Travelling with a quietly shifting perspective,
A dusty bag of patched up clothes,
A flute, some books and worn down boots.
Behind me the past, a whispering river
Of impressions and memories of thoughts,
Ahead the future, the widening ocean of chance,
Along I go, carried, carried on the current.
I´ve been putting off writing this for a month now, knowing that whatever I write will only be a fraction of the experience I´ve had, and that some stories are better told in person. But here is an abridged and fractured account of whats been happening over the last few weeks, as I near the half way point of my trip.
Thoughts strectch out, a glittering web, to friends and family, fantasy and memory, bridging voids of distance and time, connecting, reaching, shining in the dark.
The previous month and a bit has been a period of growth and change, the me that got on the plane leaving home, and even what I was a few short weeks ago is but a memory, now, a little older, a little wiser, seeing the world in a different light.
Arriving on the farm on a red and dusty day in the back of a pickup truck, greeted by guys with long hair and stained clothes chasing the escaped pigs, the barking of dogs, and an open door. The commune had a relaxed and simple personality, and a transiet population ranging from 10 to 25 people, young and old from across the world. A pagan witch, perpetual travelers, marijuana growers, writers, actors, farmers. A collection of open minds, working together to help the farm and others develop.
Mornings, mist unwrapping from the twin volcanoes of Cayambe and Cotopaxi. Woken by the flies roused by the early sun, guitars being played, yoga being practiced,chickens calling to be let out and dogs demanding attention and food. People drifing in to the kitchen, from Hammocks and teepees and shared rooms, for a meal of porridge and fresh fruits, a gentle preparation for the day ahead. Digging holes, carpentry, weeding, planting, picking and shucking of the maize. Fixing, replacing, repairing old projects or starting from scratch.
A community, candle lit and smoky nights as bread cooked on the flame, playing cards, pool, writing, discussing, singing from the cliched song book. An atmosphere of sharing and adapting, skills and stories swapped. Weekends away, to towns in the north, Otavalo and La esparnza, moonlight walk across the valley and back. 3 weeks and a broader mind later, leaving with 2 french guys, Jofrey and Alexi, back to Baños for a slow week, walking to waterfalls, along an old smuggling route, to a tree house by the volcano. Adventures with Tom and Megan, others from the farm. Then we split, Alexi to france, Jofrey to the coast, Tom and Megan to Peru. The night before I had organized a jungle tour with a male Ecuadorian version of Mary Poppins, a shifty man with a bike, and an umbrella. Just a quick two days in, meeting a Shaman in the night.
The next day, bumping along into the jungle near Puyo, next to a river in wooden sheds, canoeing and sinking in the river, with a german scared of boats, an American Idian and the guide, constantly talking, to himself of whoever was near. Shaman didnt show in the night, and the next day the walk, hot, sweaty, muddy, until a refreshing stream and waterfall in the trees. Leaving back for the concrete and noise of Baños, when Ivonne the guide demanded more money. Obviously we refused and an arguement broke out, with Ivonne becoming more and more enranged, eventually getting the police, who said wecould settle it with Ivonne or go to Immigration, me facing deportation for being without my passport. Paying and leaving quickly with Onarag, the American, night buses and into the morning, arriving through the beautiful fertile valleys of the south to Vilcabamba, a town famed for its water and healthy lifestlye, calm and full of californians selling coconuts and health drinks.
Keen to save some money after being scammed in Baños, I went with Onarag to a farm close by, in a sacred valley an hours bus and walk away. Quite beautiful here, with some cool people, but expecting a community feel like Rhiannon, I was disapointed, people came and went, no communal room to sit and share. When the roomw we were sleeing became invaded by a few thousand bitting ants, I decided to leave, and now back in Vilcabamba, Visa nearing expiry, planning the rest of the trip, assimilating ideas and tips from travellers I've met along the way.
Infatuated with the freedom of the road, One day waiting for a bus in a sleepy village, barking dogs and roaming chickens, later, meeting people on the bus, a student, a flute carver, an old women with hat and shawl. My bag getting lighter and lighter, trading and discarding what I dont need, a blunt machete, and rubber boots... The ups and downs, days of recollection and reflection, others of looking ahead, movement and rest. Spanish, this beautiful language, expanding and clarifying as I learn more, days of despair at the pace of learning and others of elation as conversation flows free. Carrying my meanderings thoughts with me, of home, of friends scattered around the world, people met and places seen.
People from Rhiannon, you will not be forgotten, thankyou for helping me grow, and the many experiences had but not written here, to be told in the flesh.
The shapless void of the unknown that lies ahead, beckoning and threating and intoxicating. Names that call out to me. Colombia. Peru. Bolivia. Powerful words promising and hinting, waiting to be explored...
