COMMUNITY
Joe gets to Bospas Forest Farm to volunteer and almost immediately experiences a peaceful easy feeling.
Feeling good these days.
Really good, in fact.
I’ve been here at Bospas Forest Farm for about five days now, and I’m really settling in. I felt it from almost the minute I arrived here, actually - and that is a rare occurrence. To just feel connected to a place almost automatically, I mean. This is family here. Piet Sabbe, a Belgian guy, owns the property - and his story is a pretty fascinating one.
He bought this land in 1995 - 15 hectares then - but has since added onto it. When he first purchased the plot - the land was dead, man.
Barren.
Scrubland.
Apparently, it had been in that condition for years, too. He showed me the pictures from back then and I couldn’t believe the difference. Anyway, it seems this was the result of some strange and senseless practice implemented by the Spanish colonists, and exists to this day.
The farmers would burn down everything, trees included, to ready the land for next season’s crop planting. This particular plot of land had been, for all intents and purposes, abandoned ages ago - leaving it scorched and desolate, unsuitable for just about anything.
Appalled by this spectacle, Piet set out on a mission to restore the land’s natural beauty and productivity. First, he had to restore the health of the lifeless soil through intensive composting and mulching - then planting trees of all kinds - bamboo, cańa, banana, pineapple, etc., whose deep roots helped to also strengthen the soil, as well as various crops.
He deployed a technique used by the indigenous for millenia - known as ‘forest farming’. This is the practice of spacing out the planting over the entire property, usually accompanied by a shade crop or plant, and a tree or two.
This not only preserves the natural environment, but also serves to maintain the health of the soil in accordance with its natural abundance of vital nutrients. Soil is alive, man. When healthy, it has all the natural components to support life.
Anyway, you should see this place now.
Beautiful.
A vibrant green jungle.
I find this kind of stuff fascinating.
Nature.
Soil.
The environment.
The opposite of all the fakery and fraudulence that is New York. I mean, this is real life here, man. The more I talk to Piet, the more I like the guy. He’s the real deal.
Authentic.
His whole thing is practicality. Putting his theories to work with hands-in-the-dirt hard work, y’know? It’s not for show, or only profit, or a passing fancy - he’s not into compromising his ideals. I respect that.
I even lend him a couple of my prize books on Biodynamic Agriculture - a type of one-step-above organic agriculture practice, pioneered by early 20th century genius, Rudolf Steiner. He also created the blueprint for the popular Waldorf Schools, among many other accomplishments.
The other thing I really like about this place is that it’s a family, with all the benefits associated with that. Piet is married to Olda, a black (African Ecuadorian) woman from Esmeraldas - home to most of the black Ecuadorian population on the coast. They have this adorable 1 ½ year old daughter Naomi, who I seem to have bonded with, which is kind of odd - because I never usually bond with little kids and babies at all.
There’s also a couple of young volunteers from Germany and the Netherlands, respectively, here to help out, too. We all have meals together everyday, great conversation, work together in the field - and I gotta say - it’s a rather comfortable feeling.
I have a room where I meditate everyday, take afternoon siestas in one of the hammocks, and enjoy communal dinners on the front patio every evening. This has all coagulated to do a world of good for my sense of stability and well being.
As the days pass into weeks, one of the more interesting situations I’m observing is the black culture here. Before I arrived here at Bospas, I had rarely seen black people in Ecuador - excluding the black transgender Colombian prostitutes working the streets of Quito. Here, however, they seem to be a rather large segment of the population.
Especially in El Limonal, the small village directly below the farm, and also in the surrounding countryside, where they are mostly farmers. Unlike the US however, these black people are clearly of African descent, and there doesn’t seem to have been much mixture with anybody else. Same physical attributes as native African people - and mostly very dark skinned.
Sadly, they are also widely discriminated against here, too. I would say even more so than in the States. I mean, I’ve seen some stuff that’s, like, right out of the Jim Crow South, or whatever.
Brutal.
And I thought the States were racist!
However, the longer I’m here, the better I’m feeling. There’s something to be said for structure and routine, man. Truly. This working in the field and the communal atmosphere. I mean, I could get used to it.
Who knows?
