Luna tells all.

The Dark, again

2008-12-09T17:33:00.000-08:00

It was not even 4:00 today when I noticed the streaks of sunset coloring the sky- striations of pink and orange peaking through low layers of clouds. The rain has been sparse. Although my cheeks have been bitten red from the cold, the sun has been shining and it hasn't yet truly felt like winter in the northwest (I say this with down booties on and a fire in the woodstove that has been roaring for hours). Today as I was whipping down a side street on my new bike, I was thinking about real winters, and what immediately sprang to mind was not the snowy expanses of Montana, but the heaters of the dorms in Massachusetts. I remembered bundling for walks that first year of college only to wait and wait some more for this person to be ready or that dog to arrive,or that vat of tofu to be done cooking, all the while sweating underneath my infinite layers of thrift shop sweaters to protect my fragile southern California countenance, and then the shocking blast of cold upon exiting those hydraulic doors out of the concrete into the air. I remembered the pine trees at the end of the forest, the way they swayed in the wind, and the sense of mystery when looking out where the woods gave way to corn field, dead stalks waiting out the winter.

The dark.

2008-12-04T20:26:00.000-08:00

Finished watching True Blood for the season. I have no more vampire novels at my disposal. Watched the current episodes of Californication and Heroes. Ate dinner. Had a post dinner snack. and then another. What happens when the diversions run out? There are always more- endless to be had. I should be studying, but have little desire and even less focus right now.

I have become part of a writing group, at our last meeting the theme was "accidents" and people expressed that this was a downer. We free wrote and shared and there was this philosophical levity as no one actually named an internal scar and others of us held our notebooks to chest and muttered "I'll pass." When i did share some writing about my car accident there was an ugh and I felt as if had dropped a weight into the room. In another piece of writing, a woman misread the source of sadness and tried to talk me out of it- offering another way to view the situation. Sweet and well-intentioned, but she was off the mark.

I have always known that there is a darkness that is part of my personality, and at times I have clung to it like a comfortable blanket, yes, but I don't believe it is a bad thing.It surprises me when I discover that others shirk from this underbelly that certainly underscores my existence. I suppose being around so many quasi buddhists I have come to believe that everyone is grappling with the idea that life is suffering, but then I sat in this room of lovely women who originally were drawn together for a food writing class and I see how they have created a norm of positivity- an embrace of zest- and I wonder if who I am these days can have a place among them.

The thing is, I'm not so sad anymore, not most days. I still have my moments, but this is life. grief and joy, two sides of the same coin. I now know this intimately. I spent a weekend with Sobonfu Some a month ago where she led us through a ritual to pour out this grief- to drag it out of ourselves and lay it down, and it was powerful, uplifting. My limbs have been lighter since. And even now as winter closes in, the sun sets at 4, and I feel myself, too, pull in crawling under cover, I don't lament or fight it. I don't have to be something I'm not.

I suppose I am needing to accept that just as I don't want to pretend to be happy, or light, others may not want to act cynical or wry- perhaps just plain goodness is not always embraced either (especially among writers). The question is, do I place my writing on their table- is it safe? for me? for them?

Cleaning up

2008-11-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

Thanks to recent visitors, the garden beds are clean with the seeds of a over crop waiting to germinate, the leaves are raked and piled in compost bins, gathered in the area that will maybe one day be a fern garden. I too feel a reining in, a cleaning up, a slowing down. Winter is creeping in.

Cricket in the lawn strip

2008-10-01T21:02:00.000-07:00

Tonight I ate my first beets from the garden. They were bitter, as Talya had forewarned. This garden that has been such an abundance of joy and pride for me in its jungly finery is dying. Gone are the squash plants, victims of powdery mildew. likewise the cucumber. The bean tepees are drying up. I will miss the complements of passersby. Tonight Tula was fervently barking. At first I ignored her as she is a barker, but then I became convinced that someone was stealing the enormous pile of firewood sitting in our driveway. I stepped out into the unseasonably warm night. There was no one there but a very loud cricket, chirping away, hidden in my the dying yarrow and sunflower stalks of the lawn strip. I was glad to hear his voice.

Fall.

2008-09-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

Having spent so much of my life in the educational system, fall always seems to be like the beginning and end of a year. Summer comes to a close. leaves curl up and die. The plants in the garden drop their fruit. Children return to school. I, too return to school. The crisp sunny days are my favorite kind of weather. I take stock. What has passed? Where am I? It is hard these days when people ask how I am, what I have been up to. How do I answer? The truth is generally not what people are looking for, so I smile and say "good, good" and try to escape before the conversation can go any further. and maybe they do want to know about the most recent miscarriage, about my unfulfilled desire to birth and mother a child, about how that dream seems further and further away, about my grief and how it has sucked the light, about all the ways I try to escape myself. Maybe they'd be interested, but do I want them to know? Do i want the world to see just how vulnerable I am? Whether I want people to know or not, it will not stay under wraps. It is constantly seeping through the dressings and spilling out the edges making messes I have no idea how to clean up after. As Cameron said the other day, there is just so much that is left untidy.

"Phoenix Rising; Dancing Cycles of Death and Rebirth"

2008-05-28T09:04:00.000-07:00

Session 1:
I couldn't lay them down. I was holding these small fragile birds under may arms, in between my ribs, kittens in my belly, and as much as I knew it was causing me pain, I couldn't let them go. One by one they separated from me, but were attached, as if I was letting them out on a leash to look at them. As they moved from my body they morphed, a bird became a frog with a human face, a kitten a small troll. All lined up they stared up at me with big eyes, pity, curiosity. I gathered them back into me and continued to dance, knowing full well the entourage of grief I kept stored under the skin.

Session 2:
I received an email: "Dear Dancers, Tomorrow is a good day to die!" Out of breath, I tried to push it away, jerking in my body, the exercise weird and esoteric, yet at the same time scary. "Imagine your systems shutting down". When I reached the point at which I was lying on the floor "dead" I was acutely aware of my heart beating against my chest wall, reverberating on the wooden floor, my chest rising and falling."and when you feel the spark of life, begin to move." so I did, rising from the floor slowly at first, then more quickly, vigor! life! joy!

Session 3:
One by one, we dance our death. We dance to emptiness, with others watching on, witnessing, waiting. One by one we are shrouded and carried through the room. One by one, we emerge from the shroud, a brilliant fluttering of life encased in white sheets that eventually float around the room like wisps of clouds, or even wings.

Session 4:
I dance with all of those children I have created in my mind, and then I begin to let them go. At first, one by one, then they fly away from me in droves, flocks bursting forth from beneath my arms, my hands, my heart, until finally, they are gone, and I fly, too.

pink and white

2008-04-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

yesterday it rained petals, in windy bursts fluttering down covering the streets in large patches, leaving me a royal carpet through which to ride my bike. the ethereal spring green is leafing out everywhere, blurry edged and surreal against the shifting sky. today, more rain of the watery kind.

Spring?

2008-04-25T11:17:00.000-07:00

Where, oh where are you? My little seedlings planted inside careen towards the window begging to be let out, put in the ground, and yet the rain, the hail, the snow! keeps making a showing. And yes, sometimes the sun.

Janis

2008-04-04T23:26:00.001-07:00

Janis Joplin and Ron "Pigpen" McKernan
Originally uploaded by High Steel Heels

Just finished watching "The Rose," a Bette Midler movie inspired by my long time musical love Janis Joplin. I don't know why I love her. Every account i read, every movie, every documentary portrays her as someone so lost to her own insecurities and so desperately in need of external validation that she just lost herself. On the other hand, I have always had a penchant for wild women prone to excess- especially if they have a southern accent.

Start Again; 10 days in Vipassana

2008-03-31T19:13:00.000-07:00

Until I am hit with a severe cold half way through the course, I am surprised at how getting up at 4:00 a.m. doesn’t seem so hard when just going to sit. Morning is the only time I seem to be able to keep my mind from constructing my future, reconstructing my past, or constructing stories so completely unrelated to anything that they just hang in the air like bizarre trapeze artists, then dissipate into smoke. The meditation hall is always in half light and silent, even though sixty of us are occupying the space breathing. I rise as quietly as possible from my cushion and walk out to use the port o potty, the moon searing the sky crisp in the cold, snow crunching underfoot. The whole world has this buzzing and everything is so beautiful my heart constricts and expands with each beat, the pulsing evident in each breath. A deer looks up from her nibbling, twitches her tail, then continues. When the meditation is over the birds sing and I am able to hear them with piercing clarity.

That was the good part.

Here is what I may have said to the management if I had not taken a 10 day vow of silence:
“Fuck You! Fuck your fruit for dinner. I’m hungry. I’m dying of no protein. Give me something, anything? Just a spot of peanut butter for god’s sake. Can’t you see I am sick? Do you not hear me hacking my lungs out? Take care of me! Give ME some loving compassion! And another thing- what’s up with the DVD’s and audiotapes? Is this dude Goenka really the ONLY person who can teach this? Does it really help us gain enlightenment to have his froggy voice chanting down on us in a language I don’t understand from above? And as for sitting 10 hours a day- you’ve got to be kidding me. My back is in pain. No, not just a little pain that is only temporary and will pass- don’t Anicca me- this is excruciating! This is torture. This is not good for me. This is not good far anyone! I shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake. See, I am someone who does yoga- not someone who sits for two hour stretches. My mind is not calm and attentive- it is going bonkers. This is not for me. I’m leaving and I’m never coming back.”

Each day was an eternity. When just sitting, the time passed slowly. And yet, it passed. The intense pain of sitting for long periods passed, and then it reemerged. The weather swayed erratically- snow, sun, hail, rain, bitter cold, sun. Anicca. A bee sat dormant on a daffodil for an entire day and night.

On the last day we pardoned all those who have ever hurt us, and then asked for the pardon of all those we may have hurt. We sent out the love and harmony of our time meditating. And then, it was over.

I cried driving back into Portland for the sheer beauty of it all, the meat shop that says “real overseas taste’, the trees bursting in color, the people standing on street corners, the familiarity of the streets, the knowledge of the people I love so near. I stood in the produce market and was overwhelmed by the bustle, but then bought my spinach, the leaves so green, my potatoes, and my bacon- oh glorious bacon!

Cameron and I sat on the porch in the evening watching the sun set, sharing the stories of our separate times in silence, and were present and tender with each other, our eyes clear and bright.

Joseph, OR

2008-01-07T21:22:00.000-08:00

"Horizontal rain" and "white out" conditions always seemed like gross exaggerations to me, but I am here to testify- they exist in literal form. We thought we'd ski into a backcountry hut in these conditions, but luckily the drive made us realize this was a foolish endeavor- there was a point where we couldn't even tell whether or not we were on the road. A red clad Banjo danced on foot along the ice in front of us as we slowly creeped the car down the road- truly having nothing but that red jacket to give us bearing as to where to go. The rest of the day was spent drinking wine, playing poker, and watching movies, and no one complained one bit as we listened to the wind rattle the lodge. the following day we tried again, and made it much further, but the unplowed road and accumulated snow thwarted our efforts once again. This time, however, we were far enough back that after we mucked about with digging cars out and figuring out chains, we actually got to strap on skis and glide out into that fresh white powdery snow. We never did make it to the hut, but it was a good adventure anyway.

in the wake of Christmas

2007-12-29T15:54:00.000-08:00

We descend from the sunshine through the clouds and back into the rain It seems it hasn't stopped since we left, except to snow for a while. The following day we decide to visit the upside of a soggy winter: a snowy mountain. The roads are treacherous so we stop as soon as what is falling from the sky is white, light and fluffy(as opposed to wet, wet, and more wet). Tula the dog has never seen snow before and performs some magic, acting first as a sled dog pulling me along on my skis, and then as a snow dolphin swimming through the deep fluffy powder that is piled around us. The trees bend under the weight, and we glide through a magical wonderland. The drive back is even worse, but we arrive home in one piece, then abandon the snoozing dog for a pizza parlor and a movie (Juno) at on of our favorite independent theatres. Its good to be back.

Grandma Rose

2007-12-12T20:05:00.000-08:00

I have just returned from my grandmother's funeral in Arizona. The last time I saw her was in March. We passed an afternoon sipping iced tea with my aunt and uncle, watching the sun makes it arc. We passed the evening around the kitchen table in much the same manner, speaking of the present, past, future, me prodding for the missing details in our family history discovering that, now that I am older, the holes are often filled with what I was once too young to know or understand.

She woke with me at 4:30 in the morning and made me green tea before i went to the airport. I missed my flight for those last few quiet moments and with my Grandma. At the time was irritated with myself for creating such a hectic travel day, but I am now grateful I didn't decline that microwaved little cup drunk at her kitchen counter.

She lived a very full life, and was ready to go, I don't begrudge her that, but it is hard to comprehend she will not be be here- delighting in the great grandchildren, making unexpected wise cracks, igniting with laughter at the drop of a hat. For me, Grandma was a place I could go to feel safe, loved and special. She was a place where I could reconnect to where i came from- but it wasn't just her- it was also the aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews who have moved to Arizona to be near her. Will we all rally together now that we lack a common cause? What will be wihout our matriarch? Do we now shift to concentrate on our more immediate family?

I don't want to lose my connection with that family that is so much a part of me- those quiet men and sarcastic women. Those stoic fundamentalist Christians who will always feed you and put you up for the night. Those starnge accapella hymns and cryptic bible verses. Those folks so unlike my immediate family, and yet the wonder of the ways in which we are the same.

The politics of telling.

2007-11-28T21:44:00.000-08:00

When does a pregnancy truly begin? I think at conception, but the outside world doesn’t necessarily view it that way. I’ve got the pro-lifers with me on this one, but even they subscribe to this notion that a pregnancy should be kept secret until the first trimester is over.

The rationale for this period of secrecy is that it is not “safe” to share the news until you are out of the statistical danger zone of miscarriage (although the length of this zone is debatable). Who and what is being kept safe? Is it the safety of your privacy in the event of a miscarriage? Is it the safety of your emotions so that you don’t have to spread the news of a miscarriage? Is it the bereaved truncated parents who are kept safe? Or is it everyone else? Is this secret kept to spare people awkward moments when they don’t know what to say? To spare people from confronting that life is fragile?

