Lunes 5/19/08 8:38am showered and settled at Rumi Wilco. Met Alicia Falco—kind and bright. I started to explain my mission…(anti-mission/sebald phantasy anthropology) she almost frowned but when I said I was an anthropologist she said, “good.”

Had a momentary scare when the narrow paths of Rumi Wilco were over run with horses grazing—fearful image of being kicked—the horses sensed my fear and were a little spooked themselves, stumbling as I passed by whispering “It’s ok.” Hoping the sound of my voice would convey that I wasn’t a threat. I passed them once on the way down to the reception hut and once on the way back. Freezing cold shower felt good with shocking exhale sharp inhale—couldn’t figure out how to get the electric heater spout working and didn’t dare touch it remembering my first days in Quito…electrocuting showers! Keeping my eyes peeled for spiders, one scurried under the light switch to my room, and a gigantic green and yellow dots perches in its web above my door. “It’s ok” I tell myself. noticing a swarming mass about the size of my heel…spider nest…no. getting a closer look— wasps. Black flies, mosquitoes & birds abound. Remember not to flush toilet paper—you’re back in Ecuador—shit paper goes in the bucket beautifying the atmosphere for all.

Mr. Falco is a serious mountain man. I hope to speak to and gain his respect. Seems kind enough. Same room as last time # 6. Cricket clings to the peach shower curtain door to the bathroom. Remember the madness of
cooking San Pedro Lentil Soup.

The smell of moist rot, jungle smell, rich decay recalls this place. So I’m here, now what? Off to the village to meet the priest? What is the purpose of this project? Like Taussig used to say—think about the writing before the fieldwork. So I know what order of ethnography attracts me—inner life phantasm memory surreal diary mystery image crafted weird

To craft a rare, strange beauty. Bring people’s life stories, my story & the Sacred Valley together. So get on the move!

Can I separate the Spectacle of Vilcabamba from the Real Sacred Valley? Or if separation already dominates, can I connect myself and others to the Real Sacred Valley?

El Punto—fruit green tea yogurt. See a dog go in the church. I introduce myself to the waitress and she nods smiles and walks away. Laugh to myself—but a panic is building…how do I get started? It is scary speaking to strangers, and to who?

I think the big white guy with cut off sleeves, cowboy hat & tattoos on biceps is the owner—El Punto blasts bad music into the town square—suddenly it shuts off: I hear birds, children and the buzzing of a motor blade. Lots of building around, men working construction, American music (Third Eye Blind) starts polluting again: “I want something else to get me through this semi-toned kind of life.”

Waitress comes back, semi-interested, Se llama Patricia—as of right now I’m little more then an open target—everyone wants to know where I’m staying—I slurr my Spanish, they smile. Patricia and an older woman stand in the doorway watching the activity of the square.

Euro-American whites stroll around the plaza. A man in white fancy shirt & purple striped ‘ecua-pants’ with drawstring and cargo pockets— common South American gringo fashion— sits a few tables over smoking. He’s got an Indian woven bag too— with little llamas— fully decked out in South American style dumping the sugar into his cup.

An old woman in white dress with yellow, red, green, dot pattern, a sky blue open sweater, brimmed straw hat and cane inches slowly by—How am I supposed to approach? Even if my Spanish was good—can she hear me—I would just confuse her—dreams? memories? I’m just an American stranger prying into other people’s business.

--sky and mountains turn white—rain falls.

about to talk to the gardener in orange jump suit and plastic clear rain tarp over him—then Maggie taps me on the shoulder—“want to go up in the mountains with me and take ayahuasca with a shaman?”—I’m of mixed feelings— Spectacle? or for Real? But it might be a good ‘in’ for further occult Vilcabamba contact. She was scared about going up alone.

Maggie the fire twirler- paid $150 a show. Born in Poland, lived in Greece, Canada, Spain, Puerto Rico. She went dancing salsa and she was the tallest person—“which isn’t saying much cause I’m not that tall”—she feels bad for short people, imagine trying to make your way through a crowd. Wanted to get a Masters- write a thesis on “how travel affects the mind”—Loved Bolivia— Wants to open a charity organization—to educate & help the poor—to change poor people’s mentalities, when back in Canada.

I realized I should not take ayahuasca con Maggi, but maybe I’ll go and meet the

shaman. Where does the shaman live—“arriba en las montanas” conocerle meet him

I was wandering around emptyheaded or panicking full headed about to burst. Spleen. I made my way up to the cemetery some workers from Loja were building a new mausoleum—otherwise overgrown graves—little fences around each plot—pieces of graves strewn about, incredible green shades, blackened areas.

On the road horseshit mounds and white tour trucks fly by—with deadly speed—open back pickups filled with tourists—“cooperativa de transporte mixto Vilcabamba express”

Town drunk passed out on a bench, now stumbling around, now asking for “plata” at the internet shop.

Hija de la Caridad de San Vincente de Paul

but the monja is new and doesn’t know anybody. Wednesday the priest comes. But she sent me over to the tourist office where I had a shock— someone had recently written a book on the viejos: “Los Ancianos Cuentan: Entrevistas del Colegio Nacional mixto ‘Vilcabamba’ ”—luckily the viejos are run through very blunt (place of birth, to what are you dedicated, number of children, a short story)—Not exactly the psychic depth I’ve been imagining—psychogeography—relationship between land & psyche:

Los Ancianos Cuentan: Entrevistas del Colegio Nacional mixto ‘Vilcabamba’

Universidad Nacional De Loja

Colegio Nacional Mixto “Vilcabamba”

2007

Christina Lemomi Chaya

Autora y Coordinadora de la Obra

Del infinito tiempo, el presente es vital.

