La Mariscal-Thoughts from Days 1/2

La Mariscal is a neighborhood in Quito Nuevo that houses dozens of hostels, bars, clubs, coffee shops, and international eateries.  Sounds great, I know, and it would be...in the right circumstance.  I'd love to be here with friends, living cheaply, seeing Quito stuff all day, and then having Pilseners at any one of the 2 dozen or so booze spots.  

However, I came down here with a specific purpose - to choose my daily doings almost as if I hadn't left Austin.  Obviously, one thing that's missing is employment...we're working on it.  Aside from that, I've found myself asking the question, "Would I do this/that if I was in Austin?"  When it comes to going and getting hammered for no reason, the answer is, "No."  I want it to feel like I live here.  This is not the neighborhood to feel like a local.  There are English and German speaking white people all over the place, and I think I saw about 12 dreads today.  Of the four bars I've stopped in to have beers, two have been run by white proprietors speaking English.  I have no problem with this, or maybe I do, but it's not where I want to be right now.  Here are some funny stories from La Mariscal.

First, I stopped to watch the futbol in a sports bar called Shooter's.  Approaching the bar, I saw what was really funny for a new Ecuadorian.  Behind the bar, there was a single, count em, single, tap.  It vomited, guess what, Pilsener, the everyman's beer here in Ecuador.  I actually quite like it.  Maybe that means that I've got a job I just don't know about yet.  Yes!

Another funny thing at Shooter's: there's a "Jirafe" on the menu.  Jirafe meaning Giraffe, of course.  I soon discovered what ol' Shooter had up his sleeve when a waitress brought out what looked like an oversized test tube mounted on a lampstand.  The lampstand had a tap in it, and the huge test tube (about a yard+ tall, 4 in. in diameter) was full of, yep, Pilsener.  A group orders the Jirafe and proceeds to pour their own beers...all four feet of them.  

Later that night, I end up going out with some fellas from the hostel.  We've got Frances (Montreal), Kevin (Australia) and my roommate (from all over).  Kevin is a somewhat gangly fellow, though he's quite gregarious and talkative.  I quite enjoy chatting with him.  We talked about how the culture of America is rubbish yet how individual Americans always seem so genuine and gracious.  

Now Kevin has had a wild ride here in Ecuador.  He's probably 50, and an economist amongst other things.  He's sporting an interesting look, with two terribly blacked eyes and a totally bloodshot left eye.  Not knowing what the hell to say to get to the bottom of it, I don't ask anything.  Being Kevin, he comes right out and tells me.  He was robbed once in Quito.  His money, wallet, watch, and British passport were stolen.  There was little violence involved in Robbery 1.0.  Unfortunately for Kevin, he was wearing a target of some sort, and he is attacked again.  This time, attacked is used in a literal sense.  Evidently, Kevin is approached by 6 gentlemen who surround him and stare menacingly.   Kevin responds by smashing one of their jaws.  Broken, he tells me, assuredly broken.  

As one might imagine, the remaining five hoodlums give Kevin the what-for.  Right in the eyes.  Hence, the raccoon mask he's wearing.  He cannot see out of his left eye.  He really looks like shit.  Lucky for Kevin, he has a solution.  Kevin literally wears his sunglasses at night.  One has to feel bad for Kev.  He's had a shitty month.  The governments involved aren't making said month any smoother.  

So, the four of us go to a self-proclaimed Irish pub.  We order our Guinness pints, which is to say our 'barriles de Pilsener,' and find that the bar is full of diversions - pool, darts, white people, etc...After a few barriles, sunglass-clad Kevin comes up and drops a bomb - he's signed us up to play pool against the local sharks.  It would be accurate to say that I hate pool, which is somewhat ironic because I totally love pools.  Huh.  

Being extranos, gueros, gringos, o que sea, Kevin and I get skipped a few times in the play order.  That's fine with me, as I hurry to finish my beer so as to have a valid reason for leaving.  As I'm slamming my beer, literally, mid-slam, Kevin comes up and informs me that the time is now. 

