Friday 29 April 2011
El Desierto de Sechura
The long flat stretch of desert road lay before me, 200km until the next major town. Half- built walls lay abandoned, bricks the same colour as the sand on which they sat, as if the construction of the walls thus far was enough to convince the prospective inhabitants that this was really no place to spend their lives.
Others though, were more hardy. Or less wise. Donkeys and people shared the scarcity of shade, and rows of completed houses lay in grids, there being nothing in the landscape to hinder man´s dull tendency toward the uniformity of squares, nor anything around to inspire other forms. Nor, on the face of it, anything to sustain any kind of life at all.
I sat, in the small dark shadow of a bush, eating bread and jam. Next to me there was a house made of sticks, and everything looked dusty and dirty and worn out by sun and wind.
From a concrete box church came the calm voice of a man, distorted only slightly by the speakers used to sermonise those unwilling or unable to attend in person.
"Gracias señor por la luz y el sol. Gracias señor por este nuevo día. Thank you lord for the light and the sun. Thank you lord for this new day."
The voice sounded so content and sincere, I sat in amazement wondering how this man could still be grateful for these things, living here, in the hot desert dust. It was 8am and I had already had enough of all three of these, God´s gifts.
Others though, were more hardy. Or less wise. Donkeys and people shared the scarcity of shade, and rows of completed houses lay in grids, there being nothing in the landscape to hinder man´s dull tendency toward the uniformity of squares, nor anything around to inspire other forms. Nor, on the face of it, anything to sustain any kind of life at all.
I sat, in the small dark shadow of a bush, eating bread and jam. Next to me there was a house made of sticks, and everything looked dusty and dirty and worn out by sun and wind.
From a concrete box church came the calm voice of a man, distorted only slightly by the speakers used to sermonise those unwilling or unable to attend in person.
"Gracias señor por la luz y el sol. Gracias señor por este nuevo día. Thank you lord for the light and the sun. Thank you lord for this new day."
The voice sounded so content and sincere, I sat in amazement wondering how this man could still be grateful for these things, living here, in the hot desert dust. It was 8am and I had already had enough of all three of these, God´s gifts.
More sandy hills
Catacocha
Everyday in Ecuador, I woke with the hope that it would not rain, and everyday it did.
The rain came as a thin, grey mist, barely perceptible, tiny droplets, clinging to eyelashes like frozen pearls.
The rain came from dark grey clouds in a dark blue sky; fleetingly, with assured heaviness - a beginning and an end.
The rain came slowly; lightly, but unending in a cold grey day.
The rain came as hail; cold, hard buckets, thrown down from high above, for an hour at a time, and skin was red and stung.
The rain came as the heat became too much, each drop heavy and felt, and the sky full of water, like standing under a million shower heads, the water frozen cold.
I arrived in Catacocha in a downpour of the latter type of rain. Water ran down the steeply sloped streets - fast as a river and ankle deep. Clothes stuck, cold and tight to my skin and I shivered.
The next day the sky was blue, and the streets no longer ran as streams, but cracked under the morning sun.
I met a man named Freddy, and he asked me if I liked Catacocha.
"I like it when it´s sunny, " I answered, and he recited me these lines:
Si algo hermoso Dios creó
en este suelo
y bajo este cielo
eso es mi lindo Catacocha
The lines can be roughly translated thus: If God created something beautiful upon this ground and under this sky, it is my pretty Catacocha.
"That´s very nice, " I said. "Who wrote it?"
"I did," he said.
"Ah, you´re a poet."
"Yes. I just need to write it down, but I´m too busy. No time for walking." Walking, being, of course, what poets do.
"In a couple of years," he continued "I´m going to have lots of money." And I laughed, thinking he was joking. "No, no," he said. "People like to read poems, these writers are very rich."
I asked him who he like to read.
"Lord Byron," he answered. "And this other one, from Guayaquil... ah, I can´t remember his name."
I asked him to write the poem down as a memory of Catacocha, and as he took the piece of paper his phone rang. "You see," he said "Very busy! Hello. No, I´m in Loja."
A young boy, who had sat on some steps behind me, throughout our conversation, looked at me with a shake of the head, expressing his ability to recognise delusion.