We told many people in the first couple of weeks that we were pregnant, and I have, since my miscarriage began, debated whether or not this was a good idea. On one hand, we have good friends and family rallying to support us, knowing what this meant to us and how sad it is for us to lose our- and here we go- what do I call it? Our baby? Our potential child? Our fetus? Our hope?

On the other hand, there has been the discomfort of dealing with people not that close to us who want to comfort us, and a sense of responsibility towards their emotions and experience with this. My miscarriage has felt very private, in that I have wanted mostly to be alone or with Cameron, but my experience has felt at times very public as I continued working through all of this, and only withdrew socially for a very brief time, and everyone knows. and now here I am writing publically.

Before I lost the baby, I struggled with this feeling that I couldn’t quite join the pregnancy club yet- I wasn’t far enough along- my pregnancy wasn’t quite “real” enough yet. There was this thin grey haired woman at the yoga studio who asked me if I was the teacher of the prenatal class I was emerging from. When I replied no, she eyed me suspiciously and said ”But you are not showing at all!”
“It’s early in my pregnancy,” I said, growing nervous.
“How early?” She threw the word early out as an accusation.
“Six weeks” I muttered.
“What, are you trying to get a head start or something?”
Luckily, a woman in the class with a belly big and ready to burst put her hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, “You are pregnant, you belong here.”

And now I’m not. When I think of that grey haired woman I often think “Shame on you.” And I wonder what provoked her to talk to me like that? Did she once lose a pregnancy? Was she encouraged to treat it as no big deal? Is there unacknowledged pain inside her that seeps out in scathing words?

If we pretend early pregnancies aren’t real, don’t count, then do miscarriages and abortions carry no weight? No pain? No consequence? Or does this all stem from the idea that our pain should be kept to ourselves. Dirty little female secrets. And I must say here that I am adamantly pro-choice, but I don’t know anyone who chose to terminate a pregnancy that didn’t experience some level of grief around that choice.

In the end I suppose I am grateful that I did not and am not going through this alone behind the bathroom door. I think it is important to share this pain. There are a lot of us who have lost a pregnancy (or pregnancies). The statistics hover between 20 and 25%. Roughly one in five pregnancies ends in a miscarriage- most occur during the first trimester. I do not think the frequency of miscarriages makes them less painful. I do not thinking hiding our losses makes them go away.

Thanksgiving

2007-11-27T14:30:00.001-08:00

I woke up, looked at Cameron and thought yes, there is much to be thankful for. I went to yoga for the first time since the day I found out my baby had not grown as it should in my womb and that I would lose the pregnancy. The room was packed, and I cried at times feeling my body come back to life with a new emptiness, but returning to the familiarity of those poses, that room, my breath in motion was life affirming. The teacher hugged me as I was leaving.

I came home to breakfast, and then built a fire in the yard where I sat playing music and reading for a good part of the day. Cameron smoked a turkey, and in the evening we joined our friends for a true feast. I was not only giving lipservice to gratitude when we held hands and shared something for which we were grateful. I feel profoundly indebted to my husband and those close to us with whom we have shared so much this past year or so: deaths, births, engagements, pregnancies, loss.

The night unfolded through a talent show, and then unravelled into a no holds barred dance party that lasted until the morning hours. Cameron and I contentedly slept off the wine and then headed to the coast to watch the waves roll into shore.

Scattered leaves

2007-11-10T11:24:00.000-08:00

I was pregnant. and now I'm not.

The death of halloween

2007-11-01T19:20:00.000-07:00

As greg brown says, it's the saddest thing- No more treats for the children, just all these grown up kids. This was once my favorite holiday, but now it feels watered down, dissipated, lost. What stays potent is autumn. The first frost came yesterday, marking the end of october. Although it has been sunny this week, we have had a continuous fire in the wood stove. Winter is on its way.

Fall

2007-10-01T21:00:00.001-07:00

The rains have arrived washing leaves to the ground. A tall maple in the park wears a skirt of yellow spread out on the green grass. I am not teaching, and for this I am thankful. The job hunt is tedious, but I take long walks and have leisurely ball throwing sessions with Tula. I have time to use my two hands: build a fence, cut up a whole chicken, make soup. Tonight we ate butternut squash for desert. It was that sweet.

Luna-Tuna-Tula

2007-09-24T09:07:00.000-07:00

Absolutely the cutest with long elegant white gloves on her front paws and small dainty white slippers covering just her tippy toes on the back, Tula Rose has entered our life. No, not the much hoped for baby, but the sorely needed dog. Her arrival has been truly celebrated by friends and family and she has more dog toys than anyone on the block. Mama Jan even sent her flowers. The delivery man arrived at the door asking for Tula Rose by name.

One day I saw an advertisement on the side of a bus that said "cure for depression" underneath a picture of a woman sleeping with her cat. I started crying, and realized that the time of petlessness needed to come to an end. So here she is, ball fetching, face licking, floppy eared, snotty nosed, nothing like my Luna. This is good, as I wouldn't want Luna to think she was being replaced (as if), and I wouldn't want to expect one dog to act like the other (was Luna really a dog?). Even if she might not have been best friends with Tula, I think Luna understands.

I recently saw a sort of psychic. Advertised as an intuitive healer, I would call her a spirit guide interpreter. When I asked about Luna, she said a golden breeze went fluttering all around me. I like to think she's still looking out for me, protecting me from harm. Her ashes are still in a tin by my bed, and although my intention was to scatter them on a beach in California, they may get buried when we plant fruit trees these fall. I hope we have her blessing.

Tula is again sleeping on the couch. Sigh. Maybe its time to go play.

The neighborhood

2007-07-30T18:51:00.000-07:00

Melvin, an elderly fellow from South Carolina, uses a walker, upon which rides a red stereo that plays classic rock as he strolls through the neighborhood. Last time I saw him he was blasting "Young Lust" by Pink Floyd, but he turned it off so we could chat as he perused our yard sale items. He couldn't find anything he "couldn't live without," but he bought a biscuit, and I felt guilty charging him dollar, but then again, i didn't want to treat him like a charity case. He just moved here last fall to live with his son, and I suspect his wife came to the yard sale later in the day, but I didn't want to make an assumption just because she was in a red power chair.

Later came drunk lady, who wanted to buy absolutely everything, but settled on an old sarong and a stack of coasters. I probably should have called the cops when i saw her get into her car. AND It was only 11 AM.

Later came the attractive vegan couple who bought a scarf for their daughter to play dress up, and then the middle aged lady who spoke no English and grunted about a photo album. i wanted to see if she spoke spanish, but lost my nerve to try. One guy wanted to negotiate the price of a $1.00 hammer and his kids kept asking me "Where's all the free stuff?"

Two 20 somethings strolled by and drank a mamosa on the porch and bought a biscuit. they said it was the perfect end to their country day. A dog walker checked on my progress on the new Harry Potter novel each time she passed. A girl just graduated from college bought my old camping stove, then stood around awkwardly for 45 minuted not sure what to say.

We made almost $200, and i finished a 750 page book in three days.

Almost solstice

2007-06-09T14:34:00.000-07:00

Time passes quickly. The rain stopped and reveled the sun. Flowers bloomed, babies were born, people died. The school year is coming to a close and I almost taste the freedom of a blank slate, a new chapter, one in which I am a married homeowner trying for a baby, sinking roots into this place, these people, no plans on leaving, moving, travelling. For now I am observing the path of the sun and content to plan my garden.

dominatrix

2007-02-21T07:20:00.000-08:00

"I enjoyed the book, yes, but I thought it was just so EASY! I mean, the last book we read? Delta wedding, it took me the discussion and another two days to figure out what was going on, but this one? Too easy. I've noticed that about all of the Everybody Reads books."
"Yes, well, in the Everybody reads program, we try to make the books accessible for everyone."

I don't know why it didn't occur to me that a book group discussion at the library was going to be mostly old people, but I wasn't expecting it. It was actually refreshing to be around people who disagreed with one another, as opposed to the book club we have at my house where we are all 30 something and close friends. There was the blue polyester lady in the tight curls who argued that the self sacrifice in Midnight at the Dragon Cafe that kept the family so unhappy could be looked at as martrydom, which is a spiritual imperative, and therefore lifted them up to sainthood, while another visciously condemned the young Chinese wife for the affair she had behind her 70 year old husbands back (I had only felt sorry for her). Another sort of Dungeons and Dragons looking lady with long long brown hair argued that the affair was a "human imperative," as the young wife was severely isolated by labguage, culture, and age, and her step son, with whom she had the affair, was the only one she even had the option to connect with. Yet another woman complained that the book was not "uplifting," and said that the affair in the book tore at a personal would for her(With this the room got very uncomfortable as it was a rather large and mixed group for confessional revelations, but she did not continue and the banter resumed after a short awkward silence).The best was the man in the plaid shirt who said he doesn't read much, but makes sure he reads the "Everybody Reads" book every year. This year he had read another book, Ralph Nadar's memoir, and kept arguing that the memoir was so much more realistic than this book and not so frought with drama and strife, unitl someone pointed out that yes, one is a memoir, and the book we read, a fictional novel. Then there was the lady in the white turtle neck and green and red sweater who kept making sweeping generalizations about Asian American people. "Yes, well thay are good students, aren't they." Overall, it was truly entertaining.

rest

2007-01-29T06:58:00.000-08:00

We lost two days of school to snow (cars sliding in unplowed streets, shrieking children sliding down hills, hot tea, wet socks), and I personally lost another two days to a virus (croaky voice, clammy sheets, a 700 page trashy novel, infinite episodes of the Sopranos, hacking cough), and now I go back to it. I have not really thought of school, yet my inbox is full of questions and I have no answers, More than school I ponder will i ever have children? Will we own our own house? What will i do to make a living when this school year is over? How will i deal with a regular job with so few breaks....

"Be at rest," the elderly lady in crushed velvet said to Cameron as she inspected the fit of a coat at the vintage clothing store, a lazy stop over as we waited for our movie to start. Yes, I have been at rest, and am resistant to grinding back into motion.

Play me a train song

2007-01-06T10:44:00.000-08:00

It is nighttime and the only reason I know we are climbing in elevation out of the Willamette Valley is because my ears have been popping. I plug in my laptop, and marvel at all the gadgets with which we occupy ourselves. Would more people be talking, meeting, interacting if this were not so? The power jack in the observation car is loaded down with cell phones, lap tops, and mini DVD players- this in itself becoming a point of interaction as we coach riders take turns using the one outlet. We all make sure that the elderly lady gets her chance. “I have to call my son to let him know when I’ve arrived.”

It was strange pulling out of Portland to go away. Watching the familiar fade to the unfamiliar, traveling under passes I usually drive over, seeing the back side, following the river, watching the ground freeze and the snow fall.

a first

2006-12-15T07:14:00.000-08:00

I bought a Christmas Tree from Fred Myers. It is the first time I have had my own, and to my chagrin, I completely love it. I sit by it whenever I can, gazing at the lights and weird collected artifacts with which we have decorated: my mom's stray reading glasses that somehow made it into a package she sent, sea shells from my trip to the virgin islands, a cow vertebrae from Becca in the desert, a gumball machine ring, finger puppets from Ecuador, A photo of our household, another from our wedding, a thank-you card from some good friends, a favorite photo of Luna Dog back when she wasn't so gray, an invitation to my bridal shower, a cool bookmark, some fishing paraphernalia, a copper belt, a necklace of amber, a fuzzy red scarf, a dried sunflower head, a small mirror shaped like a pineapple, my Raggedy Anne Doll. For me it calls to mind an altar: a sacred raised space to help remind us of what we love, what we hold meaningful. All the better that the altar is created by the structure of a tree, a vestige of paganism alive and well in popular America, homage to my pre-christian European roots. And, i love how it smells.

Crows

2006-12-14T17:31:00.000-08:00

I woke up to dumping rain- the kind that splashes against windows, fills gutters, thunders on rooftops. It was definately a Max day, as the highway is scary in this kind of rain and getting to work takes even longer than the train. The ride felt warm, uncomforatbly so. I wriggled out of rain coat, hat, scarf, and lodged the umbrella between the seat and the wall. I smudged a little peep hole in the steamy window to allow me a view of lights passing, the river an eerie black snake below. The gray slowly began to replace dark. When I emerged, crows filled the air, resting on stark trees and talking loudly with one another. I was reminded of an artist who makes jewelry that I covet, and of the east in the spring when the snow melts and the crows dominate the slowly emerging sodden fields. I watched a robin wrestle a worm out of the ground, and truly delighted in the common birds, who, for all their familiarity, posess a deep spookiness in the foggy wet winter morning.

the children

2006-12-03T20:02:00.000-08:00

It is true that sometimes I look at the children I work with and think “I hate you,” This cannot be good for anyone. Yet this is my job: to show up, to teach, to try and find love in my heart.

It snowed, and we started the day with a hike. It was good to see them slide in the snow, laugh, and happily be children. Is it a true consequence of less structured, alternative schools that children develop a sense of entitlement? Or is this just my perception?

It has been creeping up on me now for a few years, that teaching may not be my profession, but what then? How will I make my bread and butter? I find myself thinking wistfully of jobs such as coffee shop barista, natural food store check out clerk, or (my favorite) independent book store retail clerk, Something where I work, and then I am done.

For now I cherish my time away from them. I look for places to connect to them, I plan, and plan some more. I talk, I listen. I pull my hair out and furrow my brow. I try to breathe enough that I may sleep at the end of the day.

I wish that Sundays lasted forever.

blessed is the rain

2006-11-11T11:36:00.000-08:00

Blessed are the urban who leave fallen leaves on the ground for they allow narrow tunnels of red and yellow, piles of color in which to shuffle my feet, decaying masses that remind us that everything dies.

Blessed are the squirrels and crows for their chatter reminds us that not only humans walk these city streets.

Blessed is the old gnarled maple for it provides a home for moss and a small fern that presents its green like a gift.

