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

Plane Poem

I am the emergency exit man

wet rectangles ripple, irrigated plots

turn molten & luminous mercury with

the breaking sun

premature claps, silenced by the roar of brakes

“One must be receptive, receptive to the image at the moment it appears”

“The poetic image is a sudden salience on the surface of the psyche”- Gaston Bachelard, xi

Over Heated eyes and thick air. Guayaquil mall / bus station.

busy bustle bewildered activity. flies buzz around me. cauldo

de pollo. One pink rose petal, trampled under foot.

“Sound of Silence” Andean style

One look, “Vas a Vilcabamba?”

“Como sabes?”

“Todas las personas de Estados Unidos va a Vilcabamba.”

-Pablo Penaherrera. civil engineer. Recommended I stay at the hosteria ‘las lagunas’ and eat tilapia.

Turn off that valve at once and open the spiritual-heroic refrigerating apparatus.

Myth-Buiding: Vilcabamba

Myth-Building: Vilcabamba

Los Viejos: Secrets of Long Life From the People of the Sacred Valley— Grace Halsell

(1976)

MEN AND WOMEN OF VILCABAMBA:

HEALTHY, ROBUST, ACTIVE,

AND 100+ YEARS OLD.

Micaela Quezada, 104, a virgin and proud of it. But the villagers say she might still get married some day.

Manuel Ramon, 110, doesn’t know the meaning of the word “retirement.” He works in the field every day of the week except Sunday.

Miguel Carpio, 127, lives in a bare little house and behaves with the courtesy and grace of a philosopher-king.

Gabriel Erazo, a lusty 132 years old, keeps alive the dream of a great love in years to come—and propositioned the author unabashedly.

(inside cover)

The viejos had fit bodies, but their main concern had been the human heart. Their society seemed to be oriented toward the mystical, the religious, the romantic. p5 GH

The viejos all kept romantic illusions, amor gave spirit to their lives. Gabriel Erazo composed poetry, and when we would take a walk at sunset he would quote his verses to me, leaving me feeling soft and vulnerable. “I am 132,” he told me, and at the same moment he said he still had desires, ganas, to make love to a woman, that he felt this desire as strongly as he did when he was twenty. p6 GH

What might be different or special about the village? The minerals in the soil? The diet? The viejos’ attachment to the land, which they work with their hands until beckoned by death? Could it be the genetic factor? The Vilcabamba enclave of centenarians pose a fascinating puzzle for science: How is it that a tiny group of men and women have managed to survive far longer than most people in our society?

Doctors who have visited there have given us only intriguing hints that there must be “something special” about the valley. Most likely, it is not a single, distinctive, identifiable factor that contributes toward longevity and good health, but a complex combination of many factors.

A United States doctor, Eugene H. Payne, wrote a 1954 Reader’s Digest article in which he stated he had found little or no evidence of cardiac or circulatory diseases in the area. Another visitor, Albert B. Kramer, writing in a 1959 issue of Prevention, reported he suffered a cardiac condition but after a short visit to the province, he stated, “I felt better than I could ever remember.” He rhapsodized over the lush forest growth at altitudes where one would normally expect barren slopes. “Can you imagine,” he asked, “strawberries growing next to banana plants, coffee thriving in the shade of apple trees, barley and sugar cane growing side by side?” He was quite willing to accept that “something special” distinguished the province. “Perhaps that ‘something’ that is so good for the heart is the same ‘something’ that so strangely favors plant life”, he wrote. p6-7 GH

Dr. Miguel Salvador, a Quito cardiologist with an expansive personality…In 1969, Dr. Salvador, with a team of Ecuadorian doctors, made a survey of 340 persons of all ages selected at random from Vilcabamba’s total population. They found the general standard of fitness amoung the old “amazing,” an unprofessional but plainly apt description. Almost all were free of serious illness. The valley, the doctors concluded, was indeed a natural island of immunity to the physical and perhaps psychological problems that shorten lives elsewhere…“We had to believe their ages because of their accounts, reports and narrations, as well as the ages of their children and grandchildren. I was impressed, however, not because people were living to be more than 100, but because they were so active, with minds and bodies you’d expect in men and women who were 60 or 70.” p8 GH