I’m thinking maybe I could stay around here awhile. Days pass, and me and Piet have been getting into some interesting conversations… we seem to have the same ideas about conservation and environmentalism. Lately, we’ve been talking about different ways I might be able to stay here. Maybe some things I could do to make a decent living, and explore positive environmental viabilities in Ecuador.
I’m starting to feel like this is my adopted country, man. Our talks begin to escalate into maybe going in on a venture together - eco tourism, horseback expeditions, educational activities regarding permaculture, and the like… sustainable land use, y’know?
Something meaningful.
Perhaps even buy a little plot of land next to his, start my own little sustainable farm from which to stage excursions. We could even begin a yoga retreat center here - maybe marketing to those types from New York. I could even do the one month yoga teacher training - and lead the workshops myself. The possibilities are endless, and I’m really entertaining all these brainstorms, feeling pretty good about myself.
A BRAVE NEW WORLD
Jo realizes he has to move on from the merriment at The English Pub.
Really, that is the definition of mediocre! No way. Gotta clear my head right now, man. For the next three days, I sit in my room in detoxification mode. I only drink gallons of water, in which I pour a packet of Spirulina that I brought from home. That’s it. And I meditate, even more than I did before, sometimes three hours a day. Almost a month of debauchery is quite enough. Quito always gets me caught up in this kind of shit, man. Too much time on my hands. Money dwindling rapidly. I don’t want to go home for Christmas. I’m no good when I’m left on my own, that’s when I find myself gravitating towards the dark side. Need to be involved in something. Need to work towards something that has meaning. What’s my next move gonna be? I think back to what made me the most happy in Ecuador… it was when I first got here, volunteering at Rio Muchacho. The camaraderie. Getting my hands in the dirt. Doing my part in things that interested me.
Yeah.
I pull out my guidebook and start flipping through the pages. I know I want to do something like working on an organic farm again. Los Cerdos Biological Reserve. The first entry I see. Volunteering. Right up there by Volcan Cotacachi, which I regret not having explored more. Working in the forest. Eating local organic foods. Homemade meals. A good cause. Next, Los Golondrenas. Pretty much the same thing.
Homestays maybe? Sumak Pacha, Associacion Pachamama, etc,. All around Intag. All right up my alley. I look up the numbers for these programs, Los Cerdos first. It all sounds very inviting when I talk to the person on the phone - then I hear what the fee is - forget about it! Astronomical. The same with the next few.
God, I am fucked.
For a minute, a heavy gloom drenches my whole body - just makes me want to give up - go back to bed. This time, however, I persist. This time I close my eyes and engage in deep breathing, maybe for about five minutes. I regain my equilibrium. I return to my guidebook for one last chance, a chance that I don’t have to return home in the same condition I left. I continue flipping the pages until -
Aha!
‘Bospas Forest Farm’
An organic farm.
Volunteering
Near the city of Ibarra, called Ciudad Blanco (The White City) as it is famous for its vista of white washed colonial buildings. Only about 45 minutes from Cotacachi - and the fee, which is the main thing now - looks reasonable. Interesting.
First things first, however. That whole Rocia scene still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Still stings.
Total punk move I pulled on her, man.
I hope someday she can forgive me. I sit down to write her a letter in a mix of Spanish and English that’s, like, straight from the heart. I’m truly sorry I hurt her. Had to get that off my chest. It’s the best I can do right now.
BACK TO THE GOOD OLE DAYS
BACK TO THE GOOD OLE DAYS!
Back in Quito.
In my old room at The Loro Verde. I sleep pretty much for three days. Even venturing outside for food and beer is a major effort.
I am an emotional jellyfish.
The hauntingly relentless conflict that I have done Rocia wrong persists. I hope someday she can forgive me. I’m glad she has her family around her, at least. Someday, I’m gonna make all this right. Just not now.
A week has passed - and I’m on one of my now nightly self-destructive meanderings through the cold and misty streets of Quito - the usual obsessive search for stores that sell beer at an ever cheaper price - when I make a discovery.
A bar. Not just any old bar, but - ‘The English Pub’.
Right in the middle of Gringolandia!
Why haven’t I seen this before?