Blessed is the rain for it allows even an hour of sun to feel like a miracle.

back in the saddle

2006-10-16T16:58:00.000-07:00

Fall has arrived. the rain falls and scarves have become woobies once more. my life has been usurped once again by the classroom- granted a prettier classroom with less amounts of paper generated, but a classroom with kids that sometimes sing and other times yell and often push. how does one do this job and maintain a strong sense of self? i am tired and i miss my dog.

come as you are

2006-09-13T21:41:00.000-07:00

the weather is changing, and although the coming rains have loomed as a threat since I decided to move to Portland, I welcome the clouds, the chill, the jacket I haven't worn since before Ecuador. Three of my students built the Seattle space needle today from sand, drift wood, ceramic plate, and plastic turtle. I still haven't been there and alhtough I never really was a big Nirvana fan, the idea of seattle carries for me the mythology of Kirk Cobain as well as Nate Fisher, both dead but never gone. I feel California scurrying around under my skin. I asked my kids "Do y'all have stellar's jays up here?" Up here, where it rains all the time and the lack of sun breeds sadness. At least that's what I hear, but its been bright and sunny since the day i arrived, almost to a fault.

New Job

2006-09-03T11:54:00.000-07:00

For two weeks now, I have been preparing to reenter the public system. This time, however, my leaky trailer us replaced by a large classroom inside a museum with large windows and plenty of light. My boss tells me all spaces carry messages about who is welcome, who is not, who hold the power, who does not, who, in essence, is at home here. For two weeks I have been bumbling through trying to create a classroom that says you are welcome here. You are safe.

We are starting the year with the study of change- specifically signs of change, more specifically signs of seasonal change- and here the seeds are flying, bursting. I am asked in this new job, to reframe found items to help children see their beauty, look closer, find wonder. On my walks with elderly Luna dog which are short and close to home, I see the seed pods, dry and brittle, long and green, round and spiky. I arrive home with my bag full and beg my neighbor to give me her old artichokes gone to seed in the front garden. To me, they are beautiful. And so, I begin this journey of rediscovering my own wonder (please, let this be so. Please let teaching be joyful, not a quagmire of paper and discipline and endless meetings. Please). I have high hopes for working in a charter school that includes the search for beauty as part of their mission.

Wedding rehearsal

2006-08-17T15:01:00.000-07:00

We chug out of Marshfield, Vermont in our friends veggie oil Mercedes. Let us note this friend is getting married the next day and is not in the car. It is running so loud that we have to shout to hear one another, but we think nothing of it. “I can feel my brain rattling in my skull,” Becca says, and as we pass a few people in their front yard, all heads turn towards the car with looks of horror. Yet we chug along, taking in the sunshine passing green forests, pastures, old barns, quaint towns. We stop for lunch, to pick flowers, to buy flowers, for a latte, for a thrift shop. When we stop for gas, a gaggle of boys follow our car with their eyes. On another stop, a group of young women sing in harmony in a public park. Finally, when I want to stop for a farmer’s market, we think to look under the car. It so happens the muffler has been dragging on the ground the entire time (and here we thought they we admiring our good looks). Jen, Becca, and I all take pictures as Carly looks for a solution. Luckily there is a mechanic across the street. He agrees to do it, and we entertain the shop with interpretive dances as he saws off part of the muffler and welds it back together (all for $28.00). It turns out he is some famous Vermont hero who is known for good work, fair prices, and supporting progressive organizations. The whole damn state seems to be progressive, which is a good thing having only lived in very conservative rural areas. Where are the rednecks? We pull in just a little bit late for the wedding rehearsal, but it doesn’t seem we have kept anyone waiting- the hour and a half drive has taken us roughly five hours. Typical.

Tha Galaxy barn, Pickathon 2006. Saturday.

2006-08-06T14:26:00.000-07:00

The main stage has finished, and the late night crowd packs into this unbelievably hot room. I feel espresso laced with whiskey sweating out my pores as I watch Martha Scanlan, in a lacy dress over jeans, tune her guitar. Her shoulders hunch slightly over the body of her instrument, and her hands shake slightly. I wonder why. The band starts going in a crooked reel- circular- and everyone is stomping. Her left foot starts its side shuffle as they pick up speed and her head bobs. I am out of my mind with good fortune at being this close to such amazing musicians who are having this much fun. Then, Betse Ellis, the crazy fiddler from the Wilders (this band is a seriously good time)comes on out with her wide legged stance and bow shredding maniacal fiddling. One by one all of the Wilders show up on stage, Ike Sheldon who sports a GIANT grey beard and bald head the last to arrive. Sweat is pouring, whiskey flowing, people are shoutin, stompin, and generally whoopin it up. No one’s got water, but everybody has a beer. Then Evie Laden pulls out an old door, throws it on the floor and begins clogging. Martha yells “Evie!!! Wowooooooo!!!”, but no one can really hear the clogging or Martha’s yelling because the instruments have taken on a life of their own, fingers, arms, hands, boots flying. Everyone is moving. And when the song ends, one of the musicians says, “I do believe we have ourselves a real old time dance party!” Around 1:00 am the Avett Brothers take over, and the relationship between punk and old time has never been clearer (they rock!).

Other highlights of the weekend include the Everybodyfields- truly heartbreaking songwriting and a male vocalist who is sort of a cross between Ryan Adams and Loudon Wainwright, an intimate workshop with Kris Delmhorst and Mark Erelli, clogging lessons with the Stairwell Sisters, sitting 10 feet away from the stage for Greg brown, and some late night shit talking with Garet. The Pickathon is a good one.

house wife

2006-07-31T21:15:00.000-07:00

i do the grocery shopping and buy two magazines (one of them called Hip Mama- I put it back three times because i am not a mama, but then think when i am i will not have time to read this, and decide to buy it). When i get home, i hide them under the bed because i do not want my husband to know i have so frivolously wasted his hard earned money. i spend my days whittling away at my list of things to do, and find myself lost in our house. i hang the clothes on the line, take them down, fold them, and put them away. i fret that my husband will not like the meal i've made or the fact that the house is messy (we are always messy, and still i do not have the energy to make it truly neat). i feel during this time great empathy for the young house wives of the fifties who after marriage before children had only this. no wonder valium was so popular. i mop the floor, scrub the toilet, sweep the basement, weed the garden, harvest the beans, cucumbers, and squash. why am i not doing all the things i never have time for? preparing submissions, working on essays, crafting my heart out. i bake my first cherry pie- use local cherries from the farmer's market- decorate the top with pastry stars, and i feel proud.

the casino bus

2006-07-28T08:33:00.000-07:00

"My daughter, she's a french professor, and she's not even nice. All that education, and she's not even nice. I hate her." Two women behind me chatted, and I eaves dropped as the elderly Asian gentlemen on my left had rejected all attempts at conversation.

Dressed in what I thought would pass for casino attire, I was the youngest person on the bus by a good twenty-five years.I had only been to casinos in Las Vegas, so the low cut black shirt and unkept hair only made a few men and a security card think i was a prostitute. I wasn't even wearing make-up, but then again, what would a young woman be doing hanging out at spirit mountain casino on Tuesday morning, not really gambling. Waiting for my friend to pick me up so I could visit her at the Sitka center, I was, but as the $5 round trip bus is only supposed to be for Casino patrons, i didn't want to openly admit this. As it was, her car blew up on the way to get me, so I was destined to spend my day there until the return bus left. Greyhound doesn't even service the Oregon coast. I ate a truly digusting hamburger that came with guacamole in a little plastic sealed packet produced by Avo-king International, Inc.

I climbed back on the bus and returned to my seat. I asked the same man "Did you win anything?"
"$200!" he replied, and turned his back to me.
"My kids worry that I'm spending all my money at the casino, but I'll never stop coming. Never!" The ladies resumed their conversation, as if we had never left the bus.
"I have two kids, and they are so different from one another"
"Tell me about it. I have four- two I have a good time with, and the other two I don't even love. When I had my fourth baby, the doctor said it was the most beautiful birth he had ever seen."
"Is that right?"
"I guess with four births in five years, that fourth one just slid right out."
"Wow, four in five years, that must have been hard on your body."
"It was hard on my boobs!"
"Oh, you did that, did you."
"They say it makes them healthier, and smarter. This was true for me. My kids were all well behaved, not like today. Once I was in a deprtment store, and my kids didn't make a peep- didn't touch anything, and later isaid you were so well-behaved, and they said because we know better. that was the biggest compliment to me, that they knew better."

I felt so sorry for the rwo she didn't love, but maybe they didn't love her either.

july 21

2006-07-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

hot. our kitchen a hundred degrees hotter (at least). i did my errands by bike, made easier by the new bicycle map of portland that shows the safest route. many of these routes are marked by little white bicycles painted in the road that point the way and cute green signs that tell the miles and minutes between neighborhoods. The shopping list included:
worcester sauce
ketchup
beef broth
outside lights
pecans
butter
molasses
white flour
eggs
chocolate chips
bourbon
saphire gin
tonic water
achiote
queso fresco
yogurt
dill
bread
ice

in honor of cameron's birthday, he made ribs, complete with homemade BBQ sauce, and I made pecan pie. From the garden left by the previous tenants, I harvested all the cucumbers, which I pureed with fresh garlic, yogurt, and dillto make a lovely fresh dip. I harvested a spaghetti squash, which I served up baked with pesto. At Sarah's request I busted out some llampinganchos, Ecuadorian potato pancakes with cheese inside. The night was spent on the lawn eating and drinking with friends. We relished the act of hosting after spending so much time in the past year as guests.

Breitenbush 1

2006-07-21T08:03:00.000-07:00

the willow droops down offering shelter from lingering sun. Swallows chase eacother collecting bugs, fighting, playing. The water courses over rocks in the distance, cool in contrast to this hot spring in which I soak. Yellow grasses bend, bouncing to the rythmn, cheering. The trees stretch into the horizon. Dragonly flit, hovers, then is gone.

Grasses cheer
dragonflies hover
trees stretch

Downtown Portland

2006-07-14T23:29:00.000-07:00

I took myself on a date- favorite boots and earrings signaled a special evening. I met some myself for a cocktail. The restaraunt was sort of trendy, but in a more San Fernando Valley sort of way, and this feeling was confirmed when a red corvette blaring glam rock whizzed through the intersection. The girls inside sported blonde hair full of hairspray and trailed behind them a mass of black and white helium ballons. I ordered a cosmopolitan and a beet salad. I felt like I was a traiter on the other side, as the servers all lookes like my friends, and the people coming and going did not. i decided i was being a spy. So portland is not just hipsters. The food was delectable, and I began my walk towards the movie theatre down NW 12th st, passing an array of restaraunts with sidewalk seating, some quite beckoning. Arriving at the mall with time to kill, I decided to get a treat, and opted for what I try to abstain from, Starbucks. the twenty something workers liked my shoes amd both the girl and the guy were shamelessly flirting with me, upsizing my drink for free and givning me extra whip cream. I enjoyed it, and then felt funny because a)I am too old to flirt with twenty year olds, b) I'm married c) i realized they were completely incognicent of both of these things, and that made me fel dishonest. Besides, she was obviously dissappointed that I was going to see "The Devil Wears Prada," but some of us have to stay loyal to Meryl Streep.

Independence Day in the Great Northwest

2006-07-06T15:37:00.000-07:00

You can't escape the people, so you may as well join them. Five hours of preparation, including a trip to the Walmart, finally led us to the Sandy River where we floated, tied to the cooler. Sometimes, the water was deep enough to let our legs down and kick through cold blue green, other times we walked through sand or held up our arses so as not to ground on the rocks. It got colder and our group sadly dwindled, but Miss V. and I made it to the Troutdale Bridge and back to Portland for the tale end of a barbeque. She held her fist high yelling “freedom” as our posse of bikes (led by a three year old in a bike trailer) barreled down the street. “Freedom lovers, to the left!” one commanded, and we veered, arriving just in time to watch the Fireworks burst over the Willamette. The night ended in The Reel 'em Inn with a 28 year old kid named Cisco harassing me about bittorrent and asking me if I wanted to do some virtual trading of old Jerry Garcia Band shows. I had to wonder if he is indicative of the people I will be living with here in my new town.

"I find we all need a place to land"

2006-06-22T22:42:00.000-07:00

The longest day of the year was marked by an accordian. We lounged in the sun and marveled in all the babies born since the last solstice, then snuck off cackling to the pond to revel in our non-parental status. We watched the bonfire ignite submerged in a steaming woodfire hot tub. We cooked eggs and made coffee in the morning. Cameron and Banjo played guitar while baby Angus pulled himself up.

We drove back through the country roads to the city of Portland where my stuff is in the basement and I am sleeping on the couch and the housing market swims before my eyes on craig's list.

For months this date was the marker to end the madness, the signal that the wheels could grind to a halt, and that I could rest, dig in, stick around a little while. Yet as I arrive at this great exhale, I realize I've got to take another deep breath and face creating a life that doesn't fit into my back pack.

god's country

2006-06-16T10:49:00.000-07:00

I awoke to Becca yelling. Peaking out my tent into the drizzly morning, I saw a huge bull elk, antlers full of velvet nuzzling her tent affectionately. When she yelled, he backed away startled, then returned to lick on her backpack and investigate. She finally asked him politely to leave, informing that she neeeded her space, and he did.

The rain broke long enough to allow us a sunny breakfast of eggs and potatos, coffee sprayed out in laughter, and then the sky turned black. We began packing in a furry, hoping to miss the storm, but were still scurrying about when hail the size of almonds began to painfully pelt us. Just as a I finished shoving everything away, a huge lightening bolt struck about 50 feet from our camp leaving a tree smoking. All of my wilderness leader training fled my head and i jumped up and down crying "what do we do??" Luckily Cameron remembered to climb on his pack. Ah yes, we must insulate ourselves from ground current. By this time i was wet to the bone. The truck only a mile from our campsite, and we were truly in the midst of wildness. We began walking throught the slanting rain, passing boiling thermal features and buffalo crouched low to the gound. Thunder rumbled, and we ran trying to pass through an open meadow before the lightening struck again. A fisherman hid under the bridge before the parking lot, and the ground looked white from the hail balls not yet melted.

The afternoon found us in a bar on the Montana side drinking hot buttered rum served by a retired bull rider.

