Sacred Sueños Finca 23/2008

While writing on the bus, I frequently stop to look at the mist that the surrounding forests have rising from them. It makes it easy to understand the reason for being referred to as ¨cloudforests.¨ I left the farm this morning, after the most vivid sunset I had yet experience on Sacred Sueños, I felt it was a good omen for me to continue with my travels. Being away from society´s frivolous luxuries for a month was a inspirational and educational experience. Albeit, I can not quite say I really know the nuts and bolts of organic agriculture, or permaculture for that matter, I do think I have planted the seed of basic understanding, if you´ll pardon my metaphor, hyuck hyuck. What benefitted me most were the things I began to learn about myself while I was there. The concept of leaving main stream society, and attempting to live off the land on your own had seemed an appealing, romantic notion before my visit. While an ideal situation for some, I learned while walking on one of numerous trails all over the mountain, hunting for the precious piles of donkey shit (something I learned quite a lot about as well, shit, that is, in general) , that it isn´t really where my interests lie. And I feel this is a pretty big milestone for me, knowing now that my desire is to really focus on broader community based transitions to sustainable living. I am, after all, a pretty social person, and enjoy the larger group based work of Hand´s On Disaster Response, and larger communities and cities in general. This epiphany taking place in the first week of my 4, allowed me to focus some of my reading from the extensive library that was at my disposal. This provided so much inspiration for my future plans in Hurricane Katrina-devestated Southern Mississippi and then for rural Kenyan communities after that. I also was able to write down numerous titles to get once back in the states that will further these goals. I can easily say the farm will benefit me for years to come.

I also learned a lot about my tolerances. As mentioned earlier, shit was an aspect one interacted with on a daily basis at least. From the animal´s to our own coming from the composting toilet. (Humanure is amazingly beneficial to growing plants, only after proper decomposition renders it soil-like, and yes, I touched it in this farm, without gloves! shrrriiieeek. J/K. Little known fact, Chinese agriculture used humanure extensively and would pay the European colonies in their borders for their wastes, and give preimiums to the Germans, their dung being like eggs of gold, due to their high protein diets (mmmm, sausages, be strong Mike)) weird, parentheses within parentheses, is that allowed? Its amazing high cyclicalnature is when you are able to observe it as an active participant, all the food and plants the animals and ourselves would eat would eventually go back to the land after being processed by our digestion and the numerous bacteria and organisms who aide in that, then the fungus, bacteria, and bugs who then break it down to a state that returns it to the plant. One of the most wasteful practices we currently do is flush all that copius amounts of fertility into our oceans and rivers. But I dont´see us all composting our waste anytime soon due to our feces squemishness. (Something Yve said would greatly benefit any community farm or garden I attempt to create in Biloxi, but come on, public composting toilets, that´ll be the day...)

The squemishness is something I myself had to deal with after emptying that bucket for the first time. Its really shocking, however, how quickly the daily chore of finding the animal´s shit becomes easily mundane, into even one of my favorite tasks. It was like a treasure hunt through misty forest trails, finding the animal´s fresh tracks, following them until EUREKA! Then you could brag at lunch how you hit the motherload and brought up 4 buckets that day.

Another one I got to test my limits on was spiders. Now, I wouldn´t go so far as to say I got over my fear. Merely confronted it, kicked the tires, know its there, and accepted it, and that´s as about as good as I can be asked to get. My friend Amy marveled at how skilled I was at finding them in every place, joking I must of had years of spider-tracking experience, due to my fear. I found one in my bunk one night, large and hairy (by large I mean about the size of a half dollar), and I regret to confess, promptly killed. Sorry, it is a sacred space for me, where I sleep. The most interesting encounter being one night, I saw a neon green glowing coming from the bushes. I was informed it was a glowbug, which I had never gazed upon, and it sounded sort of cool, so yeah, I´ll shine my flashlight over to chec... HOLY JESUS CHRIST!!!!! The unfortunate insect was trapped in the fangs of one nasty hairy spider (okay, it was the size an apricot, but shit, that´s still huge.) I did not flee in fear though, I was able to stay and document the rawness of the glowbug´s glow slowly growing fainter until it was finally extinguished as the spider slurped up its insides. During my stay, I feel like I became able to tolerate the arachnid presence, but its still with effort.

My other raised tolerance is personal cleanliness. Now, I know, I can hear those few objectors saying how much lower can it go? Quite a bit actually, you see, the farm has a solar shower overlooking the valley, outdoors. While showering there is an enthralling experience, it was wet season, and apparently my tolerance for cold showers is a lot lower than the tolerance I have for the stink I get from 5 or 6 days of farm labor in a row. (Hey it was raining all the time anyway, right?)

