mistake, my three weeks high in the puzzle of unclimbable mountains above Otavalo were an incredible experience. Michaela went to great lengths to provide a comfortable home for her volunteers, complete with luxurious bedding and private rooms, a fireplace, hot showers and delicious vegan food. I planted over 40 trees and shrubs, tended to a burgeouning green house where I transplanted leafy greens like Chinese Mustard, Chard and Mesculun. I became acquainted for the first time with the concept of Lunar Farming, used by indigenous socities all over the world for centuries, dating as far back, maybe even farther, as the Incas. I learned how to use power tools when I built a door for her composting toilets, and also became familiar once again with good old fashioned hacksaws, hammer and nails. I made friends with llamas, and with young men from California and the UK. I even tried my hand at making tortillas.

Part of the impetus to leave early was the fact that I had to appear in "court" as a witness to a kind of crime, perpetrated against my friend Cherie who owns the cafe in Otavalo. One Sunday morning, at 7am, while she and I and her daughter, Sasha, were all sleeping, 2 young men busted down the door to the cafe in a drunken stupor, insisting on seeing Sasha. The ringleader was Sasha's exboyfriend. I woke to hear Cherie yelling and then some loud crashing as they threw several of her cafe benches into the courtyard and she then duly beat them with a stick until they went running out the door. I saw them from my window as they made their stumbly escape. I appeared in front of the sherrif twice, giving my testimony in English, which was then translated into Spanish by Cherie's lawyer who spent nearly 10 years in New York. In the end there was a victory, though it was unsatisfactory to all of our standards. Hiro had to pay a fine of $50. A hefty sum by Ecuadorian standards, but surely not good enough to teach this dirtbag a lesson. Cherie is concerned about future trouble. But next time...he goes to jail. I think Cherie is actually looking forward to another chance to beat him with a stick.

The day before our final testimony, I came down off the mountain to spend the day with Deb and Bob in Cotacachi. They are the American couple who hosted me for Thanksgiving. I adore them both. They treat me like a daughter in some ways, but as a friend in most others. Not only did I get to luxuriate in a steaming hot bathtub under a moonlit skylight, and sleep under 2 down comforters, they also treated me to dinner at La Mirage, a Relais-Chateaux restaurant in the middle of an Ecuadorian village. This French distinction is given to a select few restaurants around the world, and is better than what we know to be "5 Star." Not only is it the nicest restaurant in all of Ecuador, it is thus one of the best in all the world, and certainly the nicest I have ever been to in all my life. To get there, we walked down a grass and dirt road, having to move a cow out of the path at one point. It was the Dirt Road to the Five Stars. And despite the grand and elegant nature of the restaurant, part of the larger hacienda which serves as a hotel and spa, I was still able to wear my dirty jeans and sport sandals. God love Ecuador. Our amuse bouche, or pre-appetizer, was served...in a music box. A hand carved music box. Three indigenous women in full dress appeared and placed the wooden boxes down in front of us at the same time, and then simultaneously lifted the lid. I had a goat cheese tartlette with carmelized onions set to the theme of Ice Castles.

Two nights later I found myself sitting alone in a flourescent lit dormitory room in the tiny and silent town of La Esperanza, eating avocado smeared on bread with my swiss army knife. The contrasts speak for themselves, but what is most interesting is that I was equally happy in both situations.

La Esperanza is a town comprised of one long cobbled road leading up to the base of Volcan Imbabura. On either side of the road are houses, behind which are steep fields of green sloping down into the river valley. These fields are famous for possessing a microclimate perfect for growing magical mushrooms. In the 1970´s La Esperanza, and a woman named Aida who owns the only hostal in the area, made names for themselves with the hippies of the world. Including Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Joan Baez, and many others. Go to Casa Aida and she'll show you the notebooks she has full of everyone's names. I went with Sasha to see the town and to do an entirely different kind of farming for one day. We made out like a couple of hippie bandits. The mushrooms are easily identifiable, growing out of dried up splats of cow manure and sporting a gleaming, metallic top, in either gold or dark bronze. They have a "skirt" or little black ruffle in the middle of their stem, and they wrinkle and go purple or iridescent turquoise when picked. Even though they are a legal commodity here in Ecuador, the people of La Esperanza do not harvest or sell them, and so we were able to walk freely onto a huge, flat field at the end of a long grassy lane and pick freely of the bounty. Though Sasha enjoyed some of our harverst immediately, I was content to pick and search and gather, and to lie in the grass and look at the psychadelic surroundings--mushrooms not necessary.

La Esperanza was on my way from the farm to the coast--which is my next destination. Having decided to leave Misi Wasi, I was left with nearly 2 weeks before my friend Linda arrives from New York. Now that I've been in the mountains for 10 weeks, my skin is dry and whiter than it was when I left New York. I am yearning for some humidity and moisture and water that is not still in the middle of a mountain lake. Tomorrow morning I will leave Ibarra, the provincial capital of the Northern Sierra, and a town I explored today on foot, spending hours walking up and down and in and out of their palm tree lined plazas and central squares marked by grand cathedrals and butterscotch colored municipal buildings. From here I will head to San Lorenzo, the northernmost coastal town in Ecuador, an ill-advised crossing point into the lowlands of Colombia. When I went to buy my ticket to San Lorenzo, everyone I asked or told of my destination repeated the name with a quizzical look. "San Lorenzo?" Si, San Lorenzo. "Porque?" Their shock and concern is not solely because San Lorenzo is a rarely-touristed area. Many tell me it's dangerous, which, by virtue of being a frontier town, and this frontier on the edge of Colombia, it may well be. But much of the reputation is based only on the fact that San Lorenzo is "El pueblo de Negros." People are surprised I am going there not just because I am a tourist, but because I am white. San Lorenzo is in the heart of the Afro-Ecuadorian community, a community severely marginalized by the rest of Ecuador. Some things, no matter where you go, never change.

Now, before you go getting all worried, I'm not planning to hang out there. I'm catching a morning boat from the river port, taking it two-and-a-half hours south through the scarce remaining tangled mangrove forests of Ecuador's coast and lowlands. (I leave the puzzle of the unclimbable mountains for a maze of salt water vegetation.) After that, I will go by foot through one village to another, where there is a cooperativa-hostal run by a group of enterprising Afro-Ecuadorian women. It stands on stilts in the tidal pools and from there they can arrange canoe-excursions into deeper mangroves. I have never seen this part of Ecuador, and am insatiably curious. The Afro-Ecuadorian population is pretty much relegated to the Esmereldas province, but most of it is quickly by-passed for the beach resorts further south. I plan to take a little bit of time in this less travelled place before heading to the beach. And yes, the beach is where I will end up. More news soon from the mellow surf of the pacific.

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