When the sun rose the following morning, i crawled out of our hotel in Jackpot, Nevada to extricate the stove from all of the wet camping gear and get some coffee going. Sitting on the tailgate, waiting for the water to boil, an old cowboy asked me where we were going camping. "Actually we're just coming back from Yellowstone up in Wyoming."
"God's country," he replied.

and the beat goes on

2006-06-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

San Antonio, Austin, Fredericksburg, Texas.
The train carried us through no man's land between the border of the US and the border of mexico, desert in all directions. On one side wood shacks and laundry lines, the other lawn and stucco.
Northridge, The Smog Cutter, Korea Town, North Hollywood, Los Angeles(Tod Snyder claims it should be its own state, and sometimes it is).
Santa Cruz, Oakland,The Strawberry Music Festival, Benton Hot Springs,CA.
A swarm of locusts appeared on the highway splattering against the windshield and carpeting the road, flying in all directions. There were enough squished on the grill to give off a smell of dead fish, Nevada.
The sun was so hot I might fall over. We emerged from Coyote gulch after a magical four days of waterfalls, red arches, golden eagles, and lizard that marked the trail with their rapid flight. We accidentally passed the night on private land relishing the cool of a higher elevation, Utah.
Today I write from Lander, Wyoming.
Traveling the backroads of the West is every bit as much of an adventure as Ecuador ever was.

and how did it end?

2006-05-04T15:03:00.000-07:00

The last week was a whirl of bathrooms, doctors, tummy troubles, buses, ocean, spanish spoken rapidly with s's omitted, waves, hammocks, bathrooms, airport...we said good bye to Susane and Macarena, had our last afternoon with Julio and his family, and then we were in a taxi, rolling along as I talked with a german, the city of Quito coming to life and the sun rising to reveal the mountains. When we arrived at the airport I thought to myself, "rats, I spent my last moments in Ecuador speaking English and not even paying attention", but it didn't matter because, in reality, I was already gone- had been for days.

except that I wasn't. Our terrifically cheap plane ticket to Miami wound up not being so cheap after all, as we had to buy another flight, since the company had ceased to fly to the states, yet failed to tell us. About 28 hours later we rolled into San Antonio, Texas, blurry eyed and stinky, Cameron's backpack lost somewhere along the way. And here we are. It doesn't feel so strange, and yet I'm not sure I have completely made it here yet. Part of me is still in transit, flubbing around in terminals, caught between english and spanish, picking up more dirt, bouncing along breathing diesel fumes on the Ecuadorian coast, haggling with a Cuban taxi driver in miami, or just hiding in some corner in Panama City, nestled along with Cameron's luggage, just waiting to be discovered before agreeing to finally come home.

Some houses carry too much sadness

2006-04-17T05:57:00.000-07:00

Closed inside with the dust, antique furniture, old cat pee, and generations of artifacts was sadness. Sadness left to run its course scurrying across creaky wood floors through the cracks of ancient glass doors rattling white shutters flying up concrete stairs. Her brother died a year ago, and the huge apartment had been closed up since, but the decay stretched further back. When was the giant table that sat thirty moved out of the family house? When were some rooms closed off, the keepsakes of so many years stockpiled for posterity? Who lived here before this family that dominates the ancient, beautiful apartments of this old building? She had begun the long process of dismantling the family museum, painting, cleaning, clearing the immense house to rent it. The process is long, and the sadness a weight that presses upon a person the moment one enters the space. We carved out our sleeping space on old mattresses that lacked definition and I tried not give into my fear of ghosts. The bathroom light flickered and exploded leaving a burnt smell. By day we opened all the shutters to let the light in. Outside the world bustled, and the house sighed its thanks that some life was seeping in.

gracias

2006-04-09T09:53:00.000-07:00

For the last three weeks the library has been a flurry of paper mache, acrylic paint, and multiple readings of La Caperucita Roja (little Red Riding Hood), Los Tres Cerditos (The Three Little Pigs), and Donde Viven Los Monstruos (Where the Wild Things Are). The regular library employee has been out, I have been up late sewing little clothes, and the kids have been so wild that I have walked out of the library twice to calm my nerves, the kids following me down the road saying “Señorita, no te vayas, ¿que paso?, vamos a escucharle…." and I have said as a mantra, I will be so glad when this is over.

Yesterday we presented their puppet show to the community, and only one parent came. Luckily other people from the community with whom I have forged connection showed up to give audience to their beautiful, funky, artistic puppets and their hard earned reading skills. By the end of the show, the kids were absolutely exhuberant- they were shining. As I thanked the community for receiving us, thanked the kids for participating and being good friends to Cameron and I, I started to get choked up. I could barely receive the thanks, hugs, and heart felt eye contact from the adults because some tightly wound part of my brain was starting to unwind filling my head with random thoughts and my insides with loss.

Bayron Jose, who lives next door to me, twelve years old, growing rapidly, starting high school next year, took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, “You are leaving. Don’t go, please.” Part of me has wanted to leave Zuleta from the day I got there, but now as I look at my final three days and know that I am going to say goodbye to my little amigitos with whom I have passed so much time reading, struggling, playing, getting angry, crying, laughing, picking up from falls (emotional and physical), helping with homework, riding bikes, hiking in the mountains my heart balks and I know that I am leaving something irreplaceable that may never come again for them or me. And I feel so grateful for all of it.

As it is, the local worker is getting fired, and the library is closing until they find someone else. There are no volunteers coming again until late June. I hope so much that this wasn't just a brief bright spot, because as we leave it is ever more apparent that the library plays an important function for many of these kids. I hate to think all this work has no future. There is here such opportunity for growth, both for the children, and for those who come to be part of their world.

My dark friend

2006-04-06T08:26:00.000-07:00

I make my first cup of coffee in two weeks. The smell of the coffee, harvested from Ecuador, roasted and ground in a small wooden shop in Quito, rises strongly from the jar when I twist off the lid. I fill the metal receptacle of the italian espresso maker with water, and set the whole apparatus on the propane stove and wait for the steam to rise from the spout. When ready, I pour the black liquid into the Holstein Ecuador mug and add cream: thick, almost oily, sweet. I give a nod to the cows that I can see grazing the startlingly green grass from my window as this cream came from their udders (udders that sway as they walk, slicking the cobbles with their green grassy shit that stains my pants and flies up when I ride my bicycle). I sit in a wooden chair and face the sea off small windows framed by blue window panes that looks out on our mud walls, overgrown lawn, hummingbird tree, and further to fields and mountains. I sip my strong coffee and sigh in relief at the familiar taste, then turn my attention back to my book I am reading: Chasing Che: A Motorcycle Journey in Search of the Guevara Legend, quite an excellent read with ponderings on the general history of Latin America and the mythology surrounding Ernesto “Che” Gueverra. For one more week this is my home, my table, my view, and then? We leave it to the next ones and begin a long meandering journey home.

TLC update

2006-03-30T08:37:00.000-08:00

Ecuador is in negotiations with the US as I write and will probably sign. Rumours are steady and stories inconsistent, but it looks as if the grand paro will not reignite.
Update from Reuters

Extreme Tubing

2006-03-30T08:24:00.000-08:00

One benefit of the paro was an unexpected jaunt over to Mindo, located in the lower elevation cloud forest. We hired a bird guide for an early morning hike, chilled out in hammocks, and risked our lives to satisfy my desire to go tubing.

Tubing, to me, is a mellow, low risk sport. We spoke with a man who flagged down a truck full of locals and climbed in back. They were heading to the river to relieve severe hangovers, and Cameron impressed then with his knowledge of the cane alcohol Puntas and the Ecuadorian word for hangover: chuchaqui. We bounced along amiably until we arrived at the out in, and the volume of water confirmed my suspicion that tubing in Ecuador might be a little different. They placed a flotilla of six tubes in the river with ropes rigged up as handles, and off we went, followed by two solo tubes (in one a very buff guy straddled his girlfriend, navigating the water in an almost obscene display of manliness). We were the only ones wearing life jackets and helmets. After many years of white water guiding and kayaking, I would not have run most of the rapids we encountered which were separated by tumultuous stretches of white water, and here I was TUBING them. Our guide, in nothing more than jeans and rubber boots, controlled our big unwieldy mass by jumping out and swinging us around. I was terrified of losing him, and terrified that he or one of the guys who kept bouncing out if the solo tubes was going to get foot entrapment and drown or dashed to bits on the rocks. It was only the sheer bulk of our flotilla that kept us from pinning on numerous rocks or flipping in giant holes. I clung to those little handles sternly telling myself “falling out is not an option.” Eventually we landed on shore, shivering and white knuckled, adrenaline coursing through our veins, gratitude that we were alive flooding over us. We were bonded to our tubing comrades by the sheer high of survival, and when one of them wound up on our bus back to Quito, he bid us goodbye like an old friend.

The ironic thing is that earlier that day a child had fallen in the river and almost drown. After that, Cameron said he was nervous to go tubing, and I scoffed. A few moments after we escaped the river, I turned to him and said, “The next time you tell me you are scared of something, and I say really?, remind me of this moment, please remind me of this moment!”

Acabo

2006-03-27T06:56:00.000-08:00

The paro has officially ended, although rumours still fly about reignition. In an amazing act of morality, the Ecuadorian government has agreed not to sign the TLC and prolong negotiations for another year. Who knows what will happen in the long run, but for now, the people won, and I am still in happy wonder at this outcome.

Llegamos

2006-03-22T15:42:00.000-08:00

Paro – work stoppage, blockout
Parar – to stop, halt, finish, detain, end

The bus ride out of Cayambe was on a small local bus that traveled cobbled roads – a sign we were nearing our Ecuadorian home. The radio played interviews with protesters and the station definitely had an anti TLC bias. We arrived at the first road block in Ayora: a large ditch filled with water, a few smoking tires, old bailing wire scattered around, and a few tired looking people. We got out of the bus, crossed without fuss, and began the five km trek on a high altitude dirt road to the next road block accompanied by three indigenous women from Olmedo. On the way, we talked, at first timidly, then openly about the TLC, the campesino way of life, what life is like in the US, the struggle of small farmers everywhere, how we make our money. What stood out to me was the grandmother saying more than once, “We don’t want to lose our culture.” They seemed relieved that we were in agreement with the politics of the protest, and when we arrived at the next road block I was glad for their company as the crowds immediately began taunting us, making fun of how tall is Cameron is and calling me gringita. The three women continued to chat with us as we entered the crowd and they greeted their neighbors by name. When a truck carrying some of Cameron’s students whizzed by with them shouting his name, we exchanged hearty handshakes and meaningful eye contact with our new friends, and then caught a very lucky ride the final leg to Zuleta.

I looked up the word paro in the dictionary after realizing that strike is not quite the right term for what is going on right now. The indigenous federation is in paro, blocking the roads to wake people up, to stop transport, to cause inconvenience, to put pressure on the government not to sign the TLC on Friday. Returning to Zuleta today I began to realize the full impact of the extensive protests. On the truck ride, we heard that the town of Ibarra, our local hub, is almost out of gasoline, preventing all sorts of local transport and limiting local bus service to just a few times a day. Eddie, who was giving us the ride, was stopping often to check on any hidden supplies of gas, as his tank was almost empty. All school has been cancelled as students and teachers do not have reliable and safe means to travel. The one big grocery store in Ibarra is almost out of everything, and is rationing things like toilet paper. At the last road block, we saw big trucks full of corn and platanos just waiting to be able to bring this food to the capital to sell. The hacienda is now feeding most of its milk to the pigs, as it has nowhere to sell it. There was a pause in some of the back road blocks on Sunday, and the rush of big trucks that flew down our rural dirt and cobble roads after the recent rains left sections caved in and ruts bigger than most bath tubs. These road blocks are extremely thorough, isolating communities and suspending all transportation on the Pan-American highway in Ecuador.

If this happened in the states, the military would be there in a flash before anyone felt the pinch. Here, there has so far been no military involvement. At first I thought Ecuador was perhaps a more peaceful country, but upon revision I believe the government fears a civil war, and does not want to anger the indigenous people to the point of unified armed resistance. I do not know what sort of solution this situation will have. Many people think Ecuador will sign Friday, others think they will listen to the people. Vamos a ver. I am concerned for how much money some very poor people are losing right now. I am happy to be back in our little pueblo, and hope our toilet paper doesn’t run out before this is over.

Addendum:
Military involvement began last night, although everything is calm and tranquil in our little area. Cameron found some good articles concerning the situation:
Q & A from the BBC
"State of Emergeny" from the NY Times

Baja los gringos

2006-03-20T11:28:00.000-08:00

Stuck in Quito since our return from the Galapagos, we decided to brave the strikes today and make an attempt at returning to Zuleta. The people at the bus station told us "Hay un paro, no hay paso"- "There is a strike. You can't pass." To which we replied, "Yes, well this one company says they have found a way, it will just take a little longer." So we climbed aboard, ready to endure a long bus ride, thinking to catch up on a little sleep. The bus became more and more full as we lumbered out of Quito until all seats were taken and the aisles packed. Each person asked, "Ibarra? Really? you can take me to Ibarra?" At first they said yes, then changed this to Cayambe, many miles south, and then a full hour before Cayambe we arrived to a line of fire and smoke, indigenous strikers raising sticks in the air, and all vehicles and buses turning around. The passengers on the bus grew angry asking for their money back, and the people working the bus begin ushering us down into the street. "There are cars on the other side," they said. The strikers yelled, "Viva los campesinos, viva los Ecuatorianos, baja Los Estados Unidos, baja los gringos, baja Bush" Long live the farmers, long live the Ecuadorians, Down with the United states, Down with bush, and we wondered if we should hop back on one of those buses turning around for Quito.

Ecuador has been in negotiation with the United States for quite some time about a free trade agreement, the TLC. The country is deeply divided over this issue with many thinking this agreement will be the death of local agriculture, small market economy, and generic drugs. Others see this as a boost to the economy, a further step in development, opportunity for more employment, more exportation, and greater access to foreign goods. It is hard for me to believe that such an agreement could benefit Ecuador, as previous free trade agreements with latin america have not served those countries well (anyone hear about the new Walmart Central America?. I think this agreement needs to be challenged and questioned, however they are so far into negotiations at this point that some suggest that the United States will hault all trade with ecuador if they don't sign.

Cameron stood uncertainly, black smoke blowing in front of him, backpack strapped behind him and asked "¿Pudemos pasar?" "Yes, go ahead, but only if you are European, or against Bush." We walked quickly across the debree, all eyes following us, and as I was clearing the smoke someone asked, "Where are you from?" I chose not to answer.

