Maybe it´s stockholm syndrome, but...

I´m trapped in Baños. Which is fine with me, really. I have some sort of flu, which thankfully isn´t High Altitude Pulmonary Edema, when the pressure on your lungs inflates them with fluid (an American chap I met in Cuenca found himself swimming in his own succulent juices while in Peru, gag) as i´m only at 1820m above sea level. There is a woman at the market who makes fresh bean ´menestras´ for me everyday, despite the fact it´s a costal specialty (i still have trouble with such regional culinary divides coming from ram whatever in the one pot land), there is a gorgeous spice shop with wasabi powder and crystallised ginger, the papers have cleo style quizzes and features on second life and of course, as the name suggests, there is an abundance of thermal baths. Heavenly.

I managed to take this photo on the way in. More rain has sent further igneous boulders tumbling onto what remains of the highway, and it´s now totally impassable, even on foot. I haven´t seen a highway in such a state since one almost buried Lois in Superman I. Thankfully their volcanic home remains relatively dormant.

If you look closely at the person in blue on the very left, you can see that they´re standing pretty much on the prime meridian, that jaggedy out bit. Further to the left of this photo a great river rages.

despues de un mes

And in the end I forgot to unpack my cocoa leaf powder, and nobody cared.

I stayed a night in Loja, which takes on a strange queenstown-ish sort of vibe with all its fresh mountain air, and headed to the valle sagrado that is vilcabamba. My first couple of nights were spent in a hostel opposite the pig slaughtering place, a large concrete area sort of resembling one of those wooden toy gas station/fix it shops with the painted on mobil signs that everyone´s brother seemed to have. They assured me that they only cut them up on Sundays, but they must have been doing some training on my last night as long decaying squeals kept me from sleeping sweetly. so much chancho here. i found some in my popcorn the other day.
Having heard more than enough of the nature trail tourist muggings, conspiracy theories about various missing and suicided locals, and other musings on ´the UFO people´of the valley, (is there a small town without all these stiffling qualities?), I heaved my bongos and a few other bits upon Pasito, a hard working but somewhat deaf (to my commands at least) donkey that took them up to Sacred Sueños, a fairly new organic farm about 2 hours up the hill toward Podocarpus national park. Since people have been tied to certain plots of land, ´owning´them, something strange has become of traditional slash and burn methods of farming. While once the land was given a bit of recovery time between harvests, as campesinos would rotate through the fields they sewed, land privatisation has led to the same fields being burnt year after year, resulting in terrible soil quality, the subsequent ´reliance´on chemical means to build it back up and greater difficulties growing basic staples to sell to American and European markets that bar the trade of anything other than the raw products from South America so that the eventual ´value added´ goods can count towards their own GDP. You´d think there´d be some pretty sweet chocolate in all these cocoa growing nations. nope. check the label, even the fair trade chocolate is processed in Belgium. ANYWAY... so I took to the soil of a three year old organic farm, trying to help rebuild what has been depleted over the years of misunderstanding through mulching, making use of the water resources through swails and grey water systems, carrying buckets of ´human ore´to the giant pit of human shit that will one day fertilize a small forest (one day far far in the future), and other environmentally friendly practices, like making ´cobb´bricks out of clay and plastic rubbish and giving the finger to tetra pak by learning how to make soy milk (leave it a few days and you get ´value added´soy cheese, but don´t tell the EU). It was just fantastic to be surrounded by a fairly dedicated group of permaculture activists, doing their bit to put some sort of salve on the world´s rancid wounds. One guy had spent a summer travelling around Canada in a bus that ran on vegie oil, stopped in one town by something like 5 cops who all just wanted to ¨check this crazy thing out¨ and pick up a copy of the accompanying zine. Another was a trained member of the Clandestine Insurgent Rebel Clown Army that put on subversive acts of theatre around England. A gorgeous German friend of mine described the sensation of being tear gassed at a G8 protest, while a gringa whose volunteer visa was on the brink of running out told me of the horrendous difficulty of maintaining a reading programme in the local schools, initially financed entirely out of her own pocket, as the mayor would close the library so that the only librarian could take over at the tourist office while the tourist officer went on holiday. Though the mayor´s son frequently attended the holiday programme she had set up, it just seemed more convenient to pocket the extra salary saved through such flexible job descriptions than to keep regular library hours during term time. Neither the schools nor the library can complain, they´ll lose their funding. The gringos fear being ousted from the community if they speak up. Of course, outsiders can always write to the mayor of Loja (the superior of the Vilcabamba mayor), Jorge Bailón Abad (alcaldel@municipiodeloja.gov.ec.) , asking for regular library hours. It´s not not a cause to make the pages of amnesty international, but think about it... you´re reading now. Hypocrite.

I then took to the national park of Podocarpus, on the Zamora, or more jungley side to check out some wild life. I always find the point at which you say, okay, I´ve done my three hours into this walk, time to sit and have some lunch , and ready myself to turn back and not get any more lost difficult, as it´s so arbitrary. Walking to an attraction is so much more satisfying, a waterfall, a wobbly mirador, is much more exciting than a mandarine and a squashy banana. So here I am, sitting in the middle of a path, having a banana, contemplating the attractions 5 minutes too far from the sensible rules my outdoor badge bestowed upon me, when who should come meandering down the path towards me but a mother oso de anteojos and her two baby cubs. That´s right (or a little more clear in a moment if you were unable to translate oso), bears. Suddenly 3 unaccompanied hours into Amazonian forest is an eternity. They looked friendly enough, and would have squeezed in nicely behind the duck had Prokofiev thought to include a bottle blowing how-down in´Peter and The Wolf´, but still, bears, protective mother bears (I assumed, casting all sorts of maternal ideologies upon the no doubt well educated third waver), who knows how much they´re out for a shredding? I reached into my bag for the only peace pipe I had to offer, a second squashed banana. Much more appetising than me after a couple of days alone in the forest and almost a month of farm work. But I could only find the granadilla! Not to worry, at the rustle of plastic they scampered into the bush. I put the banana in my pocket for further encounters, quickly collected my coat and bag, and walked calmly and purposefully towards my refujio. Not running. Not feeding the bears. Better than a waterfall, and no doubt much less dangerous than this incredible creature I met on my first day.

There are so many more stories to tell: my first scorpion, the spider that chased and threatened to bite the four year old on the neck, the frog that just turned up in my bed but I was too afraid to kiss, all the wonderful new forms of maize and sugar I keep coming across, the secret world of plants, but this internet connection is super slow, and it´s time to explore the picturesque city of Cuenca where I currently reside. What I´ve seen so far has been a delightful blend of cobblestone, red brick and fat churches with jewelled cream puff turrets. ¡Que bonito!