A 1971 census identified nine centenarians in a total population of 819 people. Dr. Alexander Leaf, chief of medical services, Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston, observed that, “While extrapolation on the basis of this small village is not justifiable, the figures do represent a rate of 1,100 per 100,000 population, obviously an exceptional situation when compared with the U.S. rate of only three centenarians per 100,000 population.” p8 GH

Province officials in Loja, with no real regard for the welfare of the viejos, have been promoting the Sacred Valley as a tourist resort, much in the same way one might publicize recreational delights of a Disneyland or Coney Island. p10 GH

I felt blessed by the typical Vilcabamba weather, bright, temperate, dry. They sky and air were all promise. The day being so special made me feel a special person, my spirit became expansive as the world was wide. I saw beauty all around me. p50 GH

My approach to the Sacred Valley had elements of fantasy in it. I saw it in my mind’s eye where one might live in a pure, guileless, childlike way, free from the primitive emotions of fear and hate, cleansed of environment impurities, close to some heavenly ideal of faith and peace.

But it was an illusion. You and I can never return to that Perfect Place, if indeed it ever existed outside our dreams. We may dream of simplicity, of brotherhood and goodness, of eternal candlelight and togetherness, like Dorothy’s Land of Oz. But we cannot return to our origins, as we idealize them. Nor do any of us really desire to “go back”—to live in a mud hut with dirt floors, no running water or inside plumbing.

Still, the viejos, living close to nature and still naturally wise and unacquisitive, have much to teach us.

They live certain “truths.” The first is the “truth” that health is not a commodity that you can buy at a corner drugstore or get from a high-priced doctor. p131 GH

The most important part of biological aging may well be simply how one feels about himself. p125 GH

My living among the viejos convinced me of one cardinal rule that all of us can remember: Living a long life is, in essence, a do-it-yourself proposition. p24 GH

“The meaning of life is death”—Senor Ramon p136 GH

In a profound sense, aging implies a renewal of self, the ceaseless quest for self-identity. To a viejo such as the 110 year old Manuel Ramon, living in the remote simplicity of Vilcabamba, unassailed by the distractions of the teeming world outside, it was natural to view life as a whole, and realized that the big events were not written in politics or wars or money matters but in the human heart. p122-123 GH

Why some people grow old in agony and bitterness, others with fortitude and beauty p12 GH

1974- Road built from Loja “I wonder how long will it take ‘civilization’ to get to Vilcabamba—and to spoil it forever?” –Dr. Salvador. p10 GH

The Centenarians of the Andes- David Davies (1975)

To the people of Loja, who were Catholics, Vilcabamba with its healthy centenarians was seen as a place of miracles. p31 DD

On inquiry at some of the market shops, I found that a kind of cattle truck went to Vilcabamba about once a week.

Next morning I arrived at the bus station at 10am, to find the section of the bus for cattle, behind the benches, completely full with pigs, chickens and a couple of bullocks. The benches, too, seemed packed. I took my seat, and for two hours had the ordeal of people wanting to see to their animals. Then the bus was ready to depart. One of the bullocks, my nearest companion, started to snuffle in my pockets through the loose barrier between the human and animal sections.

The track to Vilcabamba lay for the most part along the sides of the mountain. Sometimes we descended to the floor of the valley to cross the river that lay there like a silver snake. To get over to the other side there was a rough hewn bridge, with a canopy over it, as with all the bridges in the area, though what purpose this served I could never discover. We passed several villages, all with a fine population of babies, fighting cocks and curly-haired sway-backed pigs.

Along the whole length of the ravine that we traveled for most of the thirty-five or so miles to Vilcabamba there was much evidence of old Inca tracks and ways, and here and there the ruins of some ancient building, with its crumbling field walls. Several times the passengers had to leave the bus to remake the road, which had either slipped or been washed away during the previous night, for there was more or less perpetual rain. After this there was always a ‘Tally Ho’ on the horn to bring back those passengers who were busy ‘seeing to the back tyre’. Other stops were to allow cattle to cross, baby donkeys to seek their mothers, and for Muscovy ducks, which stood in front of the bus and hissed.