We have made it to Cayambe, and decided not to cross any more strike lines today, or at all if we can help it. As I walk down the street I feel stares burning my white skin and wish I had some way to let the world know that I don't approve of the exploitation my country is so known for. I don't believe all morality should be sacrificed on the alter of profit. Even though this complete shut down of the highways is a pain in the ass, I think it is amazing that it is happening, that the country is allowing this inconvenience, that this freedom of expression exists in a way that is not allowed in the United States. Good luck, Conaie, Viva el paro.

Arguments against the protesters (in English from a local paper)

Arguments in favor of protests, against the TLC - frightening how little I could find in English. If you speak Spanish there is a ton out there.

Reproduction

2006-03-17T10:33:00.000-08:00

The blue footed boobies waddled from side to side rythmically in a circle around eachother, laying sticks at eachother's feet, from time to time clacking beaks, and spreading their wings while raising their beaks and tails high in the air to court their mates.

DPSCamera_0014
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

The frigate bird males inflated a red balloon on their chests, and when a female flew by spread their wings and did a shimmy (pick me pick me). He brought his mate sticks and cooed at her letting her rub his head under his wing before she carefully placed the stick on the nest beneath her.

DPSCamera_0120
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

The marine iguana dug her hole with feet and legs in which to leave her eggs to hatch or die of their own volition.

warming up
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

The nazca booby brooded her eggs and preened the fluffy downy feathers of her young.

"I've never seen birds mate. What do they do? I'd like to see that" and a few minutes later- "Jan, quick, quick, they're doing it, bird sex, bird sex."

The land tortoises humped awkwardly and noisily. We thought ineffectually until we discovered the penis is actually at the end of their tails.

DPSCamera_0082
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

So, this desire for reproduction is just part of biology, part of survival, all species procreate. Do these animals feel the complicated emotions we do around children or the lack thereof?

I was disturbed one day by a small baby shark swimming around on its own. Cameron said "Katie, sharks don't rear their young. They just lay eggs and that is that. Only mammals and birds take care of their babies."

A school of dolphins swam with the boat, and a small baby flanked the right, jumping and diving.

Three baby marine iguanas clung to the rocks. Still small enough to be food for hawks, only their instinct offered them protection.

Do animals who don't raise thier babies wonder about them? Do turtles frogs, iguanas, snakes, wonder if any of their offspring made it? Is there any emotion involved? Is there a concept of motherhood?

The mama sea lions suckled their babies, taught them to swim, snuggled with them on shore, and sometimes ignored them when they cried. I saw in them sometimes the tired new mother who reluctantly rises from sleep to comfort her crying new born, and the tender mother who responds with her whole being to her baby's cry.

Baby Sea Lion?

2006-03-16T05:55:00.000-08:00

As Benigno helped me carry bags down from the boat, he named an animal that lives in the Galapagos that could be smuggled in each bag. With Cameron's back pack, "Sea Lion?", with Jan's small tote, "Marine Iguana?", with my back pack, "Baby sea lion?", and my heart broke just a little that the shores of my life would no longer be littered with these small fat furry weepy eyed creatures. On our last hike it must have been morning milk time as they were all nursing with their loud suckling noises, and belting out their pathetic little stuffy nosed cries when mothers turned their bodies making it hard to find a nipple. Then they would awkwardly flop around trying to find food again, or rise up blinking into the sun, or more likely the camera of a tourist. On our first day snorkeling, three baby sea lions entered the water and swam with us, coming towards us with incredible speed as if to crash, but banking a sharp left at the last moment then turning back to look at our reactions. This playfulness delighted me to no end when snorkeling on the surface, but when we encountered sea lions deeper down with scuba gear on our backs it had a different feel. Cameron thought I was tugging on his wet suit, but looked down to see the neoprene firmly locked in the teeth of a sea lion. Another swooped down and started nipping at the hair of our guide Walter. Although I think they meant no harm, I was terrified they would pull at my air hose leaving me forty feet below the surface with nothing to breathe. Even so, it was amazing to look up and see them take a sip of air from the surface, then dive down to play with us in a matter of seconds, their bodies so graceful, sure and quick, nothing like the awkward flop of land. Being from CA and listening to sea lions bark all night in Santa Cruz I did not expect these animals to get me the way they did, but they did. Even so, there was no baby sea lion smuggled in my bag, just a weeks worth of salty crusty clothes.

what flew past

2006-03-01T09:25:00.000-08:00

rice fields houses on stilts bamboo concrete brick cinder blocks hammocks faces peering from open windows banana trees palm trees mango trees coffee trees flowers kids in their underwear stagnant water green low hills water guns water cannons water balloons kids throwing buckets of water laundry on lines bread ovens under tarps brahma cows fried meat women walking muddy rivers people swimming. Sun. Water. Rain. Mud. Green.

Amistaad

2006-02-24T13:19:00.000-08:00

The three women on the bus came to consensus that this road was the best one to take to La Escuela de Magdalena, so I paid my eighteen cents and stepped out into the sunshine. The bus pulled away in a cloud of diesel smoke, leaving me staring up a dirt road just drying from the previous nights rain. Mud walls with adorned with shoots of green grass and flowers in yellow and pink lined the camina and it was quiet, minus the birds. I began walking, feeling the clean air fill my lungs, and feeling grateful that this didn’t hurt after my respiratory infection. I moved my feet quickly over the soft earth and felt light. What was remarkable about that morning was not just the clear weather and stunning walk up into the mountains, but my complete lack of self-judgment. I was not worried about what connections I might make or fearful of mistakes- I was simply allowing myself to be a traveler, walking this road, taking in the steep patchwork mountains, the clucking hens and grunting pigs. When I encountered an abuelita on the road, we talked about where we were headed and why, sharing pace for a little while, and when I was ready to walk quickly again, I bid her farewell and did not worry that my western pace was keeping me from making friends. I have not made many what I would consider friends here.

Cameron has commented on my hierarchy of friendship, and how sometimes I am so intense about my friendships that I let more casual friendships go and do not give them much value. I was at first insulted by this, but since have mulled it over and realized, yes this is true. I suppose I have looked at it in this way: I only have so much energy, and I want to be sure that I use it wisely, and so I will carefully chose where I put my social energy. In the last few years I have spent much time, energy, and money maintaining these friendships that are so important to me, and also geographically very distant. I have had to ask myself more than once if this fierce commitment has at times gotten in the way of creating community where I live, and then I arrived in South America where Cameron and I have both felt very far away and alone.

Are Cameron and I a part of this community here in Zuleta? I don’t know. Will our absence be felt when we leave? Without a doubt. Here we have a multitude of friendly acquaintances. When we walk down the road we are greeted by name, nickname, and a million different friendly phrases that make me smile. Today one of the kitchen staff took my hand and made me run with her to the Patron’s kitchen, for no other reason than the company. It is true, there is no one here besides my husband with whom I sit and bare my soul. There really is no one with whom I feel I can ask to go for a walk, or have a cup of coffee. I have spent so much time since we have been here wondering if this is my fault, chastising myself for moments when I was shy, and laboring over the consequence of any and all of my social interactions. Now, towards the end, as I accept it for what it is, without judgment on myself or the community for the whys, I began to see all the ways I have been welcomed here. I already feel nostalgia for the beauty of the whole town knowing my name and saying with it with friendship, even if they do not invite me into their homes. I realize that if I really want the community I dream of, I have to make sure that I have the energy to build it. I have to open to the casual acquaintances and friendships, and value the people who always greet me with affection almost as much as those deep soul friends that I lean so heavily on.

As I walked away from the grandmother carrying her onions to continue briskly towards the school, she called out to me, Dios le pague, mija, Dios le pague. God will pay you, my daughter, god will pay you (this I assume in thanks for the work in the schools). It felt good to be called daughter, even though she did not know my name, and it did not in any way cheapen the power of the word, just as embracing those in the community around me as friends will never diminish the depth of the long term friendships I share.

en la Emergencia

2006-02-20T15:09:00.000-08:00

It is not a good sign when you go to the bathroom at the doctors, and there are some strange looking medical instruments in a pan of dirty water on the floor. What are these instruments for? And why, for god’s sake, are they on the floor in the bathroom, stewing in a liquid that looks like at has been there for a week?

In truth, it wasn’t bad, and aside from the bathroom seemed relatively clean. We exited with an emergency room exam for each of us on a Sunday evening costing only $20.00 each. With this, I wonder, is the quality of our health care in the states worth the cost? Is it worth the limited access? It is so hard to say. I am thankful always for the medical care that saved my life when I was gravely injured as a teeneager, and pray that I am never seriously ill or injured while in Ecuador, but $20. That’s hard to beat.

We are both on antibiotics now for our respective infections and are doing just fine.

The last episode

2006-02-15T08:13:00.000-08:00

I walked from my house to the library this morning. A short stretch lined with Eucalyptus, the tax I felt in my body finally let me accept that I have actually been sick the past few days and not just hiding from Ecuador. Friday night we borrowed a DVD player and thanks to the thriving pirated DVD industry here in Ecuador, began the last season of Six Feet Under. Saturday we finished it. It has been hard for me to place the emotions I have around the end of this series. Saying goodbye to these characters is saying goodbye to this part of me that for the last four years has retreated into this story that is not my own, but yet at moments has shed perspective on my own. Sunday, trying to enjoy hot springs a long bus ride from Zuleta, this flu began to take over my muscles, my throat, my lungs, and after the monumental task of leading a field trip in Spanish Monday morning, I curled up into tea, two wool blankets, and repeat viewings. The beginning of my time with this show was deeply personal, the first two seasons viewed alone, and the discovery of the series in coincidence with the commencement of therapy for depression. So I suppose it shouldn’t have been surprising that watching the last episode again on my own should bring forth a deeper set of emotions. I bawled, and have been incredibly weepy since. For the record, I cry easily, but something about this particular moment has cracked me open and let me be where I am instead of judging it so fiercely. I am ready to go home and start my life, and yet this is an indefinite idea of the future. Home. I am juxtaposed against wanting to be here and take advantage of all it has to offer, and wanting to feel the comfort of my own language, my friends, the culture I know and feel free to push against, judge, criticize, and recreate in my own light. This crack has left me raw with want for community, family, a baby. Is it just that Six Feet Under is so much about death that it makes me want to live? but what better way to live than be here in the present? Maybe that’s not me right now. I want what I don’t have.

There was a fight

2006-02-08T10:47:00.000-08:00

There was a fight. He wanted quiet, I wanted to make noise (this a reoccurring theme), and now we sit in silence punctuated by forks scraping metal plates, the undiscussed tears resting heavily between us.

Wendy wrote of a meal in Los Angeles during which her head wandered to a fantasy of Ecuador. Here I sit in Ecuador eating the fruits of my labor, traditional llampinganchos (though not perfect, quite delicious), and not even the fried crispy potato outside can keep my mind from wandering away here, where the lights create mirrors of windows and the cold causes me to huddle in my sweater, he in his jacket, heads bent, food to mouth.

In my mind, I am driving in my red truck, following Jen north through Wyoming, the yellow tarp around the mattress she has hauled from South Carolina whipping in the wind of the grass lands. Flat, open. Jen is driving my truck over Lolo pass after a weekend of paddling the Lochsa River and I sit in the passenger seat, windows down, we both belt out Happy Woman Blues, Lucinda Williams. Becca Drives in the dark through high snow banks- the heater pumping, mountains looming, our skis bouncing in the back. We stop at a small bar in Gardner for grilled cheese, french fries, beer, and juke box. Candace and I drive down the one in California listening to Manu Chau. The sun blazes on an ocean far below as we pull over at the end of a long dirt road and watch the sun make its long journey down, dinner replaced by Gillian Welch and PBR. Cameron and I drive through the redwoods curving sharply into the mountains (and I am caught off guard that he is not absent from this reverie of motion, freedom, westward united states, connection) this time not to Henflings, but to a silly italian restaurant where the waiters dance and sing and the owner wears leather pants that say “fuck” all over them. We both sing Neko Case and smoke hand rolled cigarettes, me in my favorite tight skirt and flame boots, this night part of the reconciliation that brought us here, married.

When he finishes, he says politely “That was very good, thank-you.” He watches me eat the last of my salad with my fingers, then sop up the leftover dressing with the extra lettuce (he picked from the garden) sitting in a bowl. When I finish, he asks “Would you like to talk now or later?” I answer, “I think later.” He clears the plates, and I marvel at how calm and patient he is, such a contrast to my temper which has been boiling so close to the surface lately.

I go to my (our) room and put on the head phones, wrap myself in Neko Case, always the anthem of my restless, persistent teenage heart. I sing at the top of my lungs to the entire album The Tigers Have Spoken, and then the first half of Furnace Room Lullaby. I travel my (many of them our) memories and I knit, stopping only to use the needles as drum sticks. I let the sound fill me up and spill out, releasing with it the need to leave, to drive, to run. I sing until I am ready to be quiet, ready to open the door. and (with more struggle than I would have liked) let him back in.

Waking up on the right side of the bed

2006-02-05T13:19:00.000-08:00

I have, since Colombia, questioned my time here in Ecuador greatly. It has been difficult to get projects moving, support has been spotty, friends have been few and far between, and I have been cold and lonely. With the advent of our youth training on Thursday, however, I felt a renewed sense of purpose and commitment to the community. We are working with 7 sixteen - nineteen year old boys who are also English students of Cameron's. I'll admit- they scared me at first with their constant joking, budding manhood, Quechua language, and crotch grabbing. But, as with so many situations, once we moved past the exterior they were attentive, funny, open to the games and learning, and into taking on the role of teacher for the environmental education project. Friday they went for a preliminary session with children from the community, and although there were many problems, the day was beautiful, the kids psyched, and the teeangers proud. For me, it was just what I needed to boot me out of my homesick lethargy and believe in what we are doing again.

I have to wake up and be here before I wake up back in the U.S.