Long story short, that pesky ol' one-eyed Aussie and I accidentally win three games in a row, defeating, amongst others, well-known local shark Juan Carlos, who calls me ZZ Top.  I take it as a compliment.  Juan Carlos expects that I should.  

In an interesting coincidence, indeed one which gives me great hopes for the future, I met a fella who was interested in 'hiring' me for a teaching gig.  Fella's name is Ed, and he's acquainted with my roommate here at Posada del Maple in Quito.  Ed was inquiring as to my purpose for being in Ecuador.  I reply, naturally enough, that I'm here to teach, though I'm not sure how, where, with whom, or what exactly I'll be teaching.  I explain to Ed that I don't really want to teach English for the rest of my life, and that I enjoy working with children.  Out of nowhere, Ed responds that there is a group of 'ninos pobres' who need educatin'.  He asks if I'd be interested, and reminds me that they're pobrecitos.  'Ed,' I say, 'I can't even get communicate with rich kids.  It's not in my blood.'  

Ed says that he, regretfully, can't offer me any payment, but would be willing to have me stay in his home and eat with him and his family if I were to teach these poor youths.  I wonder if Ed knows he basically made me an offer I can't refuse...if it were in Cuenca.  Still, I'm encouraged by the fact that I was able to so simply find something as interesting as Ed's offer in the first two days I'm in Ecuador.  

I just might pull this off.

First Full Day in Quito aka Visa-it's the only thing I hate about Ecuador.

8:48 AM - Bruce Springsteen wakes me up w/album version of Thunder Road.

Send 1st email from Hostel.

Catch cabbie to take me to the Ministerio de Gobierno.  He charges $4.00, takes me to "Quito Viejo."  A wonderful drive and nice way to start the day.  We arrive, after having a peachy chat, which ended in me getting his name and number for future cab rides.  Miguel.  I step out of the cab fat, dumb, happy, and a gringo, expecting this good luck to continue long into the trip.  I step up to the front door and assume that the looks I'm receiving are due to my beard, my silly hat, or my captivating smile.  Wrong.  I'm at the wrong place.  I'm pretty sure it was the Vice President's office.  I leave.

New cabbie claims to know where we're headed, which is San Ignacio 210 San Javier.  30 minutes later, 12 directions inquiries later, he kicks me out, claiming the place doesn't exist.  He's acting like an asshole, and I don't know why.  I ask him if he really thinks he deserves the $3 tarifa de taxi, not because I don't want to pay it, but because I really want him to be self-critical.  According to him, he absolutely deserves the $3.  Fine.

Find another cabbie.  He's perfect.  He's not a softy, like Miguel.  He's not a prick, like #2.  Like the middle bowl of porridge, he's just right.  We arrive 2 minutes later, which tells me blockhead #2 might have had some sort of sense in his massive skull.  Sorry, number 2, I am speaking passionately.  I don't really mean it.  The 'just right' cabbie has saved the day, and drives off into the sunset...with my Certificacion de Visitacion on his front seat.  He was holding it for the address.   

I step out of the car, not knowing I've left him a surprise.  Before my sandal-clad foot lands on San Ignacio, I'm bombarded with sauve dudes fliffing lawyers' business cards in my face.  I don't want them, because I don't want to think that I need a lawyer for self-declaration.  

I enter the building, and boy was everyone glad to see me!  I look around in a stupor, taken aback by all the mess, and suddenly realize that I've left my envelope in 'Just Right's' cabbie, #9841.  I ask the lawyer what's up.  He vomits words in a language I haven't spent much time with in years.  The vomit is enough to make me nauseous, and I respond by politely nodding and saying, 'si.'  I get a couple of key words, 'diez dolares,' 'banco international,' 'copias de documentos,' 'ramen noodles.'  Not really ramen noodles, but it might as well have been.

