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.
ROCIA
I’m on the bus to Banos again.
I was back in Quito for a week after leaving Cotacachi, and it was the same old shit, man! Rainy, chilly and misty. My mind plunging down dark crevices I should not allow it to go. I’m vacillating back and forth about the Rocia situation, until finally I decide - fuck it!
I’m pulling the fuckin’ trigger, man! Once on the bus I’m still filled with conflict - but fortunately, get caught up in the sideshow that always plays out before every departure.
First, it’s the mad rush, an insane chess game as the passengers dive to get seats. What I find to be really hilarious though, is that when somebody spots an unoccupied seat, but another passenger is sitting on the outside seat, they’ll just say:
“Pardon gordo (fatso), flako (skinny), viejo (old man) - or negro (black)” -
and it’s totally normal. Nobody gets offended, or anything - they just move over. Hahaha… Equally amusing is the parade of vendors piling into the bus one after another, plying their wares up and down the aisles. Everything from homemade ices and ice creams, to soda, chips, fruit and hard boiled eggs. All from these humongous baskets they lug around with them.
The grand finale, however, are the guys who then hop on the bus, hawking these ‘magic elixirs’
Yeah.
They recite these interminably long, overly rehearsed speeches promoting these cure-all concoctions which will apparently ‘heal’ everything. Then they bust out these charts of the human anatomy - pointing out weaknesses their magic potion will cure. That’s like 10 minutes right there, on top of the other 10 or 15 minutes with the vendor show.
So, it’s about 25 minutes later, the bus finally starts to pull out, and now the ayudante (the helper, every bus has a helper who takes the fares and handles the luggage), immediately pops in a VHS. Unfortunately. The screen in front lights up - and the war sounds begin! Usually, it’s a Jean Claude Van Damme flick, but this time it’s Chuck Norris, followed by Dolph Lundgren, of all people.
Always blasted at the absolute maximum decibel level.
The other hilarious thing to me is that it’s all dubbed in Spanish - by what seems to me to be the same guy - the only one who does all the voices! Hahaha, swear to God, I believe it’s one guy who does all the voiceovers in South America!
In short order, a woman will pull out her tit to start breastfeeding, the baby quickly falls asleep, and right away - you hear people snoring!
What!?
How could anyone sleep through the explosions, machine gun fire - the indescribably loud and stilted dialogue!? Apparently, in Ecuador it’s quite common. Can you imagine any of this stuff happening on a bus in New York!? People would be having heart attacks, man!
Hahaha…
When we finally do arrive in Banos, I’m alright with everything. I mean, I think I’ve become accustomed to all this Van Damme stuff - I actually find it to be kind of amusing now.
Anyway, I head straight over to Cafe Hood to hang out with the Italian guy, Ivan. This Rocia situation is weighing heavily on my mind, man… this is a huge step. it’s like I’m placing all bets on Rocia - which is extremely unsettling.
See, Rocia is the classic good girl. Pure and wholesome. The kind you marry. That’s what worries - and also intrigues me. I’m cracked down the middle, torn, about this whole settlingdown/family/Catholic thing vs. just complete abandon!
Totally going wild with the Colombian tranny prostitutes in Quito. Or pretty much any other prostitute, in general. A part of me knows, however, that after a short, yet totally dyonesian time - that would put me over the edge. Soon afterwards, I would just cease to exist.
So guess I’m gonna attempt the traditional lifestyle thing, at least for a minute, y’know!?
After a night of drinking and debauchery with Ivan, I wake up the next day, take a deep breath, and make the call to Rocia. I tell her I’ll be there around 5 PM. She only lives around the corner, across the street from the Basilica (church). There are many Basilicas and Iglesias all over Banos, and indeed, Ecuador itself! As I've said before, this country, along with most of South America, is heavily Catholic. Uber Catholic.
I thought (us) Italians in Brooklyn when I was growing up, were really Catholic - but these people? Forget about it. They make Brooklyn Italians look like freakin’ Atheists, man. South America, or most of it, has been inordinately influenced by the whole Spanish reign here.
The Conquistadores.
Jeez, what a job they did on these people! I mean, instilling that whole hierarchical, fanatical Catholic, white-on-top stuff. The descendants of the Spanish, who for some reason, are as pasty white as any random musical theater fairy from Ohio - are definitely running things here.