El presente libro pretende difundir la imagen de un Vilcabamba profundo, mediante microbiografias de adultos mayores (60-100 anos), que transmiten con derroche de sinceridad, lo que fue y es actualmente para ellos, el Valle Sagrado o Fuente de la Eterna Juventud, como es conocido mundialmente el pueblo de Vilcabamba, parroquia situada al Sur-oriente de la cuidad de Loja, a 40 Km. de distancia. Los datos biograficos, tradiciones, creencias y pensamientos de los longevos fueron expuestos abiertamente a estudiantes voluntariosos para hacer obra social, que se forman en el Colegio Nacional Mixto “Vilcabamba”, quienes son familiares o conocidos de los entrevistados. El libro aspira a reviver y conserver las tradiciones antiguas como base de identidad y solidaridad nacionales; acortar la brecha generacional entre ecuatorianos; y, expresar el cambio que ellos han sentido, beneficioso a veces y contrapuesto tambien, del cada vez mas abundante flujo turistico hacia este lugar que, como pocos en el mundo, es privilegiado por la bondad del clima, tranquilidad, biodiversidad y espiritu hospitalario de su gente.

El producto de su diffusion sera revertido totalmente a las personas mas necesitadas de la Tercera Edad, con implementos de apoyo a las mingas, a traves de los centros de atencion a adultos mayores de Vilcabamba.

JOSE MIGUEL ANDRADE MEDINA 70anos

Lugar de nacimiento: Selva Alegre, Saraguro

Localidad: Mollepamba

?De que se dedica usted? Agricultura

Numero de hijos: 1 ?Con quien vive? Padres e hijos

?De que se siente usted orgulloso(a)?

Trabajando tranquilamente en el barrio, cultivando maiz, porotos, yucca, limpiando huertas en su propiedad y de jornalero y en ganaderia y empleado porque de dinero en las necesidades.

?Como ha ayudado usted, al progreso de su pueblo?

Done una parte del lote para la construccion de la escuela en Mollepamba y tambien como Presidente y Vicepresidente en su barrio, trabaje en mingas con sus companeros en la construccion de la escuela.

Cuenteme una vivencia o historia de Vilcabamba:

Yo era un muchacho, no tenia lo suficiente, era pobre, me vine en 1969 a Vilcabamba, entre a trabajar en la hacienda de un rico, trabaje 21 anos sin descanso, sin vacaciones, alli hice dinero y compre un terreno en Mollepamba y no vendo mi terreno y alli me nombraron Presidente, como jefe y tambien hablo dos idiomas, quichua saraguro y espanol.

Entrevistado por Cesar Estevan Macas Andrade

I met Gabriel & Teresa sitting drinking coffee & smoking outside “Valle Sagrado”. I invited them to take ayahuasca with Maggie and I—my own mixed feelings came through and Gabriel helped me realize them. They said they were not interested in joining our group.

(Spain) Gabriel & Teresa (Chile)— “you must be very clear with yourself, you must trust yourself and the people you do it with—it is not for play. You may open doors you can not close.”

Teresaà “everybody has a shaman inside, feel” she said and pointed to her heart. “You too are a shaman. You can realize. You can always choose. You’re in shaman country” really? (I think) This isn’t the jungle.

Clear faces & Gabriel had clear large eyes—hazel—necklace of red black shaman power seeds and a large black round center with white spiral.

Teresa called me papi and kissed me goodbye

The imaginary is that which tends to become real—

Life, for which we are responsible, encounters, at the same time as great motives for discouragement, innumerable more or less vulgar diversions and compensations. A year doesn’t go by when people we love haven’t succumbed, for lack of having clearly grasped the present possibilities, to some glaring capitulation. But the enemy camp objectively condemns people to imbecility and already numbers millions of imbeciles; the addition of a few more makes no difference. The first moral deficiency remains indulgence, in all its forms. – Guy Debord

The shaman is a jeweler named Santiago. His little son is always in a batman costume. I’ll meet him at 11am tomorrow. Maggie and I met at 6 in the plaza, she was hemming over whether to buy a sweater—she’s had to borrow money three times—a self professed shop-o-holic—“I can’t help it, everything is so cheap.” She invited me to a $1.50 dinner but I took one look at the pasta & potato soup and decided I’d had enough starch. She also told me the shamans cost was 50$ and there needed to be at least 4 people—that’s when I opted out, with Gabriel’s advice replaying in my head. I’m thankful I met him & Teresa.

Walking back to Rumi Wilco, my first night—the moon comes out in green & blue phosphorescence over the mountains. I buy lentils, some vegetables and fruit for breakfast and stop to buy some wine “gato negro”—damn it has a zip wonder if it’s rancid? Find my way back with flashlight. Oh yeah—the lady I bought the wine from after I introduced myself and told her my project, said her father was in his 80’s and would probably like to contribute. “manana” she said—I hope it happens!

Overgrown graves

Feel like I’m going to burst

Negation of life becomes

-visible-

Autonomous movement of non-life-

It is the sector where all consciousness converges—the unity it imposes is merely the official language of generalized separation.

Mandango startled by a rooster

Cooperativa de transporte mixto Vilcabamba express

The imaginary is that which tends to become real.

Full moon three days long in Ecuador because of equator?

real estate signs in English

building—everywhere construction

group of old white men (and one old black man)

frightening each other with thieve tales. “No don’t

hide it in your ass, then they’ll cut you”

little dog limping one leg up