I take his advice and start walking aimlessly, searching for a copy machine who lives in an abandoned bank building constructed entirely with ten dollar bills.  They use US currency here, by the way.  

As you can imagine, the already jumbled message has been sufficiently jostled on my trot over to the Banco Internacional, and the bank teller can't make any sense of it.  She probably told her coworkers later how much I was sweating and how I was taller than every other person in the entire country (save the one-eyed Australian raccoon with whom, in a matter of hours, I would be accidentally killing at pool).  

I cross the street and see a small business center that makes copies.  Here's my lucky break, I say.  Things is finally startin' to look up for me and you, pal, I say.  I make copies.  She charges me "dos y cuatro."  I'm thinking 2.40, and I nearly wet myself.  I would say I was embarrassed when I give three dollars, but I've been in a perpetual state of healthy embarrassment since I nearly met the VP on day 1.  Ain't vulnerability a trip?

Copies in hand, I make my way back to the Ministerio de Gobierno to speak with the lawyers and figure out the deal.  I'm approached by a man who is by far the most suave of the lawyers' assistants.  He tells me that 'Just Right' had apparently, in his caring and thoughtful way, come looking for me once he saw that I left a parcel in "9841.  He has 'Just Right's' phone number.  It doesn't work.  I say f-it.  I'll try with my other documents.  I find the lawyer and get things straight.  Apparently, I'm to deposit ten dollars into the Banco Internacional into the account of the Ministerio de Gobierno.  I do this.  The bank teller seems much less amused than I about how much I've learned.

I re-enter the Ministerio with deposit slip in hand, grab a number, and wait like a civilized person, only sweating and serving as the focus of everyone's undivided attention.  By the time my number is called, I've cooled down both physically and emotionally.  It doesn't take the gentleman long to become perplexed.  Something's missing?  Something's missing, alright.  'Just Right' took off with my C de V.  I play the victim.  Sorry, 'Just Right.'

This gentleman has no time for pity parties, however, and he sends me out with nothing changed but a new address in hand and some advice for a sucker.  I'm to go to the Ministerio de RREE, the office called Asuntos Migratorios.  They can get me a new Certificacion de Visitacion.  Oh, and they're closed already.  Manana?

Here's the rub.  I catch yet another cabbie.  I tell him to take me back to the Hostel.  He makes a U-turn and goes about 1.25 blocks.  I'm home in less than 2 minutes.  

Later that evening, I stop to have my first Ecuadorian meal.  I stop in the wrong place.  All they have is seafood and it's expensive, relatively.  I decide to sit and have a beer anyway.  I eventually order "Arroz con camarones, sin camarones."  "Me llamo Cameron, y por eso no necesito mas camarones," I say jokingly.  La mesera doesn't get it.  Her loss.  

I realize I'm in Ecuador when I order a beer without specifying a brand and I'm understood to mean 'Pilsener.'  It's the beer of the people.  I also realize I'm in Ecuador when, in place of chips and salsa, or bread and butter, I'm given a bowl of popcorn and plantain chips with some of the freshest salsa I've ever eaten.  That worked.  What a great day.  One down, N+1 to go, where N>0.

UPDATE - On this, my second day in Ecuador, I head to the Ministerio de RREE, wait for a couple of hours.  The lady gives me the following address - San Ignacio 210 San Javier.  No, no, no.  I'm bigger than you, and I'm not leaving with that as my next stop.  I've already been there.  Evidently, I need to have a letter which says, "I'm a jumbo dumbo and I need a replacement Certificacion de Visitacion.  That darned Just Right sped away with my first one."  Again, sorry Just Right.  Then they contact Houston or something and we're in business.  

On the plane.

So I just realized that my hostel has wi-fi which is much faster than the computer here, which is a hunk of junk.  Here's some fun stuff before we're even in Ecuador.  From my sketch book, as will most of the posts for a while be, while I navigate wi-fi spots.  Shut up, journals are where the damn idea came from in the first place..