And I mean - everything. The banks. The press. The money. All of it - even though they are like only one percent of the population! In fact, like only a couple of these ultra-powerful families basically run everything - and they pretty much look down on everyone else!
On the next level, you have the Mestizos, who are a mix of Spanish/White from the Conquistadors - and the original indigenous people. That’s what Rocia and her family are. The mestizos basically make up what is considered to be the middle class, and usually follow in whitey’s footsteps, at least as far as tradition and society go.
Next, the indigenous people. They for the most part, live in their traditional ways, although even that’s eroding quickly, as the petroleros (oil companies) have made sure of that. They’re basically universally looked down upon - especially the ones living in the Amazon.
Sadly, you then have the blacks on the bottom of the totem pole. They can’t catch a break, man. Poverty all over.
So you can see my Rocia dilemma.
EL LIMPIA
Joe is very discouraged after he finds out the exorbitant price it costs for homestays and volunteer positions - when-
I’m taking all this in, kinda feeling sorry for myself, resigned to accepting that probably nothing is going to come out of this trip - when I wander upon this sign advertising:
‘Limpias, de pueblo centro, $5 - $10’.
A limpia is a kind of ‘cleaning’, where a shaman (a medicine man) removes the ‘bad energy’ from your aura through various prayers and techniques. I’ve never done one of these sessions - but I’m open to it. I mean, really, what have I got to lose? So, I amble over to the puebla centro (the town square), not taking it all too seriously, when I am surprised to see several lines of local indigenous people!
What?!
Maybe this is the real deal!
They’re waiting outside various tents that have apparently been set up for this shaman’s convention. Now, I’m a little more intrigued. I’ve been having stomach problems with bouts of diarrhea pretty much since I arrived in Ecuador… maybe they can help me with this, y’know? I mean, it can’t hurt.
I pay my fee, wait in line, and when it’s my turn I hesitantly tiptoe into the tent - having no idea what to expect. My first sight is this indigenous guy dressed immaculately in white, on a cell phone.
Uh oh.
Immediately, my cynicism takes over as he motions for me to step forward. I suspiciously walk over.
The action, however, starts right then.
BANG - BANG!
He has this other guy in there with him who's apparently a translator, because he speaks to me in English. Tells me to strip down to my underwear.
The shaman (who’s off his phone now) zeroes in on me, looks me up and down a couple of times in a studious, kinda mysterious manner. Then he immediately seems to go into some kind of trance, a state of deep concentration. He’s speaking in Quechua, or some such dialect, which the other guy translates for me in English...the shaman goes on for a while, the whole time the translator following his words.
“He says you have been through much turbulence in your life”.
Well that’s true.
“He says that however, much has been resolved, and that moving forward, the future will start to appear much less bleak - and even exciting”.
It goes on like this for about ten minutes - then things get really interesting!
The shaman begins reciting these incantations - or prayers - or whatever they are, in a sing-song type of countenance. He follows that by waving a branch of leaves over my head, then minutes afterward, blows smoke from what looks like a spliff of incense!
Now, he starts actually pelting me all about my head and body with the branch, in accordance with some sort of internal rhythm.The pelting isn’t hard, or anything, I guess it just takes me by surprise. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I’m just trying to go with it, and stay still. It’s not over, however!
For the grand finale, he sips from a bottle of whiskey, or alcohol, proceeding to spray it all over my face several times, closing the session with another stanza of prayers. Apparently it's over now.
He gifts me this bottle of red liquid, which the translator instructs me to chug down right before bed. That should take care of the stomach problems, he says.
Holy shit, what a crazy experience man!
I don’t know what to think about the whole thing, but, hey, at least it’s an experience. Better than feeling empty or depressed, right?
Later that night, I realize he wasn’t kidding about that red liquid cleaning me out! I mean, I’m on the toilet bowl literally all night. No sleep. I do sleep into the afternoon, however, and when I finally wake up - my stomach feels great!
No rumbling. Nothing.
An amazing side note to all this is that a couple of days later, my big toe - the one I had broken way back in my second week in Ecuador, and which had been immobile this whole time - suddenly comes back to life!
Swear to God, I can move it again! I had given up hope that I would be able to use it anymore, chalking it up as a casualty of war, but here it is - wiggling!
Hallelujah!
So turns out this really hasn’t been a wasted trip after all