From Cedral to Quito

If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
a hoper, a prayer, a magic bean buyer...
if you are a pretender, come sit by my fire
for we have some flax, golden tales to spin.
come in... come in !  
                 Shel Silverston

Hello dearest friends.
Where to begin?  I suppose by announcing that I have successfully transported to the new land mass and city bustle of Quito, Ecuador.  Morning two in the loud and people filled streets and I am still alive and well, and this feels like a blessing.  Waking yesterday in a foreign land, cocoon of scratchy hostel sheets against my skin.  I sat up and then rapidly dropped my head back down on the pillow, shocked at the realization that I would be meditating and acclimating to an intense headache of a new elevation.  The novelty of travel has not worn off, and I  am still marveling that just yesterday at dawn I stood in a quiete mountain pueblo of Costa Rica.  The visit there with Seth, with the locals, the birds and the land, was simply stated- incredible.  I have heard said more than once that Costa Rica is a land of eco tourist, with no more ´real´ culture prevelent.  I can now say, with passion, that this is not so. Immersed in a culture and community of coffee growers, cattle grazers, mothers, grandfathers, church goers, gardners, saddled horses, dancers, one peace corps volunteer, and a small handful of gringos who study birds- I was home.  I left there with the smell of coffee roasted smoke in my hair, in my clothes.  Having had the honor of participating in the proccess of brewing a cup of real local coffee. Green beans from the field, dried, pouring over and over a sack of beans onto another sack on the ground, so that the flakey shell blow off into the wind, leaving raw bean.  Then to roasting over a small fire cradled by two cinder blocks that lay a foundation for wok like pan of beans to sit on.  Once good and black- beans into the hand crank grinder- hot water poured over for the best cup of coffee, in the most warm and friendly cafe ever seen- a smokey humble shack filled with kind and laughing faces, offering me more and more sweet bread (apparently women without a good bit of heft to the bone are of concern here).  There are so many stories to be told from this time, as they unfolded like a good book, continuously.  Like walking poetry these people were.  Poncho, in his seventies, who declairs he will dance until the day he goes to the other side.  Story says, this couple inches short of five foot man, once tried to kill a man who called hime short.  Other words on the street (gravel mud road) say his brother Antonio has tried to kill a man over a land dispute, with a machete- when asked by Seth if this is truth, Antonio denies heartily.  Then again they say there is no truth in Cedral.  When I was not sitting on the porch watching these wonderful people walk by, I was walking, and learning to listen to birds, with Seth and Richard.  A rainbow, swallow tailed kites ( the most beautiful bird I have ever seen), a boa constrictor, mud, rubber hiking boots, deep in the jungle- a striking two colored coral snake whose fangs some of the most deadly neurotoxic venom in the world....
God willing, I will tell many more tales over coffee, tea or beer upon my return.
Now in Quito.
Walking through the streets yesterday, culture shock and elevation.  The absurdity of men who whistle and call, make ridiculous low moans in the attempt of attracting a moment of attention ( I guess?). It is baffling and intense.  I felt I had to pull in, like pulling in a rope and coiling it up, my heart and mind and eye contact- that was so open and connected with people in a rural setting. Laughing at myself, inside, at my full hearted attempt to look tough and sure and knowing, as walk down foreign streets filled with spanish words.  In the chaos of emotion there were these brilliant moments, like found poems¨:
Skin of chocolate women, two long black braids, walking throught the crowded streets with wool house slippers on.
50 cent bags of sliced mango
Tubs of ice cream, with cones stuck on top, upside down, being sold.
A yarn store, full of so much yarn and so many people knitting, on the floor, on benches, standing up.
I must be going.
Today, despite the advise of my language studies coordinator, who said it would be boring to study outside of Quito- I am headed south to Otavalo, a smaller town, cradled by two volcanoes.  There I plan to study spanish for the next week, to sleep in my hammock overlooking the Andes, to be closer to rural folks and farms, and to be in a place more condusive to yoga and running and listening to birds.
With love.