Bombas and Foam 2/3/2008

Da de da duh... The opening beats of ¨I´ve Got the Power¨ begin to blare on the sound system in the main plaza of town. Everyone is soaking wet, with varying mixtures of water, tomato sauce, flour, eggs, and a soapy spray, bobbing up and down with the rythm. The five of us are moving steathily through the crowd, muscles tensed, clutching bombas (water balloons for the non-spanish slang inclinded), waiting for the unlucky sap who thinks its safe to mess with the gringos. Phhhbbbttt, the sound of soap escaping a can from under pressure escapes the overbearing beats of the music, revealing how close in proximity its origin is. I turn to see one of our party being coated in its frothy residue. A bomba wizzes past missing its intended target, spraying a crowd so saturated and accustomed to the constant bombardment they harldy take notice. It was a tall, spikey haired Ecuadorean that decided to make the first move. We begin to unleash our onslaught in the thick of the crowd. I suddenly feel the line of a strong stream of water absorb into the back of my shirt. I whirl around lifting the thin membrane filled with water in my hnd. The perpetrator winces to prepare for the impending impact and turns his back to me. HA! Big mistake buddy. I take a moment to make my aim pinpoint n the back of his neck to ensure that the liquid will spread down for maximum effect. The bomba hits its mark - popping on impact with a force that more than likely left a red mark on the skin.
Its the second day of Carnival in Vilcabamba. We have been eating, drinking, dodging, running, attacking the entrire previous day. The tradition is to load up on squirt guns, water balloons, eggs and flour, and any other mess making substance and then coat any unsuspecting passerby with your weapon of choice. The day before, we stocked up on water balloons and beer then perched ourselves on the balcony of the room we are staying in. With our first batch of the hand-held bliss inducers, we sighted a huge group of older teenage Ecuadoreans. They were probably the worst-best group to instigate a fued with. Our first attack was unexpected and successful, but sent the group off with a determination in their eyes that we knwe would come back to haunt us. As we were just completing the 2nd shift at our balloon assembly line, the revenge had alread been beset upon us. Water balloons began flying over the balcony into the hallway with the bathroom we were filling our arsenal in. We scattered to avoid most o fthe water, but it soon dawned on that we must face the music, or risk flooding the small hallway of the building. We grabbed our ammo bag and loaded our hands, counting to three before the 4 of us rushed out the door of the building to face 10 or more, fully armed local adolescents. It was a massacre of epic proportions. One doesn´t realize how growing up counting down the weeks to Carnival can effect the dodging and catchign skills of an individual. When I thought my balloon´s trajectory was tried and true, on ekid would use his shirt and a spin technique to catch it and fling it right back in my direction. After exhaustin gour supplies, we re-grouped back at home base and went for shift number 3 at the balloon factory, each of us settling into our priorly determined roles in our impromptu assembly line. After the whistle blew, we made our way to the main square where the youth gang waited, critically low in their balloon supplies. A huge street brawl ensued, a smaller group getting involved in the fray. The streets were lined with Carnavallers, laughing at the antics being played out before them, sometimes taking collateral hits and taking it as all part of the festivities. Our battle was quite the spectacle in the middle of the road, sloyly dying out as each side exhausted heir supplies. Once I ran out of my own balloons, I attempted to replicate the shirt catch technique that dazzled me previously, but rather than catch the bombas, I was merely putting myself in their path. With each bursting bomba that soaked every layer of my clothing, I could hear the wave of laughter emanate from the crowds lining the street. Each member of our possé (huh, dont know how to spell it, dont feel like looking it up, sorry), including myself, looking like drowned rats in the middle of the street.

And so it continued on for the rest of the day, making multiple trips for more beers and more balloons, finding the time to stop at the vendors for as many meals as our stomachs could stand to fit. One stand we stopped at 3 or 4 times throughout the day. 3 of rthe 4 of are ¨vegetarians¨(the 4th actually being a real vegetarion, without the earrings of quotation marks), and we could not even try to resist the meat sticks sold at one stand. It started with the best sausage I´ve tasted in recent memory, then a long strip of marinated steak, followed by a piece of hot dog. Smothered in a pesto mayonaise sause we apply librally, we just continued to tell ourselves that it was probably local meat, slaughtered at the local slaughterhouse, so we were just stimulating the small town´s economy, only to find out that was the farthest thing from the truth from our farm manager later that week. I wouldn´t even want to imagine if you added all the kebabs I had that weekend onto one plate, it woudl be soe disgusting mound of meat. This is what has caused me to decide to give up meat for my observance of Lent. It will be rather easy i think, after that weekend, i never want to look at a sausage again. As the day fades into night, the assaults subside aas a quiet understanding that these activities are reserved for the day time and a whole different range are reserved for the night. Our beers were traded in for Rum, and the night regresses into a cloudy haze of drinking, dancing, and of course, more eating.
The timing of this raucous festival, that I hadn´t even planned for, could not have been better. While on the farm, life being quiet and remote as it is (Its amazing to not be able to hear any roads, or any other city noise for that mater, just frogs and crickets. One day I heard a constant humming/ roaring, looking around for the freeway I was hearing, I realized in my city slicker ways, I had mistaken the sound of a mighty waterfall for that of a fast moving Californian highway.) I had read Hemingway´s ¨The Sun Also Rises,¨which anyone who knows their literature would know is about a group of expatriates partying it up in Pamplona during the San Fermin Festival in the 1920´s. (The running of the bulls festival for anyone who doesn´t know their festivals) While reading it, I couldn´t help but think about my night at the San Fermin Festival and how much fun it is to enjoy a city sanctioned drunk fest that everyone paricipates in. I finished that book the night before finding myself in the crazy freak show in town. Funny how it is the second time (now there´s been a third time, more on that later) that I´ve read a book at the perfectly fateful time on this trip (god, you got to love reading books eh? I feel sorry for any sorry sap that says they don´t like to read, one my favorite things i must say, maybe i should just become a librarian and get paid to read all day.)
Needless to say, I´ll remember Carnaval in Vilcabamba for the rest of my life.