More from July 2, 2007

So Montanita, my glorious and fun weekend, all seems so pointless by now, other than it is such a hippy town. I find delight in the presence of true hippies. People that search for the energy within people, and flow to the music, and have cast their cares in to the wind to be carried far from them. They are true, and yet some of them are still liars. Friday night Brittany took off with some Ecuadorian, back to our hostel, and I went dancing, drunkenly, down the main street with a Canadian woman. This woman was at least in her late 30’s, but she had the heart of a child and was all about vibes and energy. Why she carried me along to this bar, I do not know. It was a hippy bar, owned by a German, and such good vibes there. When I say hippies, I mean people with dreads, sharing their drinks, banging on drums, and swaying to the beat and strum of a guitar. Somehow, I melted into these people. I was given two bean-pod stalks, and I played along with the band and dancing child-like. It was so open, and the people just smiled and edged me on. I danced from my heart, for and alongside these free people. I say they are free, but it is because we all gathered there, in the middle of the night, from all nationalities and backgrounds, and took pleasure in each other’s company. I sound like a hippy myself, and I am finding myself to be more and more of this lifestyle the longer I stay here.

            The next day I had a terrible hangover, but Brittany dragged me out of bed to a little English vegetarian restaurant for eggs, toast, and mint tea. I was bitter, as I did not want to wake up, and my head felt like hell. Sometimes you just push past through your pain for a friend… or so that they’ll shut up. Then I went and put on my swimsuit and headed for the healing water… and the waves were enormous, and the beach was filled with beach bums. I ran into the American crowd, and went out searching for Taylor and Caroline, two American girls who were swimming. I hate swimming in the deep, dark waters by myself. I could not find them for quite some time, and just took to diving through the glorious waves. Under the water, my headache was gone.

 I met two English kids, Olly and Nell, who were so fucked up I thought they were tripping. I thought Nell was having a bad trip, and Olly was out of his mind. Really, she had passed out in the men’s bathroom of some bar and then got locked in, and he was just belligerently drunk. He had a surfboard, so I figured I’d give it a go. I can’t tell if I’ve lost weight here or not, but my swimsuit did not stay on very well… so besides trying to find balance with a hangover and keeping my swimsuit up, I was not a very good surfer. It was fun and liberating though. Olly told me that anyone who tries to really teach you how to surf is full of shit and themselves. I body boarded myself to the shore, and some guy tried to give me a lesson. I politely explained it wasn’t my board and gave it back to Olly.

The day went on, and I’ll put it in a nutshell: amazing pad thai food at this Tiki Restaurant with bananas cooked in a rum liquor and brown sugar sauce, drizzled with chocolate syrup and garnished with strawberries… absolutely fabulous! Then shopping until I realized my money had somehow disappeared (or really I just spent a lot more than I previously thought I had). Brittney went back to the room, and I got some real fruit juice and ventured around on my own, stopping to talk to the guys who was playing the drums the night before. I cannot recall his name, but he was a black guy with a curly afro and a beautiful smile from Columbia. He shared his beer with me, as they call “Ecuadorian style”. That is, taking a beer from a bottle, and dividing it into glasses, or just sharing the same glass. Regardless, sharing beer, rather than everyone having their own-- another magnificent aspect of the art of giving. At first I did not understand this way of drinking, but it is growing on me, as I am finding it to have so much more value than just sheer drunkenness. It is the actual action of partaking in something with another.

Then I ventured around, looking at all the little side stands of jewelry and other things for sale, stopping for conversation. I eyed this one guy, who just had this humble smile, and long dark hair. I never talked to him, just gave him a smile each time I passed him by (which a good 4 or 5 times, I just kept seeing him around… only about 3 times were intentional). This guy just had me curious. I can’t even say why or what it was, just something about his features and dress… he just looked… nice. Really, really nice, as in a nice person. I made my way to the place where this band plays, and it was just the singer playing his guitar, and a guy laying in a hammock playing the drums. He was singing a song by Oasis, so I stopped in to listen. His voice is incredible, this singer. His voice is like the soothing crash of the waves on the shore, as smooth as the soft sand under my feet. I sang a long, and smiled. I think I made him nervous, but I knew he recognized me, because I am the crazy girl that is always trying to dance on the stage.  I always get kicked off by the same woman. Haha. I sat down and talked to one of the band members, who is from Guayaquil. He asked me to go to a movie sometime. I told him maybe. I am not a big fan of dating random people, especially since I have a boyfriend. We talked for a while and then I finally made my way home for my “siesta” (aka, a nap) before the big night. More so because the mosquitoes were eating my flesh alive, swarming above my head. It was a big night because people came from all over for the parties held there in celebration of the beginning of the whale-mating season. I’m not sure how long I slept for, but I woke up to some girl moaning and people having sex in the room next to mine. So great to wake up to, huh? 