In any case, I stroll in, order a beer, and almost immediately strike up a conversation with the bartender, Sean. A real honest -to goodness- bloke- straight from Manchester, England. The genuine English accent, this guy is freakin’ hilarious, man. Good guy. One of those blokes who is really welcoming, no formalities. Great off-beat sense of humor. My kind of people. We hit it off right away. Joking, laughing, swearing… It's so good for me to be around this kind of energy again! Pretty soon, this place becomes my second home. Practically every night. He introduces me to all the regulars - lots of Englishmen, but also plenty of Canadians, Europeans - some Americans.
“This is Joe, he’s a writer, actor, comedian, boxer and muurderer”.
It’s too funny with that English accent! The customers are pretty witty, even rowdy, and a couple of nights later I learn to play the ‘very English’ game of darts. I soon become such a great entertainment addition that Sean actually begins buying me beers to keep the customers laughing.
Good thing too - my money is really running low. A short while later, I become the bar celebrity, which is the next best thing to the rush you get from being onstage. My constant state of inebriation and the resulting escapades always make for entertaining nightly stories. For instance, I always walk back to the Loro Verde after the bar closes at 2 AM - even though Sean and the rest of the patrons beg me to take a taxi back. Reina Victoria (the street it’s on) gets pretty seedy that time of night - pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, etc., but I always feel I’m invincible. Aside from a few comments and sidelong glances, though, nothing really happens. One night, however, a group of transgender prostitutes nearly rape me, a narrow escape follows - and you can believe that makes a great story for many a night!
This feels like the good ole days of my adventures in 80s New York - especially Hell’s Kitchen - where I was a comedian performing quite a bit at The Improv, a famous comedy club in the area. I used to hang out at Rudy’s Bar after performing, usually around 2 AM. As I’ve stated before, Rudy’s was a great old genuine dive bar, not the quasi-WestWorld sports bars that pass for dive bars in today’s New York. This place was the real deal.
Frequented by the Westies, a vicious psycho Irish gang notorious for being contracted out by the Mafia to disembowel people - and thoroughly enjoying it at that. One of my favorite past times there was to do ‘the push-up dance’, something I made up when I was feeling really good. I would dance on a table to one of only two dance jams on the jukebox (the rest were Frank Sinatra songs), launch myself like a missile into the air, crash down on the floor, do a push-up - and come back up again on my feet. The pimps would love it! They’d be like:
“Yo, yo, that mofucka be no joke and shit, man!”
They would insert more quarters into the jukebox - exhorting me to do it again. It was fun, and they would supply me with a constant stream of 60¢ glasses of Schlitz beer. I got tons of stories like that, man, and I keep the loyal patrons of ‘The English Pub’ fascinated!
Back in the spotlight.
The center of attention again.
Famous.
I love it!
One night however, this Canadian, an older guy named Jean, whirls into the bar like a hurricane - and everybody gathers around him. Seems that he’s been coming here for years, and has a reputation for being a tremendous storyteller. His reputation precedes him. Apparently, this guy has been all around the world, and been involved in a myriad of adventures. Tonight he’s telling about the time that he lived in the Amazon Jungle. Now, this is way back in the 60’s or maybe the early 70’s - when the tribes had been living much as they had forever. He even has black & white Polaroid shots of him standing with the tribes back in the day… pretty amazing.
I guess he’s back in the area now, because he comes in every night and has the whole bar enraptured. I have been basically shunted off to the side, and I must admit, feel a strong sense of jealousy.Back in Quito.
In my old room at The Loro Verde. I sleep pretty much for three days. Even venturing outside for food and beer is a major effort.
I am an emotional jellyfish.
The hauntingly relentless conflict that I have done Rocia wrong persists. I hope someday she can forgive me. I’m glad she has her family around her, at least. Someday, I’m gonna make all this right. Just not now.
A week has passed - and I’m on one of my now nightly self-destructive meanderings through the cold and misty streets of Quito - the usual obsessive search for stores that sell beer at an ever cheaper price - when I make a discovery.
A bar. Not just any old bar, but - ‘The English Pub’.
Right in the middle of Gringolandia!
Why haven’t I seen this before?
In any case, I stroll in, order a beer, and almost immediately strike up a conversation with the bartender, Sean. A real honest -to goodness- bloke- straight from Manchester, England. The genuine English accent, this guy is freakin’ hilarious, man. Good guy. One of those blokes who is really welcoming, no formalities. Great off-beat sense of humor. My kind of people. We hit it off right away. Joking, laughing, swearing… It's so good for me to be around this kind of energy again! Pretty soon, this place becomes my second home. Practically every night. He introduces me to all the regulars - lots of Englishmen, but also plenty of Canadians, Europeans - some Americans.
