La Casa da La Junta de Agua

Ok. Where to begin? This past week has been interesting to say the least; keeping in mind that interesting isn’t always necessarily enjoyable. I guess the most reasonable thing to do is start from the beginning…

The farm I am currently residing at is in a small pueblo called La Esperanza. It is situated about 9700ft in the mountains and really quite isolated. There are 3 convenience stores (convenience should be understood loosely because all they really sell is junk food), an internet café (there is no wi-fi at La casa or many other houses for that matter so one must go there when they wish to connect themselves to the rest of the world), a school, old shacks in various forms of decay attached to large fields either containing corn or cows or both and a large blue church that can be seen from anywhere in the town to remind the civilians of La Esperanza that God is watching.

Finding the small home in a remarkably even smaller town was actually quite difficult. They do not use addresses like the way we do in the States so when I arrived in La Esperanza, I spent the better half of two hours wondering around asking people if they knew the location of “La casa de la junta de agua”. As you can guess, I did end up finding it. A very old man escorted me to a house, where he too lives in. Don Carlos is 97 years old and has spent his entire life in this house. He inches along hunched over and as oblivious as one can be and still keep out of harms way. He greets you every morning with a great big toothless smile and you always have to say things to him three times- one to get his attention, one for him to actually listen closely to what you are saying, and one last time louder because you often forget that he is 97 years old and his hair filled ears are not as prime as they once were. He sold his land and his house to La Junta (the organization which runs the farm) a couple of years back but they allowed him to continue his residency. Volunteers at the farm share the house with him.

I arrived to find two more volunteers in the house- which is great cause they are 4 beds. Shane hails from Australia and Jackson from Colombia. One knew English; the other did not (try to guess who knew what). Therefore given that no one else in the entire pueblo knew how to speak English, Spanish was spoken all the time not wanting to exclude Jackson. This provided to things to be difficult and frustrating at points but I am much improved thanks to it. I’ve noticed improvement in both listening and speaking abilities in Spanish. I no longer have to think and plan out what I want to say in its entirety then translate it into Spanish; I am starting to think in Spanish. Of course I do run into difficulties, just less often.

The work is hard. It is a farm thus you work like you are at a farm. My body learned this the hard way; a learned respect to the calloused hands a man earns working the land day in and day out. If you don’t believe me than let my blisters persuade you. Work starts at 8:30 (sometimes 7 if Don Hilario decides to work on a different plot of land) and ends somewhere around 5:30, Monday thru Friday with a half day of work Saturday. Days when we harvest and rid patches of weeds are my favorite days. I find tranquility in sitting out in an open field, mechanically bringing my hand to where a plant meets la tierra, gently separating of from the other- as opportunity does a son to his mother. One must be careful not to break the plant off at the roots. They are a LOT of weeds but I have no where to be and have a funny way of not caring, besides the tasks could be much worse (for example tilling a field- by hand with hoes, or making/ churning fertilizer). There is a lot to learn about this organic style of farming and it has fascinated me. For example, instead of using pesticides on the plants to deter insects, they plant at either end of each from flowers/plants having strong aromas- this is much more pleasing to an insect than a broccoli plant. It is amazing to watch the growth of the plants, myself taking special notice of this as I go out into the field once in the morning and once at dusk with my little pail to water the plants.

Socially, life has been difficult but rapidly improving. Being one in a group it is hard to express myself or get a word in edgewise. Some people understand this better than others, and those others may just think I’m stupid…oh well. While eating with a family or visiting people, I find it most hard to understand because people talk so fast. In a group of all native speakers and one alien, it is easy to forget that one’s comprehension only stretches so far. That being said, I am tuning my ear to the sounds and find that each day, it is getting easier and easier to follow a conversation and keep up with what is being said. I was lucky to have Shane (the only other English speaker) here for the first week to help me if I didn’t understand the task Hiliario wanted us to do; but due to expiring Visas both him and Jackson left last weekend. Since then I have been by myself- well myself and Don Carlos. As most know, comprehending words an old person slurs is hard enough but Don Carlos’ Spanish is by far the most difficult to understand. Once again, I better understand his swallowed words but only about half of what he says. Conversations are usually one sided where he either spouts something out to me and I just smile, say “Si” and nod; or vice versa.

Meals are like the work schedule- mechanical and routine. For breakfast, I boil some water taking a few ladles worth for my mug to make tea and using the rest for oatmeal, which I make both for Don Carlos and myself. Lunch is a bowl of vegetable soup followed by a plate of rice. It works well because the soup leaves liquid slawshing around in your belly then the rice follows, soaking up the excess of liquid in your stomach, leaving one feeling quite full. Dinner is the same as lunch with a small piece of meat on the side or maybe some pan (bread of various types). The portions are large though so I often am not left wanting more (much more generous portions than what I had previously thought before coming here).

The house on the other hand is a bit of a let down. Well, let me correct myself the view of all of Quito (on a clear morning five immense volcanoes) and the vegetable field out back is beautiful but the house itself is old and dilapidated. It is old and dusty. The splintering wood floor creaks with every step taken to get to the “bathroom” (outhouse by western standards) in the back yard. Cold water dribbles out of a cobweb covered showerhead (even when the hot water knob is the only one on) and down into a hair clogged, rusted drain. There are cracks in the wall, ceiling, floor, and bed frames making it a prime location for bedbugs, which have found there way into my backpack, clothes, bed and body. And let me tell you, they are the fucking worst. They hide in obscure places during the day to sleep, only coming out when you are fast asleep, to bite and suck you blood. Doesn’t sound that bad until you experience the intense itching sensation that yanks you out of a dream in the middle of the night, to scratch (most often until you bleed) your ankles, arms and feet. The itch doesn’t go away then and neither do the bites; no, the tingling sensation stays with you through the day into the next night and -more often than not, you are woken up to a new set of bites to itch. I put up with this for about a week and a half before my mother notified me that I must be very aggressive in the extermination of these insects from Hell. Since then I have put all my clothes in boiling hot water (including my backpack and sleeping bag). Lets hope the water was hot enough (my clothes are out on the drying line as I write this, and will remain there). None of my stuff is coming back into this house. To add insult to injury, just the other night I was violently sick (I will spare the details of what came out of where and in such volumes).

Things seem difficult and they are. But that being said, people here want to help you. Don Hilario and his family readily provide toilet paper when they find out that I have been wiping with notebook paper for the past few days or a great big cauldron with some laundry soap to boil hot water in to kill my infestation. Don Carlos just came in to remind me that my clothes are outside and that it might rain- id rather them be wet then have bedbugs so they will not be coming inside. The Earth is good and will provide for the people growing on it, as it does for the things growing in it. The sun is hot and feels warm against my face, as I walk through the garden, closing my eyes and inhaling deep. Exhale. Its lonely here (especially since they are no volunteers anymore and my phone and Internet is not readily available which seems to give one some sense of connection with the rest of the world) but it is also peaceful. I have been reading a lot or sometimes just sitting and staring- thinking about nothing in particular, just staring, taking everything in, indulging in the waves of clear headedness as they come and go, reminding me, putting things in perspective; I can look up at the stars at night and see thousands, all so ever far away and distant, each like the sun which lights our Earth. We are so small in a universe so big, I can’t help but overlook my problems with a sky like this. To watch over me. To remind me: I have nothing to worry about. I am completely free. And at the risk of sounding cliché, I will end this post with a quote from Ernest Hemmingway: “Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors”.