My computer just died, and I tried to plug it in, and I electrocuted myself. I am an idiot.

There is still a whole other chapter of my story in Montanita to write, but it will have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow is sort of a big day, I have a lot to do.

           

           

            So now it is after two, and I have somewhat completed my lessons for teaching English tomorrow. I need sleep. I always need sleep, and I sleep when I need to work, and I work when I need to sleep. What a great oxymoron. It is because I need to be alone. I need space, and silence, and the time to feel and think. Yet my rage continues through it all. Raul is still awake, and I wish he would just go to bed. He is making me nervous. I just want to write. He told me that Camillo is a liar. He says he is going to Quito, and yet he leaves with another woman. I could use a plethora of cuss words to describe how this makes me feel about my renowned advisor—but since I hope to publish this one day, I’ll just use one: jackass. I feel the tears welling up. They well up for so many reasons. For the wife of Camillo. For my hurting house father who cannot find a job. For the fact that I am so damn useless. For the orphans in this country, the hurting, the children on the streets who have yet to make their way into an orphanage, and for the future of this place. Why all of this lays heavy on my heart, I do not know. Like I said, I could just separate myself. Instead, I want to weep. To lay on the ground, outstretched and humbled and fucking weep myself dumbfounded until the tears are gone. I press on, because tears solve nothing, and my damn medicine will not allow. Oh, the tears are there, hiding behind my eyes. It is the rain that will not come. I am in a drought for my tears. I know that one day, most likely soon, they will come. I have been here for 8 weeks almost, and I have cried only once, and only out of frustration. The medicine cannot mask my frustration, the true root of the rebellion it is provoking in me. I want to raise hell. I want to make hell for all these bastards that are standing in the way to a better life for hundreds if not thousands of people. Why do I not worry about the rest of the world? Because this very place is the one that has been laid on my heart. Africa, Mexico, Asia, wherever else, those places lie on the heart of someone else. Or maybe one day these places will be my burden as well. How funny it is that in so many aspects I have hated life for myself, yet I want to fight to make for the better life of another.

            I can remember back in 7^th or 8^th grade, writing in my journal that I just wanted to make a difference. One silly little difference… and here I am, multiple years later, craving that same thing. Not for a great name, not for prestige, and not to be the next mother Theresa, because I am not even worthy to hold the role of someone such as she. I just share her passion for people, to make change, and to have peace. Peace, I love this sweet word. It is like candy on my lips, and its representation is like caramel that glazes over everything that is war-like. The world is a war, life is a war, and the existence of true peace, I have only known once. Joy, I have felt. Peace, though, is hiding. Or maybe, this glorious peace that everyone knows of, has been killed out centuries ago. There is a vast difference between solitude, contentment, and this infamous peace. Peace is dead. It is revivable, but as we talk of it, it only thrives on the tongue, but not in the hearts of human kind.

Tomorrow I am meeting with Camillo. Part of me hates him now, for so many reasons. He is a money-hungry hog. He thinks he is a man of prestige. Yet he holds in his hands so many opportunities to make so much more of what he has created, yet in his older age, he has lost his passion for the purpose underneath his desire for more—more money, more prestige, more opportunities for himself. I tried to talk to him today. He is deaf to my thoughts, incoherent to my ideas, unhelpful in any way, shape, or form. Yet he is my key—my very connection—to someone else who might can help me. I am a stranger here. That is a problem. Give me time. Oh please, just give me time. And money. And materials. And maybe just an ounce of fucking help… hello? Anybody?