“This is Joe, he’s a writer, actor, comedian, boxer and muurderer”.
It’s too funny with that English accent! The customers are pretty witty, even rowdy, and a couple of nights later I learn to play the ‘very English’ game of darts. I soon become such a great entertainment addition that Sean actually begins buying me beers to keep the customers laughing.
Good thing too - my money is really running low. A short while later, I become the bar celebrity, which is the next best thing to the rush you get from being onstage. My constant state of inebriation and the resulting escapades always make for entertaining nightly stories. For instance, I always walk back to the Loro Verde after the bar closes at 2 AM - even though Sean and the rest of the patrons beg me to take a taxi back. Reina Victoria (the street it’s on) gets pretty seedy that time of night - pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, etc., but I always feel I’m invincible. Aside from a few comments and sidelong glances, though, nothing really happens. One night, however, a group of transgender prostitutes nearly rape me, a narrow escape follows - and you can believe that makes a great story for many a night!
This feels like the good ole days of my adventures in 80s New York - especially Hell’s Kitchen - where I was a comedian performing quite a bit at The Improv, a famous comedy club in the area. I used to hang out at Rudy’s Bar after performing, usually around 2 AM. As I’ve stated before, Rudy’s was a great old genuine dive bar, not the quasi-WestWorld sports bars that pass for dive bars in today’s New York. This place was the real deal.
Frequented by the Westies, a vicious psycho Irish gang notorious for being contracted out by the Mafia to disembowel people - and thoroughly enjoying it at that. One of my favorite past times there was to do ‘the push-up dance’, something I made up when I was feeling really good. I would dance on a table to one of only two dance jams on the jukebox (the rest were Frank Sinatra songs), launch myself like a missile into the air, crash down on the floor, do a push-up - and come back up again on my feet. The pimps would love it! They’d be like:
“Yo, yo, that mofucka be no joke and shit, man!”
They would insert more quarters into the jukebox - exhorting me to do it again. It was fun, and they would supply me with a constant stream of 60¢ glasses of Schlitz beer. I got tons of stories like that, man, and I keep the loyal patrons of ‘The English Pub’ fascinated!
Back in the spotlight.
The center of attention again.
Famous.
I love it!
One night however, this Canadian, an older guy named Jean, whirls into the bar like a hurricane - and everybody gathers around him. Seems that he’s been coming here for years, and has a reputation for being a tremendous storyteller. His reputation precedes him. Apparently, this guy has been all around the world, and been involved in a myriad of adventures. Tonight he’s telling about the time that he lived in the Amazon Jungle. Now, this is way back in the 60’s or maybe the early 70’s - when the tribes had been living much as they had forever. He even has black & white Polaroid shots of him standing with the tribes back in the day… pretty amazing.
I guess he’s back in the area now, because he comes in every night and has the whole bar enraptured. I have been basically shunted off to the side, and I must admit, feel a strong sense of jealousy
THE ROCIA DILEMMA CONTINUES
It’s almost five, and I head over to her house for our dinner date. I’m trying to be as informal as possible, y’know, wearing only shorts, a modified Hawaiin shirt, and sandals. I want to forgo any crazy seriousness for now. I reach her house, knock on her door - and her father answers.
Uh oh.
Then I see that Rocia’s whole family is gathered around the table!
Double uh oh.
Everybody is there. Her mother. Her brother Patricio, who introduced me to her in the first place. An older brother. A cousin. One of her sisters. The other two are apparently upstairs, helping her get ‘ready’. It all seems a bit too eerie and formal for me.
Now her father, Don Ramon, invites me into the salon.
Oh boy.
He motions me to sit down in ‘the best chair’, and proceeds to pour both me and himself his finest tequila. Don Ramon actually speaks a pretty decent level of English, so that I only have to fill in with my shaky Spanish. He starts off by asking me about myself, and of course, being an extroverted narcissist, I am only too happy to regale him with tales of my life. He seems to approve.
About ten minutes into the conversation, the one sister whispers to him that Rocia is now ready and making her way down the stairs! As she descends, her other two sisters flit around her, smoothing her dress and putting a flower in her hair, giggling excitedly.