El bosque magico

2006-01-29T11:03:00.000-08:00

Jen, Tavis, Edison and I stood leaning on tools staring at an old tractor tire half submerged in the ground. Tavis said, “Its funny the things that give you a sense of accomplishment. Today I buried a tire.” Later the younger kids climbed up, down, and through the tire, then sat perched on top watching a heated game of futbol on the field Cameron has laboriously carved out of the tall grass. Most of the girls ran between nearby trees on soft moss dappled with yellow flowers playing tag, and we all felt a sense of accomplishment in seeing the little playground in el bosque magico begin to take shape.

Back In Zuleta

2006-01-24T07:19:00.000-08:00

“I am not rushing. No one is ever on time here.” As we walked up to the colegio for the minga, it became apparent that people actually were on time. We fell into a fire line of people passing heavy rocks from one pile to another on the other side of the field. The colegio (high school) is building a new office building. Although I was upset about this at first, being that they have no money for teachers, books, or other materials for their classes, I calmed down when I discovered that in Ecuador, as in California, school funding is heavily restricted by category. There is money to build this building, yes, and that money can only be spent on construction, nothing else. Yet, there is no money for heavy machinery or labor, so the school called a minga, a mandatory workday in which if you don’t participate, you pay a fine. It is an old practice here, and as I understand mainly only put into use by the indigenous communities these days. So we passed boulders and cleared the building site, composted the grass, and moved more rocks. When it was through I had a huge blister on the inside of my thumb and some very sore forearms. From there we wondered back through the hacienda’s cobbled roads back towards a milking station to Don Antonio’s house, where a party to celebrate potable water was in full swing. Upon arrival at the bottom of the hill, the Camilo, a man from the garden where Cameron sometimes works, started plying us with Punta, a god-awful cane alcohol. We accepted, not realizing what we were in for. La carrera de los coches de marera (the go-cart race) arrived, and Jose ran a herd of beautiful dappled horses through the crowd. We wandered up the hill, meeting Camilo’s adopted grandpa, and arrived to la banda blaring out of loud speakers and a crowd dancing. I saw one of the women from the minga who took my hands in greeting, then started clucking at my blister. Cameron told her it is because my hands are soft. She said, “Yes, we are strong here. We work with our hands.” A force of people rotated the party with a million different types of alcohol and little shot glasses- everything from Johnny Walker to cheap peach wine in a box. We tried to say no, and sometimes succeeded, but more often no was not acceptable. As a scary old man with a huge vat of Punta pushed another shot towards me, my friend from the minga looked at me in horror and said No lo chumes. Es un trago muy malo. “Don’t get drunk on that, it’s a very bad alcohol.” We danced, we ate, we drank, we watched them break small clay pots filled with candy and flowers, we reveled in the bright green mountains, muddy boots, and bright colors, and around 4:30 in the afternoon, we began the stumble home.

For my fellow foodies

2006-01-20T07:23:00.000-08:00

Wendy has a lovely blog called Earthly Delights in which she graciously posted some of my writing about Colombian coastal fare. Check it out!

health update

2006-01-16T13:17:00.000-08:00

We are fever free, but still recovering from a flu that got us after scuba diving. We miraculously made it though Colombia with no major stomach upset. Thanks for reading and inquiring!

How to Obtain a Visa in Ecuador

2006-01-16T12:35:00.000-08:00

Hire a lawyer. When he doesn’t help you, call the phone operator a ladron, curse the country, cry and scream on the sidewalk. Never assume that any process will be quick or easy. Always allow an extra day. Make four copies of everything, but realize that three of those copies will end in a rotting stack of paperwork never to be touched. Go to Colombia. Find the narrow cobbled street by the ocean and knock softly on the unmarked glass door. If no one answers go the small window and ask the lady with bad teeth for the woman with dark hair. Bring $110 US dollars, but pay $210 in pesos. Do not swallow their nonsense without a fight- even if you can’t get around it, at least you tried. Upon returning to Ecuador, take the trole to the prescribed office on the fourth floor, but discover it is a different immigration office on a different fourth floor of a different building. Upon arriving, discover you are in the wrong visa office. Go to the right office and wait. When Rodrigo comes, discover you are missing a copy of the letter you turned into this same office over a month ago. Acquire said paper from another office across town. Discover that although everything is in order, you must wait another day. Learn that the fee must be directly deposited into an account at a bank down the way (no, he cannot take your money). Go to the trole, discover there is manifestation, and public transportation is on pause. Feel the first raindrops, pull out your umbrella, and wait.

una brisa

2006-01-09T07:14:00.000-08:00

DSCN3037
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

For the last two days the winds have kicked up- beginning while we slept in our hammocks above the ocean chasing away mosquitos, rattling palm fronds, creating white caps on the water. The wind followed us to Santa Marta sending infinite amounts of garbage scittering down city streets, driving dust into the air, through ventilation system and windows. Out, out cries the wind chasing the tourists into their cars, onto buses, airplanes. Leave the coast and stop this proliferation of plastic bags, empty cups, wayward wrappers, jacked up prices and over bookings. Go home to your mountains, your hot valleys, your beachless cities. the wind gives the tourits a slap on the backside as they retreat back to their jobs, schools and lives seperate from the holiday vacation. As Cameron (with a fever again) watched the news last night he heard that this week records were broken in Santa Marta for the biggest tourist season ever, and over a million people were on the road home. We hunker down and brave the wind, thankful that our inadvertant participation in the Colombian high season is coming to a close.

Año Nuevo, Playa blanca

2006-01-02T15:14:00.000-08:00

DSCN2961
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

new years
The water is warm and boueys us up from the earth. The surf rocks us mildly and we hold eachother and sing as the sun takes its not so slow journey down into the ocean. The sky continues to blaze and when we emerge we walk down the beach almost cold in this very uncold place. Sand- white and soft clingling to skin, clothes, eyelashes, bottoms of beer bottles, sneaking into the sheets, riding on the tips of my hair, sharing space with salt: crusted on my face, licked clean from my skin. We shower with fresh water from a bucket and I don't even think to see if the impossibly giant cokaroach is in his hiding place. We sit at a table with candles in old plastic buckets speaking in Spanish and concentrating to not lose the thread, happy when we get the jokes, happy with the papaya from the grumpy morning market in Cartagena, happy as midnight approaches and food will be served, happy to share another bottle of rum, happy to hear the low sad song sung at midnight. Happy. on this night we are happy.

La Buenanoche, Medellin

2005-12-29T09:42:00.000-08:00

"Another? You're kidding." Jen commented as she noticed the five crystal shot glasses once again full of aguardiente on her grandmother's coffee table. She looked accusingly at tavis, Me, then Cameron. "Don't look at me, it was your uncle." Jen's tio abuelo chuckled, kicked back the shot, and wiped his grey mustache clean. Over 70, this man had fallen asleep in his chair after dinner, but had come back with a silent fervor, refilling our shot glasses as soon as they were empty, then waiting patiently until we noticed. "Arriba, abajo, al centro, al dentro." We finished the bottle amid a a torrent of fireworks and presents just after midnight. Christmas day was sleepy and slow, with children playing in the streets, outdoor barbeques, sunglasses, and remnants scattered from the night before (including those who never made it to bed). Christmas eve in Columbia was reminiscent of my idea of new years eve, but that party is yet to come.

Cumpleaños Feliz

2005-12-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

DSCN2817
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

my b-day
For my 33rd birthday I woke up early and dined on fried plantains, corn tortillas, rice, and strong coffee with fresh cream. Chickzilla, Po, Tavis, and I accompanied a group of french people to visit the condor rehabilitation project. We bumped over the cobbles and mud standing in the back of a pick up truck. The misty air (free of rain for the first time in days) whipped around our hair and scarves and hurt our teeth as the giant green mountains rushed by. I translated from Spanish to English, which was then translated from English to french to communicate the story of these birds and then of one of the french man's connection to one of the ecuadorian workers sisters, who is living in france. Later, i knitted while my friends cooked and hid me in my room. In the afternoon, i ate inordinate amounts of sugar with the kids in the library, played pin the tail on the donkey, musical chairs, charades, and pictionary. They played with their finger puppets i brought them from Octavalo. When i got home, a huge vase of flowers awaited, along with a chocolate chake and the neighbors kids. They sang happy birthday and we giggled and ate. In the evening came the consumption of a birthday bottle of wine and another bottle of Zhumar. the day ended with cards, warm and sleepy, and I felt loved and special, home in my bed far away from home.

The puppy who lived

2005-12-14T11:58:00.000-08:00

our little furry baby
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

From Colin, volunteer in Mojanda, Ecuador

2005-12-14T09:16:00.000-08:00

Hey Cameron (and katie)
I hope you had a very nice weekend here in Mojanda -- I sure had an
unbelievable time in Intag, in fact I wont be able to fully convey the
gravity of the event over email -- pretty much I went as an
International Observer to a small community in the cloud forest that
is trying to prevent a major mining company (Ascendent Mining) from
coming in and destroying their entire community and way of life -- in
the end the group of 150 or so protesters took over the mining
offices, and ended up burning it down...Ben and I were there, and we
were the only two people documenting the event --- I took about 300
photos, some of which are as dramatic and shocking as you can imagine.

So the weekend was crazy. I would love to tell you more about this
when I see you guys, however next weekend probably wont work for me.

Un Arbol de la Navidad

2005-12-14T09:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday the kids went to the woods to collect decorations for the Christmas tree in the library- I didn’t know what to expect, but was shocked at how much moss and how many bromeliads they took from the forest. Grappling with my sense of right and wrong in regards to the woods, and experiencing a deep dismay at how many of these beautiful plants would die, I at first just stepped back to watch. They washed the plants and moss and began laying it on the floor- I asked them if they were going to put the plants on the tree- they looked at me like I was nuts. No, this is where the wise men and the animals walk to the tree- on the path... And they ran to collect rocks and sand to make a path. Someone said, don’t they do it like this in your land? I said no, we just put a blanket under the tree usually. I started thinking of all the plastic and synthetic fabrics that are involved with Christmas in my land, the advertisements, blinking lights, frezy, and stress over money- the incredible amount of waste. I got down on my knees and helped rinse off the bromeliads to nestle them down into the moss. It was beautiful and magic looking, especially after we made animals out of play dough and hid them in our little bosque. When I saw the paper and crab grass creating the “forest” in the office, I was relieved for the forest plants that not everyone takes them. I began to think, will this tradition fade? Will the children cease to run to the woods, fall into the creek, dig their hand beneath moss and accidentally catch frogs? Later in the day as I saw the chef and a friend driving away with flowering bromeliads that reached about 8 feet tall to sell at a nearby market, I came to the conclusion that this tradition is doomed, and I will enjoy these bromeliads, and the forest around us while I can.

Muerto

2005-12-14T09:01:00.000-08:00

As I approached the library, umbrella clutched in hand, water from the heavy rains running down the cobble stone road sloshing against my boots, I spotted one of my neighbors dragging something up from under the bridge. I reached him and his son just as he plopped the medium sized black pig in the wheelbarrow. "¿Se murio?" I asked. "Si, esta muerto," he answered, dragging out the word muerto in a singsong lament. I asked him how it happened, and he said he didn’t know. "No sé, esta muerto" He’s dead, he sang again. We all three stood there looking forlornly at the chancito lying motionless in the wheelbarrow, rain water loudly spattering against the metal, already collecting in a pool around his body. I’m sorry I said, and then his son and I gave each other a nervous smile, because our relationship is books, futbol, laughter, bike rides far from the world of adults, and this death is out of context. I shivered as I walked away remembering Carolina’s story of how last year a three year old fell in this same creek upstream and drown. We discussed this in the context of how much freedom some of these kids have that come and go from the library, and ever since a mother asked me not to let the kids play on the bridge, I have lived in fear of one of them falling the twenty feet into that rocky bottom. At the time I tried to explain to this mother that it really wasn’t my responsibility- that my job was to care for the library and that I wasn’t there to watch the kids. She didn’t even begin to listen to me- she interrupted and explained more thoroughly why the kids shouldn’t play on the bridge. My United States public educational system understanding of child care, liability, responsibility, and parenting screamed in protest: I didn’t say I would watch all these kids in the afternoon- I didn’t say I would watch your kid -this is a library- if you send them unaccompanied, they are on their own- I am not responsible- but in fact I am. I am the adult that is around. This whole idea that it takes a village to raise a child has more layers than I realized- as I watch the kids ramble around, playing in the fields, buying candy, running, coming and going as they please, I experience a mixture of elation, fear, jealousy, and dread. Their bodies are so strong, and there is so much less fear imbedded in their psyche than in most kids in the states. But what at first appeared as complete lack of supervision, at closer look isn’t quite so. There is the grandma who walks by and asks if her grandsons will walk with her- they are free to say no, but there are the older cousins who live next door around. There is the system of aunts, neighbors, and cousins who remind Mateo to walk home with his sister, or to go to his aunts if his mom is working. I am assumed to be part of this system, but as the number of kids coming to the library has declined, I wonder if I somehow failed in my responsibility to the village. It has come to my attention that many parents send their kids to the library and expect them to stay there for the entire afternoon- not come and go as they please. I have heard rumors of complaints that all the kids are doing is playing, and parents are sending them to the library to learn. This chafes against my understanding of what a library is, but there has never been one here before and so it must be what is needed, what will be used. I am accepting that I am responsible for the kids who come, and that it is up to me to structure their time to be safe, productive, fun, and feasible for those of us who work here. As I look back over the deaths that passed through our little barrio this month (whether caused by poison, virus, bacteria, or act of god has never been determined, but puppy Cooper did survive), I am glad that the toll has only included two dogs, one chicken, and two pigs, and left the children alone. As my neighbors wheeled their black chancito back to their house, I hoped that it really was the last death in this streak that has passed over our little corner of the town.