We soon arrived at a village called San Pedro de la Vilcabamba. The girl beside me said, ‘It won’t be long now.’ Over the next rise we saw a valley below us; the whole bus gave a sigh, a universal cry went up- ‘Vilcabamba’- and there below us was Vilcabamba. In the centre of the broad valley lay a large village and above the village- something like a halo! It was certainly the first large piece of blue sky I’d seen since arriving in Loja.

Down the street came a figure on horseback, complete with dog; it could have been a scene straight from a western.

It was lovely to get out into the late afternoon sunshine and feel the gentle cooling breeze from the mountain. Gold seemed to be the keynote of the scene. The square was dominated by a golden-coloured church, and the whole of the plaza was a blaze of marigolds, and they in turn reflected the gleaming sunshine p32-33 DD

While gazing on the pleasant little plaza and the view all around, I could not help noticing a small mountain that rose up from the last of the gardens of the village. In fact it looked an ideal vantage point from which to survey the area and to take photographs of a panorama of the village. Perched on the top of this was a perfect little ranch-house complete with verandah.

I made my way up the broad streets, past the grazing donkeys and Indian ponies, and the friendly little dogs and long wavy-haired pigs. All the people I met in the fifteen minutes I spent on that journey were most polite in their greetings. The road then became just a path, narrowed, meandered and steepened. I now met little children, also extremely friendly, and not at all afraid. I reached the verandah, and the site was perfect. In a few moments I was approached by several lean dogs, who romped and turned over on their backs around me p33 DD

The valley of Vilcabamba has many peculiarities. It is interesting to speculate on whether the early inhabitants of the valley found its mysteries even more inexplicable than do its present ones. Certainly it has many extraordinary qualities—the plant life, the climate, the range of trees and crops growing there, its minerals, its dramatic mountains, and the remarkably regular 19 C midday temperature, which seems more or less steady at all times of the year p34 DD

Even the name of the valley is intriguing. It has been suggested that the name means ‘Sacred Valley’, derived from the language of the Quechua Indians: ‘Vilca’—sacred, and ‘Bamba’—valley. There is another possible root for its name. An interesting tree, much written about, grows (though less and less these days) in the vicinity of Vilcabamba. There are many indications—stumps, etc. –to show that it was more prolific there in the past. This is the Vilco or Wilco tree. Some say (mainly those of Spanish origin) that the valley gets its name from this tree. Plenty are found higher up the slopes of Mandango and Warango, the mountains that overlook Vilcabamba. There seems to be no reason why Vilcabamba should be picked out for its special home. This tree is found—under such names as Tamarindo, Yoke and Yacoana—all over the central and northern part of South America, so the latter explanation does not seem particularly likely.

The tree is interesting. It is very attractive with fern-like leaves, decorative branches and pretty red fruit. It has many uses among which is the extraction from it of a hallucinatory drug. The Incas also made a snuff from it. (See Genus Anadenanther in Amerindian Cultures by Siri von Reis Altschul.) p34-35 DD

The towering peak of Mandango (meaning the Devil in the Quechua language), 2,000 metres above Vilcabamba, looks at a distance like some cathedral carved by nature out of the rock—or a Noah’s Ark stuck on Mount Ararat. But when one climbs up to its base, a climb of several hours, one finds that the impression of a pillared wall that one had from the valley floor is only an illusion; for it is made up of water-worn pebbles and boulders, intermixed with a natural mortar. The mixture would be far more at home on the banks or the floor of some mighty and ancient river than up there. How did the debris get up to those heights? p35 DD

To the east of Yamburara, and five hours by pack mule from the road, there is a marvelous area of ground called pajonal with masses of vegetation and grasses of many colours. Contrasting with this verdant pasture are fourteen lakes, all with very clear water. But people rarely go there—they prefer to stay in the inhabited regions. They say that this place is full of strange noises, but to me it appeared only to be the wind.