It was Friday, and realising as I did so, that I was betraying that undesirable attitude of adults who believe that, for at least five days a week, children should be hidden from view in an institution somewhere, I asked him why he wasn´t at school.
"We don´t have classes until Monday."
"Oh, cool." I said, trying to make up for my first question. "What are you going to do today?"
"I don´t know," he said. "It´s going to rain at 3."
I looked at my watch. It was 9am.
The rain came as a thin, grey mist, barely perceptible, tiny droplets, clinging to eyelashes like frozen pearls.
The rain came from dark grey clouds in a dark blue sky; fleetingly, with assured heaviness - a beginning and an end.
The rain came slowly; lightly, but unending in a cold grey day.
The rain came as hail; cold, hard buckets, thrown down from high above, for an hour at a time, and skin was red and stung.
The rain came as the heat became too much, each drop heavy and felt, and the sky full of water, like standing under a million shower heads, the water frozen cold.
I arrived in Catacocha in a downpour of the latter type of rain. Water ran down the steeply sloped streets - fast as a river and ankle deep. Clothes stuck, cold and tight to my skin and I shivered.
The next day the sky was blue, and the streets no longer ran as streams, but cracked under the morning sun.
I met a man named Freddy, and he asked me if I liked Catacocha.
"I like it when it´s sunny, " I answered, and he recited me these lines:
Si algo hermoso Dios creó
en este suelo
y bajo este cielo
eso es mi lindo Catacocha
The lines can be roughly translated thus: If God created something beautiful upon this ground and under this sky, it is my pretty Catacocha.
"That´s very nice, " I said. "Who wrote it?"
"I did," he said.
"Ah, you´re a poet."
"Yes. I just need to write it down, but I´m too busy. No time for walking." Walking, being, of course, what poets do.
"In a couple of years," he continued "I´m going to have lots of money." And I laughed, thinking he was joking. "No, no," he said. "People like to read poems, these writers are very rich."
I asked him who he like to read.
"Lord Byron," he answered. "And this other one, from Guayaquil... ah, I can´t remember his name."
I asked him to write the poem down as a memory of Catacocha, and as he took the piece of paper his phone rang. "You see," he said "Very busy! Hello. No, I´m in Loja."
A young boy, who had sat on some steps behind me, throughout our conversation, looked at me with a shake of the head, expressing his ability to recognise delusion.
It was Friday, and realising as I did so, that I was betraying that undesirable attitude of adults who believe that, for at least five days a week, children should be hidden from view in an institution somewhere, I asked him why he wasn´t at school.
"We don´t have classes until Monday."
"Oh, cool." I said, trying to make up for my first question. "What are you going to do today?"
"I don´t know," he said. "It´s going to rain at 3."
I looked at my watch. It was 9am.
more mountains, Loja province.
Thursday 14 April 2011
Cotapaxi and Latacunga
When we returned from the mountain the Sunday drunks lay scattered around town. Men of the age to have been working from two to three decades, lying face down, or curled up on the ground. The smell of rancid fruit in the market; meat and fish left in the sun too long; and rubbish on the floor.
A dirty staircase to a dirty room. A murky vase on a wooden table, water stained dark green. Frayed nylon flowers, beads of clear plastic, ingrained with dirt, feigning drops of dew, but failing to hide their true nature, even from a distance. A single fresh flower; petals wilted, dead, and brown.
Two hours ago, on the mountain, the oxygen deficient air had been fresh and cold and dry. The snow had driven horizontally, clouds passed quickly, granting teasing glances of the world below and of the peak above. The town of Latacunga, well hidden, far below.
Loja
A dirty staircase to a dirty room. A murky vase on a wooden table, water stained dark green. Frayed nylon flowers, beads of clear plastic, ingrained with dirt, feigning drops of dew, but failing to hide their true nature, even from a distance. A single fresh flower; petals wilted, dead, and brown.
Two hours ago, on the mountain, the oxygen deficient air had been fresh and cold and dry. The snow had driven horizontally, clouds passed quickly, granting teasing glances of the world below and of the peak above. The town of Latacunga, well hidden, far below.
Loja
Wednesday 13 April 2011
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