A package from afar

2005-12-05T09:59:00.000-08:00

DSCN2733
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

Jen and Tavis arrived on Saturday to begin their South American travels. they brought with them a box loaded with goodies from the states which included:

Candles shaped like lemons
A san francisco t-shirt with rhinestones
A DVD of friends and family at our wedding
A DVD of baby Dominique
Two beautifully decorated journals (one that says Katie- Yes, Feel Magic)
Pre-natal vitamins (a little premature, but that's OK)
a yoga mat
stripy socks
dark organic chocolate
chili powder
acidopholus pills
hair ties that don't break and snarl
Dan Savage's new book (SIGNED- with the additional note "Sarah Rocks")
a rubber bouncy ball
crayons
colored pencils
book marks
An array of American Magazines
A little dear made of willow
A cool necklace made from a spoon
Carharts for Cameron
Airborne
A literary anthology from two writer's groups (of which Wendy was one of the editors)
Notes of love
A large bottle of nivea lotion (minus the added latin american perfumes)
A photo album of my new baby niece (which made me cry)
A copy of the Guardian with an article about a friend from high school
Christmas undies
Hershey's Chocolate Bars that say "Here She Is" with Dominique's birth info
Decorations for my coming b-day

sleepy day after

2005-12-05T09:56:00.000-08:00

sleepy day after
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

Becca told me she has this picture as her screen saver, and I had to go back and look at it. Now that baby is out of Sarah's body and in the world, growing rapidly. Cameron and I are married, and far from Sarah and Van's land in Washington where I have experienced so much friendship and magic. I feel so greatful for all that love and look forward to returning there as we all grow- grow up, grow older, grow bigger.

The King of the wild boys

2005-12-02T15:20:00.000-08:00

DSCN2709
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

In a moment of stillness.

DSCN2719
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

In motion.

Vecinos

2005-12-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

DSCN2620
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

The neighbors kids, our library constants, fellow futbolistos,lovers of puppies, teachers of Spanish, and companions for the walk home.

The grumpy report

2005-12-01T09:58:00.000-08:00

I have been grumpy before bed this week, taken by an uncharacteristic exhaustion that wipes me out before 10:00.

The indigenous people are in paro in the Province of Imbaburra- the government has left a public water project hanging- leaving the people grumpy and without water. A company swindled them out of a bunch of money for the necessary study to install the water lines. The study was botchy and half assed, and to do it again will cost $1,000,000, which they don’t have- no doubt leaving the politicians grumpy. Many of the highways are closed, leaving travelers grumpy, only to be surpassed by the grumpiness of bus drivers, although some indigenous communities who already have water are accepting bribes to let the buses pass (we are one of them), which is definitely cause for grumpiness among the indigenous communities who are striking.

On my first attempt at taking a horse to visit rural schools, Norteño decided he was far too grumpy to let me usher him off into the mountains alone. The second horse, Dulceña, grumpily conceded to be separated from her buddies for this journey, but I have may have gotten there faster if I walked. The time was made up by her ecstatic galloping as we returned.

Today two very pushy teachers arrived to inform me they were coming for a field trip to the condor restoration project tomorrow. When I told them this was not possible, they argued with me for some time, leaving us both grumpy. I was reconciled when I went to see their principal about scheduling field trips for their school. I told her that tomorrow was too short of notice, and she replied “claro.” She said that she had told them as much.

Ups and downs

2005-11-21T11:15:00.000-08:00

The ups: Whirling in delight with a pack of children, the remains of a huge fire licking at our faces and heels. Diana shaking and spinning, her shawl flying out to the sides and her feet pumping back and forth in the center of the circle. Little hands in mine, shrieking laughter, Ecuadorian national music blaring, more spinning (señorita, una vuelta), the heat of my face and layers stripped as the cold night air slaps my bare arms and i return to the fray of children, delighting to no end in the beauty of their skirts and embriodered shirts, the complete euphoria of dancing recklessly with all these little bodies, mateo dancing solo with his batman, and the slight fire of earlier drinks allowing me not to care that everyone is watching, and very few adults are dancing. Later after the kids have dispersed and the second bonfire lit, feeling my feet flutter across the cobble stone as my husband and I dance salsa and actually acheive some grace at it, turns feeling smooth and romantic (señorita, una vuelta).
the downs: Having had too much to drink and yelling at my husband for no good reason, my stomach churning the next day as we ride with our boss who (like everyone in ecuador) drives very fast and doesn't slow down for the curves on the way to Quito. The shame when cameron gives me away as being sick from the night before and not from motion sickness. Being doubled over on the side of the highway in the hot sun, traffic whizzing by (señorita, una vuelta), nausea that has persisted for two days, making me grumpy and wonder if alcohol is all there is to it.

La biblioteca

2005-11-11T07:11:00.000-08:00

DSCN2692
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

Week three, and things are hopping. Every day more kids come, and sometimes my heart gets all gooey watching them read on the floor or play on the computer we resurrected for the kids room. My name seems to have officially shifted to señorita, and this cry is heard over and over again as a kid finishes a book and asks for a little picture of a book to put next to his or her photo- marking the accomplishment. Already I have seen specific children arrive at important steps in literacy, and I am so thankful for my training that allows me to celebrate small successes such as the three year old boy who in the past two weeks has learned how to hold a book right side up and read from left to right. He has his favorite book that he quietly reads through, conversing softly with the pictures of baby animals. Then there is my firey buddy Diana, probably ten years old, who doesn't like to listen to me, but emerges and reemerges sticky fingered and tattered many times throughout the days and weeks. She has memorized her favorite book, and can proudly recite the lines when her friends show her the pictures. Cameron says she and I are very much alike, and that is why she is so ornery with me- I am still trying to figure that one out. I found a book of Mexican nursery rhymes yesterday, and between the two of us, we knew the tune to about three of them. We sang them over and over, and eventually the king of the wild boys caught on to the tune of "Chocolate" and created a little dance routine for us complete with vogueing and reggaton style hip gyrating. It was too much. Then I taught them "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes, and it was all over- they were so hyper that most of then had to go run around outside- which was OK! Unlike being in a classroom- they can leave when they get squirelly, and for me this element of choice makes all the difference. My boss Fernando arrived the other day as we were having our end of the day game of futbol, looked at all the kids, and said "Wow, the library is really a success." I hadn't realized until that moment that yes, it really is.

Sick puppy

2005-11-11T07:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I knew I needed to do laundry. My favorite sweater was covered with a sticky Gatorade type substance from holding Cooper, my roommate’s puppy, while the vet for the cows at the hacienda tried to squirt it into his mouth. Of course he puked it up (as I knew he would) and finally we began giving him fluids and vitamins subcutaneously. I have never been this involved with an animal’s sickness. Even when my own dog Luna was sick in this manner, when her situation became this grave she went to the vet’s and stayed there until she was out of the red. Here, there is not that option. Between Luis the vet, Luis the owner, and myself, we read the directions for the cows, try to adjust it for a dog, use all of our strength to hold this poor little puppy down who is tired of being messed with, and hope for the best. Today is the first time I feel sure he won’t die. The perrito negro next door died on Monday, his sister was also very sick (but now is fully recovered), and Jota Jota has been missing since Sunday- the day the other dogs got sick. No one knows what it is, but a virus is suspected. Cooper has been vomiting for four days now, and as I looked at the aftermath of another night, I knew action had to be taken. I hauled all of the woven reed mats outside and was shocked by the amount of catzas, these June bug type insects that fly at the windows at night, were dead under them. I hauled the cover off the couch, and flung it into a pile with my dirty clothes. After the stone floor was swept and mopped, I went to find Rosa to tell me how to clean the mats, and how to use the lavendaria a piedra. She looked at me quizzically, as I have access to a normal washing machine, but only when it is not in use by the hacienda. She showed me how to turn the faucets on using a spoon, how they put all the dirty stuff in a tub with soap, and then rub it on the stone as the water comes out to rinse it, and then she left me alone. An hour and a half later, back very sore from bending over, I was done, and everything was hung on the line. Then it started to rain.

The door

2005-11-07T07:26:00.000-08:00

We have the nicest house on the block, and although this is because, unlike our neighbors, we are not storing potatos from the last harvest, 50 lb. sacks of rice, massive amounts of corn to feed the chickens and pigs, and guinea pigs to eat on holidays, it makes me feel funny. One of my neighbors works with me in the library, and after not showing up for work for two days, I gave her a little talking to. I am torn between wishing that I hadn't said anything to maintain the pleasant relationship (which isn't so pleasant right now) and lessen this power dynamic between us, and trusting that I can't let someone walk all over me just because i want to be liked, which i do. I want to be liked here, and wish so whole heartedly for a real friendship to emerge out of all these lines we walk. We are fed by the hacienda- sometimes in the home of the cooks, and sometimes on a white linen table cloth in a formal dining room with English speaking guests. We cross the threshold of the door that separates the kitchen from the dining room many times a day, and I sometimes wish we just stayed in the kitchen. Patience, patience. We've only been here two weeks. The kids are our salvation, as they are curious, open, patient with our Spanish and welcome us into their games of futbol any time.

El Dia de los Difuntos

2005-11-04T07:21:00.000-08:00

R. came to get us around eleven, and I helped la abuelita strap the basket of bread to her back. I said I could carry it, but she waved me off like I was crazy. We had spent all day Sunday making this bread, different women of the family wandering in and out to help. There was a lot of gossip that flew over my Spanish speaking abilities, although some of it was in Quechua, so I didn’t feel so bad. As the grandma indicated for me what to do and was visibly perturbed by the fact that I didn’t know already, I was reminded of the moment in which after I had asked a million questions about the bread, its purpose, its tradition, she had said something in Quechua to her daughter. R. tsked her, saying “Mami. She is from another country, they have different customs.” Luckily this amused me, as there are moments here when it may have made me cry to think my elder thought I was maleducado. Bread successfully tied to grandma’s back, we began our slow walk to the cemetery. On our way we passed many people coming or going. We turned up a dirt road that was new to me. More people. We saw our favorite tienda owner who greeted us by name and was pleased that Cameron offered her “Un beso de amistaad.” Booths of food lined the entrance to the cemetery, and we ran into a niece buying snails to eat. We passed through the gate, giving money to enter, and followed R. past groups of families around graves- some singing, some hanging out chatting, kids running, some praying, all decorating and cleaning the graves of their ancestors. We arrived at the grave of El abuelo, and the family was all sitting on it eating snails and fruit. Every now and them someone would offer grandpa something to eat. M. tied on a picture of Jesus, a card from one of his grandchildren, other baubles, and flowers were arranged. We took turns cleaning the grass and weeds away, and then people came by to offer hail Marys and Our fathers for the souls of the dead, for which they received bread and a banana. One young man who had a very nice clear voice was asked to pray many times, as D. and R. began listing off the names of the deceased in their family. In this manner I discovered that M., with whom I work at the library, was not the first from her mother. The first daughter died. I wish this holiday existed in the north, for so often when the dead are gone they are gone, and we remember them as a whole in our hearts or not at all. Grandma did not come to lunch. Although she did not appear distraught, el abuelo was her husband, and it has only been five years since he died. I watched her take a short cut through a field, climbing under a fence and jumping a creek. She is a strong woman for 83.

Guinea Pigs (Cuy)

2005-11-04T07:20:00.000-08:00

Cameron and I woke late, and exited the house in rubber boots, basket in hand in which to place greens from the garden to go with our eggs. I knew something in me had adjusted when at the sight if my neighbor with a tub on her hip and a bloody steak knife in her fur covered hand, I didn’t balk or even raise an eye. “¿Que están haciendo?” I asked of R. and her daughter D. She showed me the three white skinless guinea pigs they had just killed, and asked if we wanted to go with them to her brother’s house for almuerzo, after the cemetery. I was very happy to be invited to participate in the holiday, and to try cuy for the first time. It was salty and tasty. Luckily I was having a pretty hearty day and did not feel squeamish about watching my friend C. who works in the kitchen at the hacienda, gnaw at the head. She asked me how we remember our dead in our country, and was surprised to hear that there is no special day. One of the younger girls thought this was good- better to live and forget, but I disagreed. C. gave me a little lecture on how I better get on it if I want to have kids because my change of life is coming (menopause?). I promised we would get on it and have four before we left. They told us we better go take some lessons from the guinea pigs that live in R’s house. For desert there was Molado Colorado, made from blueberries gathered from the mountains and traditional herbs. It is a sweet hot liquid in which chunks of fruit, in this case pineapple, are placed. Yum. Soon after we wandered back to our little neck of Zuleta. The roads were still full of people, full of cars, which is unusual. I realized that for the families who are not together anymore, those who have moved to the cities, this is probably a day of return, a day of travel. If we had this holiday, where would we go? To which grave, to which ancestor. They are so spread out, there is no definitive homeland for my family. I entered my house ready to be there, ready for the quiet of my husband and myself. I felt very full and fortunate to have been included.

Beginning

2005-10-24T10:10:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago in Quito I was walking down the street eating a donut. As I crossed the street, two thoughts went through my mind. 1) Can i really call myself a stranger in a strange land when i can easily encounter food and people from my homeland if i desire? 2) It would be highly undignified to hit by a car and die while stuffing my face with a donut. Run.

Today, as i rode the bus to Ibarra from Zuleta, I was the only woman on the bus absent a fedora, an embroidered shirt, a neckclace of glass beads dipped in gold, a colorful pleated skirt, and a very specific type of black shoe. As i am entering my work in Zuleta, I feel i have to be brave, and not shrink away from the challenges of being far outside my culture. Unlike the jungle, there is no guide, and as much I may want to hide in my new room, I have to reach outside my comfort zone and weather the awkward beginnings, the mistakes, and the reality of being the new kid in town, and yes, now i can call myself a stranger in a strange land.

Digi cameras

2005-10-24T10:01:00.000-07:00

walking
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

Our digital camera was by far the biggest hit of our trip to the jungle. Two young mothers asked me to take a picture of their girls in traditional Hoarani headresses. After I took the picture, i asked them if they wanted to see it. After that, all of the young people of the village wanted their picture taken. I let Fabian take my camera, and he photographed many of his friends, then they all gathered around to watch it on the little screen. When we got back to Quito I made prints and dropped them off with our guide, Julio, who will take them to the village next month. I decided not to share these pictures on the internet, even though i treasure them. Really, those photos were for them. The more pictures we took, the more they wanted to take, and in the end even Vye, our hoarani guide, stripped into the buff, tied up his penis in the traditional way, grabbed his two grandsons, and asked me to take a picture. Most of the older generation did not want their picture taken, but by the end emjoyed looking at the images of babies and mothers, teenagers fishing, kids in trees. They are in such a time of change, with the younger generation speaking Spanish, wearing clothes, no longer marking themselves in the same way as the elders, wanting tourism, wanting money. The oil industry is near, and the cash economy has entered their culture. At this point you can look at the village and see the change through the generations. I feel priviledged that we were able to visit while thier traditional culture is still alive, in a time of peace, and absent other tourists.