The largest of these lakes is called Margarita, from which runs the river Masanamaca. It is believed that the sand that forms a large part of the subsoil, at least in the Vilcabamba valley, was caused by many big rivers and glaciers bringing deposits into the plain, where the village now stands. This was at one time a lake bottom. The course of the rivers can be seen in the hanging valleys that have been carved out to form the five arms of a star, Vilcabamba occupying the centre. They brought in great quantities of sand, gravel and silt, and with it calcium which is found also as a deposit, mingled to create this very fertile region. The surface of the land looks very similar to that of Loja. There occurred, at the end of tertiary times, a raising of the land due to tectonic movement, and the lake disappeared; but the sub-geology remained more or less the same, with its wealth of mineral deposits.

Climbing up above the hacienda belonging to the ‘lady’ of the village, Senora Rio Frio, about two miles distant, one reached a region that had a peculiar pinkish soil. Here bubbled up the first of the small sacred springs where the village obtained its water at one time, and on certain days the people of the village make a pilgrimage for water there, although it has been much muddied by the feet of cattle. Farther up towards the ridge of Warango, about another two miles on, is yet another spring. This is supposed to be the most sacred spring of all, and remains untouched by cattle. As a result, when I scraped away the dead leaves it lay in a little flower-strewn dell, with water that was crystal clear. There were indications that the people had visited it for centuries, by the marks and signs on the surrounding rocks. Sixty meters above this was the top of the mountain that formed a kind of ridgeback. There were signs of early habitation. Stone hut circles could be seen, possibly from Inca times. If one looked down towards where Vilcabamba lay, far down in the valley floor, a hill could be seen that obstructed most of the village from view, and where the woods did not hide the view there were many signs of early habitation. Stone hut circles could be seen, probably Inca or even pre-Inca. If we turned to the other side there was a most interesting view- the tips of some mines showing yellowish-white in the background, the river Piscobamba meandering in the foreground. A strong sense of the mystery and beauty of this historic area is engendered here p37 DD

In Vilcabamba, they were cutting down trees as fast as they could for their fires, and cutting the hedgerows and small coppices, burning them to make way for the almighty sugar cane that seems to dominate everything. In fact, in this fertile land, with its temperate climate, everything can be grown— from the violet to the fig. But this does not mean that it is always grown. More complex agricultural development is often neglected because of an inordinate affection for the sugar cane p38 DD

Local legend says that the valley was the true Paradise from which Adam and Eve were expelled. It still retains from that Paradise the purity of the atmosphere, brilliant sunshine and crystal clear sky. It is an area frequented by people who believe it has special qualities, indefinable by normal expectations; thus an ‘international sage’, Dr. Lovewisdom, who lived for a period in a cell on the mountain nearby, referred to ‘magnetic sunstorms which can eliminate the toxins that cause death- the cell being immortal if it has the means of detoxifying itself’. These enigmatic statements are a measure of the air of mystery with which people invest the area. Such ideas have been given as the reasons for the longevity of the inhabitants p40 DD

San Pedro de la Bendita, not to be outdone, also has its sacred place dedicated to the Virgin, the Virgin of El Cisne, or the Swan (in Spanish). It is a dry open space high up on the mountains above San Pedro. People who go there see in the distance a swan, but in order to get to it they have to pass round a headland, and by the time the swan has always disappeared. But why should the swan haunt such an unsuitable place for a water bird? (In their daily life the villagers take not the slightest interest in birds. Their philosophy is that God gave them all the animals, including the birds, to eat.) p42 DD

Interestingly, because of the altitude, and thus the cold, of these places, Vilcabamba, Nampacola, etc., there are no harmful reptiles there, and although there may be a few snakes, neither we nor anyone we met has ever seen any. Nor are there giant harmful insects, spiders, centipedes or dangerous mosquitoes, or harmful animals.

All this adds to the legend that the area is a paradise, with special and sacred sites. The sacredness of these sites goes back to pre-Colombian times- that is the time of the Incas, and, who knows, perhaps even before. There are no written histories. All around these villages are signs of prehistoric activities, old village sites, the stones of hut circles and marks on the mountain sides of cultivated fields from days gone by, which are much less rarely found near villages in other areas of southern Ecuador. It is as if, even in those far off days, these places were set apart and special. Despite the fact that the terrain has been much altered, trees cut down, the plant growth altered, some plants destroyed, and in general rapid and often ignorant changes made, this area still retains its quality of being special, mysterious. It is commented on by visitors and locals alike- there is an extraordinary atmosphere which pervades the region.