"It begins.  2/25/09 12:05 PM.  Just had a beer in SA.  Had a Budweiser, because I'm not paying import prices in Ecuador.  Sitting @ gate, 15/25 people on cell phones.

Lady slamming bacon/ranch/egg/cheddar salad when, suddenly, some clown begins to scream, no SCREAM, in spanish.  His spanish sucks a fat one.  I am confident in my spanish more than ever.

Sure enough, the clogger gets mad that she's being outdone by shave-head business baldy and decides to take it up a notch.  Her daughter who is probably about 7 is concerned that they will not be able to bring their water onto the plane.  This is a valid, if not extremely observant concern.  Mom is convinced otherwise, and promptly ends the conversation with the following word to the wise: 'Stop arguing, you're not an adult.'  Whoa.

Vegetarianism means options.

On the plane to Quito, I am told my vegetarian snack cannot be found.  It isn't on the plane.  Like Jodie Foster in that one plane movie, I argue and say they're all crazy.  They respond that it's me, Ms. Foster, who's crazily mistaken.  

Instead, I'm offered a salad and the other shit.  

I receive a small iceberg and red cabbage salad, caesar dressing (anchovies), mayo (eggs) for my missing veggie burger, chocolate bar (milk), and a packet of Cholula hot sauce.  

Solution: Eat the iceberg naked.  Enjoy how bitter and shitty it is in a way you've never done before.  Order a tomato juice.  Cross fingers for a full 12 oz can, but prepare for the worst.  Take the worst, and dump Cholula hot sauce in.  Savor that 'mato juice as never before.  Also, don't forget about the almonds that you bought in the airport (4.49).  Eat slowly and enjoy every bite as your planemates stuff their faces with either a chicken sandwich or beef burrito.  Their stomachs will hurt."

A Todo Madre o un Desmadre

I was yamming with my buddy Kajander and I came up with a fairly silly, but somewhat apt metaphor for a specific type of passionate effort that I've thought on a lot. I've thought of a few examples of the type of effort I'm referring to. Without further ado,

1. I decide to join a street gang. I have little firsthand experience with street gangs; not much outside of sharing a classroom with folks more profoundly involved. I've learned quite a bit academically, which is to say from books, movies, discussions and websites. I have an undeniably powerful affinity for understanding gang life and legitimizing gangs as social clubs. It is with this affinity and curiousity that I come up with my idea. Here's the situation:

I approach a group of fellas who appear to be gang-affiliated in a neighborhood rife with gang activity. Let's go with East LA. I explain to them the aforementioned facts about my link with gangs, and go on to offer them my services. I am very direct about stating my intention of becoming a respected and feared member of their gang. I have not chosen them for who they represent, just that they do, in fact, represent.

My assumption is that they would first laugh, and likely tell me to scram. Here's where it gets interesting. Instead of scramming, I continue to explain to these gentlemen that I'm very passionate about involvement. I explain that coupled with my passion is a willingness to do whatever it takes, literally whatever it takes, to earn their respect. I'm willing to kill babies, rabbis, zookeepers, grandmas, animals, anything. This game goes on and on and I'm probably beaten a few times. Not good enough, my newfound friends, not good enough.

The essence of the game is that it always offers two clear solutions. First, I eventually get murdered or die from a beating, either by 'friend' or foe. Second, I eventually earn the respect of the members of the gang and am rewarded with the rightful (albeit gruesome and heinous) respect for having become a ruthless and loyal killer.

It's being, quite literally, being willing to do _____ to the death.

2. The second example I've thought about is getting close to the president of Venezuela. I know a functional amount of Spanish, but nothing near what would be required to be an advisor to Chavez. The game goes the same way. I simply move to Venezuela and try to find a way to get to Chavez. I write him letters, I get on the radio, I memorize his speeches and those of his predecessors, I become active in bringing the vote out for him, and so on.