Wow! She looks too beautiful.
I just wanted to go around the corner to this restaurant for dinner - but now it feels like I’m being groomed for marriage.
Already.
Gulp.
I’m speechless. We head for the door to exit, saying our goodbyes and thank yous and - immediately - one of the older sisters, Adrianna, begins walking alongside us.
She is the chaperone, man!
God.
This must be like a full blown courtship! Think the 1800’s, or something. Shit. The whole time we are sitting at the restaurant - the three of us that is - Rocia keeps glancing at me, like I’m some kind of movie star, or something. Like she’s starstruck. I am wracked with guilt.
Apparently, it’s considered quite an achievement to catch a Norte Americano over here. Like - you will be set for life.
As I’ve said before, they watch these movies like ‘Pretty Woman’, or whatever, and are thoroughly convinced that all North Americans live ‘The Lifestyle of The Rich and Famous’
Boy, are they gonna be disappointed when they find out my situation, man.
I don’t know if Rocia actually thinks this… I mean, she is only 19 years old, y’know - but I’m pretty sure her family must have confirmed to her that she just hit the jackpot, or whatever. If she can just follow through on this.
Jeez.
So even though I’m smiling back at her while she makes lovey-dovey eyes at me, I’m seeing my whole future unfold in front of me in my mind. The course is all set out. The courtship will consist of a few more dates, until the last one occurs - at which time we will finally be freed of the chaperone. At that moment, I am to declare my undying love for Rocia. We will embrace passionately, then engage in a thoroughly romantic kiss under the moonlight.
Shortly afterward, the script requires that I pop the question.
Following that, I must visit the house and ask her father for her hand in marriage. He will, of course, be only too happy to grant his permission - and congratulate me on a job well done.
A toast ensues.
In rapid succession, the myriad preparations for the big event at the local Basilica - and the blessing from the Monsignor begin. Next, the traditional wedding celebration, as I am ‘officially’ welcomed to the family. It just moves on logically from there.
We will have to move to the US, where we will live at my parent’s house in New Jersey - since I have neither my own place - or a job - for that matter.
At this juncture, I begin choking vociferously on my food at the restaurant - so hard, in fact, that tears roll from my eyes. The waiter (mesero) brings me a glass of water, then another. I continue to hack madly. Now the entire staff of the restaurant, including the manager, and Rocia and her sister surround me, slapping me on the back so as to dislodge whatever it is that’s blocking my windpipe. I feel they are about to call the Monsignor in a few minutes to administer the last rites.
Oh no.
Finally, the choking ends, and even though my eyes are puffy and red from all the tearing up - everybody is relieved. We all even have a hearty laugh about it!
Phew.
The date ends about an hour and a half later, and we walk back to her house where - as the script commands - I kiss Rocia on the cheek, under the careful supervision of her sister, of course.
When I head back to my room above Cafe Hood, I feel as if I will collapse.
What have I done?
My mind rumbles like ‘The Cyclone’ at Coney Island. I toss and turn and twist all night. Not even Holosync helps. I don’t know if I can handle this. Meanwhile, my mind returns to the prescribed scenario that will surely unfold.
After moving back to my parent’s house, we’ll have to immediately start working on having a kid. Then two, then three - who knows where it ends?! We’ll have to take turns raising the kids, as Rocia attends University. She’ll have more opportunities there. I, on the other hand, wii have y
To work 80 hours a week as a dishwasher, or something horrible like that - to support us.
I am now drenched in sweat here in my bed.
We’ll eventually have to move out of my parent’s house. Where the hell will we live!? I mean, New York is already so fucking expensive! What about my dreams of journeying to the Amazon!? Of seeing the jungle? Of learning from the shamans? Of being, like, a wild savage - canoeing down the Amazon River, clad only in an oja grande (big leaf) covering my privates - and shooting poison curare dipped darts from my blow gun at enterprising white people seeking to pilfer the country’s resources!? All the while shouting:
Uumbaga!! Umbaagaa!!
I do not sleep a freakin’ minute all night. Exhausted, drained and limp, I finally make the emotional decision to strike out - and take the 6:30 AM bus back to Quito. I don’t utter a word to anyone. Not even Ivan, the Italian guy. I just don’t know what else to do.