We must hope that the discovery of the old people with their remarkable health, and the increase in communications with the towns and cities, does not lead to the exploitation and destruction of these marvelous qualities which make the area such a unique one. There are some signs already that this danger exists- it would be a tragedy if it were allowed to spread. p42-43 DD

go visit the priest and the ministers of the protestant churches and rope them into yr project. Don’t lend money to anyone. tell people you are interested in history and would like to get life histories of occupations and families, marriages, and births and deaths. build up genealogical tables. Study the local market, the agricyuklture, the use of chemicals and fertilizers, and visit the cemetery a lot, as well as the local hospital. Check pout what people watch on tv.

good luck,

mick

“Sensitive Research”— a designation of the Institutional Review Board

Letterist International—“Psychogeography could set for itself the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behaviors of individuals”—Guy-Ernest Debord, “Introduction to a Critique of Urban Geography”

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can help you relocate

to any latitude.

Reading on the plane about Los Viejos and their active, loving, satisfied long lives. About the “Mixing of Generations and a Respect for Elderly”—makes me think of Mama Anna being put away and dying in the nursing home. Mistaking her granddaughter for her daughter, her daughter for her sister. Our culture has little use for the old. Would I put my parents away? No. I hope not, I hope I can care for them and make their last years livable. If we still lived communally then the burden would not fall just on me. Would I serve them breakfast, bath them, bring mom flowers and watch movies with dad? Well they definitely wouldn’t live together—so I would have to travel back & forth. I could take a break from school & teaching, spend my time writing, and care for them. Will I?

I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows of longing for the other shore.

-Zarathustra

12. The size of a bond. In all things there is a divine force, that is, love, the father himself, the source, the Amphitrite of bonds. Thus, Orpheus and Mercury were not wrong when they called this the great demon, for this bond is indeed the entire substance, constitution, and (if I may say so) the hypostasis of things. We come to know this greatest and most important bond when we turn our eyes to the order of the universe. By this bond, higher things take care of lower ones, lower things are turned toward higher ones, equal things associate with each other and lastly, the perfection of the universe is revealed in the knowledge of its form.

- Giordano Bruno

My true vocation is preparation for death.

-Harry Smith

I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason-

-John Keats

by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that proliferent continuance which of evils the original if it be absent when fortunately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipollent nature's incorrupted benefaction.

-James Joyce

The manuscript which I shall henceforth present to you lingers somewhere in those remote regions between ethnography and delusion. This need not be a cause for alarm. Samuel Clemens once wrote: “It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.” This being said, certain facts are clear enough: in May 2008 a young anthropology student or as he would come to call himself, the anthropolyjest, arrived in Vilcabamba, Ecuador with the goal of recording the oral histories of the town’s famous centenarians and investigate the “extraordinary natural qualities” of the area. As he wrote in his application essay for the ILAS: “It’s time for an anthropological study to record what the scientists missed: the inner fabric of the native peoples’ lives.” We know he boarded at the Rumi Wilco ecolodge and began asking questions. From that point onward he became engulfed in, as he puts it, “the town’s sinister mystery.”

Then, at some uncertain point, he suddenly disappeared into the mountains. All that was found was his waterlogged folder of distorted and bleeding ink, tied together with a shoestring. Scrawled across its face in red and blue magic marker were the words:

Sensitive Research

Left to us is a seemingly mad assemblage of documents: letters, journals, photographs, transcribed conversations, newspaper clippings, guidebook entries, ethnographies, environmental laws, ecological studies, poetry and esoteric literature. Upon closer examination it is clear that he worked over the material obsessively. His objective seems to have been to recreate, for the reader, his own estranged experience of fieldwork, what Malinowski famously phrased, “the imponderabilia of everyday life.” There is at once, a frightening promiscuity to the investigator’s scope and yet a singular paranoia fixated on the sense of an all-inclusive lie, a “public secret”, the limits of which he is uncertain. It is for you to judge whether he fell prey to a romantic fever, a quixotic striving after the authentic ideal, or if he correctly diagnosed the symptoms of the pervasive modern disease.