IT RETURNS
IT RETURNS
Joe knew it - he knew it had to happen - the fears, the anxiety, the depression...just when it looked like everything was going good now!
However, the Christmas season is upon us now. I’ve been at Bospas for over a month - I’m thinking - holiday! I’m also thinking about my parents, and how I haven’t ever celebrated Christmas without my family. I really miss them - but I’m having mixed feelings about going home - as well as a renewed sense of urgency to get something done here. The worry and anxiety starts to return, but I’m trying to keep it at bay… I mean, my money is really dwindling. I got maybe $150 - $175 left. That’s not even enough to get a ticket back home.
Holy Shit.
I’ve been here in Ecuador about 3 ½ months now, and I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything yet. Jeez. What the fuck am I doing?!I haven’t even seen a third of Ecuador yet - to say nothing of the rest of South America - and what about the Amazon!? That was supposed to be, like, one of my main reasons for coming down here in the first place.
The wall of terror really comes crashing down, however, one late night on the front patio, when I’m having a conversation with the other two volunteers while having a cup of tea. We’re having this great conversation about environmentalism and sustainability - when the grip of anxiety gets a hold of me like an emotional headlock.
Oh my God.
These guys are like, 21, 22 years old, man - I’m close to 44! I’m literally twice their age! I mean, it’s totally cool for them to roam around the world and have adventures - they’re just kids! They’ve got their whole lives ahead of them.
Inevitably, they’ll go back to Europe, continue their education at University, begin work on their Master’s Degrees and PHd’s; they’ll be all set. They’ll just transfer these experiences into college credits.
What about me?!
I’m screwed!
When I get back home - I’m just another middle- aged nut with no discernible and/or marketable skills… I mean, what am I going back to anyway?
A life of catering!?
Living at my parent’s house - waiting for my next nervous breakdown while they watch nightly reruns of ‘Friends’ and eat Entenmann’s Crumb Cake?!
Will that be my legacy?!
A whirlwind of tremulous anxiety whips through my body while I’m talking to these guys. All the grandiose ideas me and Piet have been discussing the past few weeks seems like pure folly to me now. It’s all great in theory, but… what if I can’t sleep?! What if I experience a myriad of sleepless nights - and am too devastated to even get out of bed in the morning?!
What about the tourists paying good money to have an experience?!
And I’m in charge of it all?! I can’t do this…
I begin hyperventilating.
Before my body becomes rife with the shakes, I excuse myself from our little discussion, and walk stiffly but rapidly up to my room. I plop down on my bed, fish through my drawer for my Discman, and assume the meditation posture.
Breathe… breathe… breathe…
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