Rejection will come often and may come at a price. The price might be physical, but more importantly, there will be metaphysical costs. I might have to, as with the first example, renounce pieces of my moral code. I might be contradicting policy beliefs I have, and might even be involved in hurting people that I truly care about. This is no excuse in this game, however. One must do all one is able in order to achieve the goal, or perish as a result of its attainment.

Now where does this all come from? A multifaceted answer will provide some insight.

First, as might have been deduced by the title of this musing, there is a parallel with my stories and the film Blood In Blood Out. In fact, I didn't even see this until I began writing these words, but it's obvious that the movie had a huge effect on me. In the movie, there is a young man who was born of a Mexican American mother and an Anglo father. He has grown up in a culture of Mexican American street gangs, and wishes to become a respected member of the gang Los Vatos Locos. In the end, he basically gives his life in a similar way as I described earlier in the first example. Even as I'm writing this, I'm realizing how uncanny the similarities are. I guess I'm basically analyzing a theme in the movie. But we've come this far, so I'll continue.

Beyond that, I have some thoughts about vulnerability that relate to the aforementioned stuff. I think that some of the most profound moments in people's lives come in times of extreme vulnerability. I think realization of one's vulnerability is necessary for one to fully give their lives to a cause, whatever that cause might be. I think it's a beautiful thing to admit that you humble yourself before a cause. Most of us don't work this way.

This leads me to the reason I was thinking on this. I don't generally act in this way. Obviously, I try to stick to my moral code, my understanding of logic, and what little I believe or know about the world. I wouldn't want to ignore any of these under normal circumstances. Beyond this, I also tend to intellectualize issues, which tends to keep me from getting involved. I end up in the clouds of academia and I feel as though, while I gain a great deal of knowledge about an issue, I sometimes fail to make a direct difference in that issue.

I am hoping that, in Ecuador, I will embrace my vulnerability, both social in having no compadres and linguistic in having to bridge a gap in my communication. I hope that I can accept my vulnerability and be honest about it with the people involved in things I'd like to be active in. I hope that I express my passion and knowledge for interesting issues and projects. In response, I believe I will be accepted as a comrade in the struggle.

I don't think the metaphor enhances this musing at all. It's not very simple, which I guess is similar to the posting. It's a bit jumpy. Sorry. I'm about to leave the country and my head's all over the place. Geez.

Cartesian Convo.

Earlier today, my heart to my body, "Where the hell are you already?"

Dream From The Night of Michael Jordan's Birthday

I've somehow made my way into a church. It's a really big church. I can tell I don't want to be there. I'm not alone in the church, as evidenced by the other people in the church. There are all different kinds of people there. I still don't want to be there.

A guy approaches me. He's wearing a drab grey suit and khaki pants. His mustache says "Screw you." He'd never actually let it say that, though. He is some sort of minister or pastor. The reason he approaches is because he has been trying to get me to join the church. I don't want to join his massive church nor his mustache. I'd rather be honest.

Then, I'm being held by two people that I hadn't seen. They hold me under my arms. Another person wheels an apparatus over to me. The apparatus is a modified crucifix. The back of it looks like a traditional, wooden crucifix. I soon find out that it's different, though. Imagine you're facing the cross from the front. Approximately where Jesus' elbows would have been are two metal planks stuck out in front of the crucifix. They are perfectly parallel with the ground. At the very end of the metal plank, there are handles that extend towards the sky. They are padded.

I am soon on the crucifix. My head is strapped in with a leather strap with a buckle. My hands grabbed the handles and were tied down. My feet dangled below me.

At this point, I noticed all the people in the pews. They had all turned around to watch me. They assumed I was becoming a believer/member/comrade. I knew I didn't want to do this. I had a feeling that guy (mustache) had been working me over pretty good. It seemed I had been resisting successfully so far. This was his last hope to overpower me.