Swimming with pyrannah

2005-10-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

vie making a bag
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

Vye and his son Fabian were our Hoarani guides who made sure we didn´t get lost in la selva, although one morning Vye had to guide me back to camp with owl calls after I got turned around when going to the bathroom. In this picture he is making a bag which we eventually used to carry pyrannah back to camp after fishing in a lagoon (just for the record I took this picture). Pyrannah tastes really good, it just has a lot of bones. Contrary to movie images, they don't attack. Some say they attack when they smell blood, but i watched people cleaning pigs in the river turning the water red where they stood, and no one was bit. I swam in the river every day, and i watched five year olds swim across the whole river to visit the rest of the village on the other side mutiple times a day with confidence.

Video clips from El jungle

2005-10-20T10:57:00.000-07:00

Check out a little video footage of some
leaf cutter ants
a beautiful little butterfly
the bus ride away from Coca

For best results- give the videos a good chunk of time to buffer, or you can watch the mini images at google video . This is new technology for us- hope you enjoy.

Seven wild pigs and a baby

2005-10-18T13:31:00.000-07:00

It had been raining buckets, and Julio was hiding underneath the tarp covering our gear in the canoe when we saw a group of people in the water. They waved and we waved back, but then realized they were waving us over, not just saying hello. Cameron tried to wake up Julio, ¨We're meeting people, and their canoe has sunk¨. Julio emerged just as we pulled up and a naked elderly man with a shot gun climbed into our boat shouting instructions in a language that sounded like water stopping and starting, or maybe chinese, or possibly navajo- but of course was none of these. He gestured to Cameron to help him take his gun off. I was standing up out of the way, and once Julio emerged he started telling me to take pictures, but I couldn´t- didn´t want to. It seemed wrong. There was a very strong smell in the air, which I soon realized belonged to the three wild pigs tied to the log that were being hauled onto our boat. Once we were all settled, with people on pigs and chairs and gear and other people, the oldest man pointed to a tattoo on his arm that read Auwa. In our time of knowing him, we had many conversations with Auwa, although he spoke no Spanish and we no wow, the language of the Hoarani people. He was animated and sweet. We went down river and passed other logs and pigs. Fabian, a twelve year old who later camped with us deep in the selva for two days counted as we passed the logs and eventually came to the final count- siete. We could fit no more people or pigs on our loaded boat, so they had to float the rest of the hunt to the village, but we did pick up a screaming baby and her mother. We pulled up next to the log and Julio commanded me to get the baby, which I did, and there I was holding a screaming infant, just like any other baby, except that he had been in the water for over an hour riding a log weighed down with pigs. His little feet pumped hard against my legs and he belted his lungs out, until mama climbed on board, pulled the boob out, and his mouth moved to another occupation. That first day I felt so strange and different and voyeuristic- watching them clean the pigs in the river, feeding the entrails to the pyrannah, letting their kids play with the stretchy skin of the intestines and the little pig fetuses that came out of a pregnant sow. I couldn´t imagine connection emerging between our different worlds and languages, but it did, miraculously it did.

La Selva

2005-10-18T13:19:00.000-07:00

My mind worked hard to find a place for the jungle in its knowledge. First in the truck, then on the motorized canoe images flew past. Vines, flowers, soccer balls, suits, bare feet, distended little kid tummies, hammocks, blue butterflies, GREEN, burning oil, pipeline, heat, my bum bouncing hard on the seat, scarlet macaws, bright yellow on black bird (cseke?), nests shaped like tear drops, red crumbly soil, mud, brown river. When we arrived at the bridge we ate and quiet faces watched us from a distance. When I could eat no more, Julio, our guide, stretched out his hand to a little boy ¨Tome¨. He did. As we travelled down stream, leaving the bridge people behind, my mind kept skipping back to the Chattooga River, finding similarities in so many aspects, even the screen and wood candle lit room we passed the night in at Bataboro lodge, but really there was little pecedence for the extreme foliage, insects, and diversity that surrounded us.

Oil politics, Ecuador, SA

2005-10-07T09:15:00.000-07:00

amazonia
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

Translation: To fight for a life with dignity in El Oriente is to be a terrorist. Long live the fight.

So, oil is being harvested a rapid pace from the jungle, El Oriente, in Ecuador. There are many mixed feelings around this. The oil is generally being exported to the US, from what I understand, and a much more common graffiti states "El petroleo es del pueblo"- the Oil belongs to the people. In talking to people, some people think the oil exportation is good because it has helped the country get out of debt and provided jobs. Others feel very strongly against it, as the oil mining is having seriously detrimental affects on the rainforest and its native inhabitants. Vamos a ver. We´ll see what its like as we are going to go through some of the oil territory (as soon as Camdog recovers).

Looking like a Chow Chow

2005-10-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

Cameron and I both woke up with black tongues this morning to add to our list of physical upsets (up to this point, the list had only included vomitting, diarreah, and fever. Thank god we opted for the baño privado). Being the healthier of the two, I went out to change the plan ticket to Coca and post pone the advent of our 8 day canoe trip down the Rio Napo. I have just completed a little interent research on black tongues. This fellow sums up the general consensus succinctly:

Tom (34) -- 03.26.2004

Did you take Pepto Bismol? That will turn your crap blue or black and give you a black tounge. It says so on the box.

What a relief- not having the box of our little chewable pink friends, I thought we might be dying.

For California

2005-10-06T09:53:00.000-07:00

The day after Cameron discovered the stove top espresso machine I woke up to rain. It felt familiar and cozy to hear the whish of water spray flying off tires on concrete five floors below. I crawled out of bed blurry eyed and smelled coffee- real coffee, not nescafe. I put on my sweater and jeans, slid into pace at the family table for bread, margarine, jam, and a big hunk of papaya. As I sipped my good strong coffee and dug into the fruit, I thought of Jeff, the math teacher in Pescadero where I taught for three years. I spent many a rainy morning comforted by his in classroom espresso machine and his ever ready solution to a sour face or big yawn- "coffee?" I could just see him eyeing over the breakfast in front of me and chastizing its high carb count. I was caught by a stab of homesickness and a deep fondness for the relationshps and routines I had with my fellow teachers there. I went to brush my teeth and found Cameron´s Ipod lying on the bed. I popped on the earphones and let myself be lulled by the languid voice of Jolie Holland. I thought of Megan who has just moved back to San Francisco from Germny and how much she likes the second track (black stars- we coudn´t remember and tried so desperately to sing it with the few lines we could remember in the desert). I hope she is well in California.

The bus ride to Zuleta

2005-10-05T09:34:00.000-07:00

Cameron sat on a bag of rice, and I sat in the front seat after much shifting of shopping bags and cartons. We lumbered along the bumpy road, every seat full, and only a few people standing (fairly spacious by trole standards), and then we picked up about twenty little kids in uniform, just released from school, then about fiften more from another school. An older woman stretched her disembodied hand through the crowd and handed a five spot to the guy who hangs out the door announcing the bus´s destination. He started to make change for her, but then her head appeared and asked him if he he would pick up a bag for her. She indicated where and the bus shuddered to a hault. The guy hopped down and ran to a window, and almost the whole front of the bus yelled no the other one. He paid four dollars and then laboriosly hoisted a 40 lb. sack of potatoes onto the bus. He gave the lady her change, and onward we lurched, gradually dropping off children, families with boxes and bags scattered over the bus, and finally, us at the doorstep of Hacienda Zuleta.

Un Concurso

2005-10-01T11:49:00.000-07:00

My dictionary describes concurso as a competition or contest. If only I had known this beforehand, I could have saved myself a little bit of shame. As it was, I thought maybe it meant scavenger hunt, and I innocently followed two frantic teenagers to a gazebo at the local pool pumping reggaeton thinking that they needed check off their list someone in a bikini, and just had to show me to someone official. This belief was fueled by an earlier scene of fifty teenagers running up a hill wildly screaming and then breaking off in all directions searching for something. I inadvertantly found myself a participant in a bikini contest in which all the other particpants were at least a decade younger than me. Once I realized what was happening, I tried to find a way out, but to no avail. I stood on stage in my sneakers and bikini, clutching an old beach towel from my mom's house around my shoulders. When it was my turn I opened up the towel briefly to be greeted by shouts of "No!" and por fin, they helped me down from the stage.

A City Built on Blood

2005-09-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

"If there is one element which courses through the city's arteries, it is blood. The blood of the Indians defeated and enslaved then decimated by diseases; blood on the hands of the Conquistadors who fought over their new-found lands; blood stains from the nineteenth century battles between liberals and conservatives; and blood in the churches. " - Dominic Hamilton

Ever since Cameron sent me this article, I have been contemplating this idea that the city is built on blood. My Spanish teacher, Fanny, informed me that when they built the plaza de San francisco, the blood of the slaughtered animals was used as mortar for the stones. Today in La Iglesia Guápulo, I thought of how this very ornate church was built by the hands of salves, how the gold was most likely plundered from the incas. I marveled in sort of a disgusted wonder at the emaciated saint of penitence, the weird enormous crowns on the virgin mother, and the gold robes the priests wore. How did this breed of Christianity evlove from Jesus overturning the tables in the emples renouncing greed, opulence, and wealth? Then again, how did modern protestantism evolve from love your neighbor as yourself? As I looked at the bloodiest Christ on the cross yet, I really took in the blood dripping from the crown of thorns, his knees, the nails in his hands and feet, the wound in his side, and I remembered Hamilton´s words, "Christ suffered for you, say the Catholics in Europe. But in the New World they said Christ suffered like you: whipped and beaten and treated like a dog. But He was saved. Just as you will be; just as soon as we've worked you to death." All of this makes me feel a little funny about my affection for colonial architecture.

Read Everything is Illuminated- It´s good.

2005-09-22T15:17:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I finished Everthing is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer. This book is terrific in the same way Middlesex is terrific. It spans so much time and history leaving you to question what occurred in history and what in the author´s imagination. Being a second language learner right now, I felt deep affection for Jonathan´s interpreter Alex who makes beatiful mistakes such as calling his grandfather retarded when he means retired. Alex co-author´s the book, and the story of his present life in the Ukraine unfolds alongside the story of Jonathan´s family´s history before the holocaust. The movie is coming out soon and looks high quality, but the book is really worth the read. On a side note, it took me a while to get into it, so stick with it if it doesn´t do it for you right away.

Salsa Cristian

2005-09-22T11:24:00.000-07:00

"Si el espiritu de dio se muevan me
yo danco como David.
Santo, santo, santo dicen los querabines
Santo, santo, santo es el señor jehovah
santo, santo, santo al dios que nos redime
porque nuestro dios es santo y la tierra llena de su gloria esta"

I spent the morning of Spanish class listening to Christian salsa and translating. This became very interesting as my buddhist husband refused to participate, and a Japanese woman, raised in a buddhist family, who knew nothing about Christianity became very confused by the word "redeem." I found myself in Spanish trying to explain the idea of heaven and hell, sin, redemption, and christ dying for your sins. I couldn´t help but think of David Sedaris explaining in broken french "He go on two sticks to your father." By the end at least she understood why there is man bleeding on a cross all over Quito. Cameron had long since vacated the salsa scene to study Spanish grammar with his teacher, which was lucky as the music was followed by a discussion of marriage customs in our three respective countries, which led to my teacher once again questioning me about my views on gay marriage, although it has been well established that we disagree. I am happy this week to have a new teacher who is a good old fashioned catholic and doesn´t feel the need to save me. Vocabulary from the lesson included:
redimirse- redeem
cielo- heaven
infierno- hell
pecados- sins
querebines- the highest form of an angel, higher than an angel or arcangel- my teacher told me one querebin can kill seven million people. Wow. Thats my kind of angel.
It is hard to be tolerant of beliefs that preclude tolerance, and here lies my greatest criticism of evangelist Christianity.

minnie

2005-09-20T14:05:00.001-07:00

I thought her name was MiMi, but as it turns out she is actually Minnie, with a brother Mickey and a friend Bimbo downstairs, and her son Ube next door. All came to visit yesterday resulting in an interesting symphony of cat calls.

mini
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

World Press Photo Exhibit

2005-09-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

There is so much suffereing in the world, and yet beauty in the face of this. Looking at photographs of an Iraqi family terrified as American soldiers searched their house, another of a suspected terrorist with a tag duct taped to his head describing his "offense", others of American soldiers burned to disfigurement, missing limbs, staring through bullet ridden glass (bullets which found homes in eight of his compatriots), i flet deep anger at my country for causing this suffering unnecessarily- why? Looking at pictures of the George Busch election, which reflected a white well dressed aspect of America, that most well known, i felt shame. We, as a country chose him. It was in the end the pictures from the Tsunami aftermath that affected me the most. I felt in a way that couldn't at the time of the disaster. So much loss. I thought of Whitney, my most tender hearted friend, and understand her fervent need to do something in the days following the new reports of the Tsunami. We were very fortunate to see this exhibit, as it was amazing, and as it was only in the U.S. for a very brief time in New York. Check out the photos here:

World Press Photo Exhibit

La Virgin del Panacillo

2005-09-19T13:29:00.000-07:00

DSCN2055
Originally uploaded by Cameron/Duff.

We finally went up the hill (el Panacillo- little bread loaf)to see my virgin. She was everything I wanted. She is so beautiful with her features more human than all those overly white sweet conquest paintings of Mary (although I like those, too, especially when she wears a crown of stars). Chickzilla has been confused by this love of mine for Mary, and as we gazed up at this big metal statue of her with the Earth beneath her feet i tried to explain. Mary is the mother of us all, and in my earth loving ways I can relate to this- it is a little bit of European paganism that snuck into catholocism. The god of my upbringing was harsh and sent people to hell. Jesus was supposed to change all that, but I don´t see it in modern protestantism. I love the thought of all these people holding a nurturing mother so close to their hearts, especially here in the old town where the machismo seems to hold many men I interact with from experiencing themselves. So, I´m down with the virgin mother (although i doubt she was really a virgin) and I´m glad she looks over Quito.