I wanted to hurt him. I decided to hurt his feelings. And those of the members. I began to sing, or rap, a song. The song I chose to sing to hurt their feelings was Straight Outta Compton by NWA. I rapped the entire first verse in the dream. I remember coming to the 'N' word. I don't say this word. I said the word in the dream. Offensiveness was the name of the game in that old church. As soon as I said it, I looked into the seated crowd and saw an African American man. I felt embarrassed continued the song. And the 'N' words. My fleeting embarrassment made my face hot and presumably red.

Soon thereafter, the song was done. I felt victorious.

Next up was an old breakdancing friend of mine, who I'll call Jose Castellon. It's not his real name. Jose was put onto the modified crucifix. He had a red t-shirt on. His head was shaved totally, save his bangs. These were long and full of hair gel. His blue jeans were baggy. They almost completely covered his white K-Swiss sneakers, but not quite.

Jose was similarly strapped into Crucifix 2.0. He wanted to be as defiant as I had been. It was nighttime now. He demonstrated his defiance in a totally different way. He began to breakdance. His hands and head strapped in, his legs were the only things moving. They were moving like crazy. They were flipping and flopping around like a fish out of water. Only it was terribly talented, angry, and effective.

Jose breakdanced all night long. Literally, he continued his kinesthetic resistance until morning. In the morning, after having watched him all night, he finally gave up, exhausted and atrophied. I approached him to help him down. As I got near, I noticed that he had blood and spit hanging from his relaxed lips.

Seeing this made me sick and angry but something made me feel as though Jose's protest had worked. I guess he looked like a bonafide martyr.

On definitivism.

I was with my dad last evening at my grandfather's house and we were discussing what I call definitivism. There likely is a better word for it, and it's also likely that in philosophical circles the term has been more profoundly analyzed and defined. My definition, by contrast, is terribly simple. I speak of definitivism as an outlook on things in the world with a definitive attitude, as when one shares with full confidence either a pure opinion on a matter or else a statement of fact that is wholly unfounded, uninformed, and possibly even false. We all express ourselves with some level of definity, albeit some folks seem less convinced by their own ideas and beliefs than others. This musing is about those who speak definitively about nearly everything they share with us.

This all might be obvious, though I want to explore it. We got to discussing people who use their convictions in their religious beliefs as a means to be similarly convicted in, to pull something out of the sky, the construction of a teapot. Take belief in, let's say, Jesus, as the son of the Almighty God, who died, came back, said this, was white, wants us to do this, doesn't mind if we do that, etc...All that 'knowledge' is seemingly inconsequential when it comes to understanding the construction of said teapot. However, it follows that if one has 'discovered' the 'answer' to the unanswerable, one might feel like being confident in matters as trivial as the teapot is totally legitimate.

A couple of thoughts on this. First, and most obvious, there is a logical disconnect. Assuming one's knowledge of an almighty creator is in some way correct, we have no better understanding of their knowledge on a wholly unrelated subject, specifically the more mundane and more concrete subjects (coffeepot).

Furthermore, I'm somewhat skeptical that we'll ever totally understand the brain and how it works, considering we're using the brain to do the investigating. We've gotten quite far, but I do see there being a limit. In the same way, when considering an all-powerful creator, I have trouble understanding how one can claim to 'know' said creator with the specificity of knowing Her/His/Its desires, words, hopes, disappointments, intentions, morality, logic, etc...it seems to me that a similar ceiling of knowledge exists here as with using the brain to understand the brain, assuming .

On a more pragmatic level, I fear how this logic pervades a person's view of the world. I feel as if definitivism, acting as I've attempted to describe, is the opponent of relativism - naturally, the idea that truth is relative. While I am not a huge fan of extreme relativism, I want to draw a parallel.

There seems to be a battle similar to that between what I have called definitivism and relativism. I see that the two different battles have their roots in the same thinking process and logic. That epic battle, of course, is that between intolerance and empathy, and it's one in which we can't afford to see empathy defeated.