Lumbisí

La Curli! Oye Curli! Mira, la Curli!
These are the shouts that I hear as I get off the bus each morning
Stepping off the magic green time machine that brings this
slightly out of place,
light haired, light eyed gringa
into their world.
I guess Its just as hard for them to pronounce the hard 't' in my name,
as it is for me to understand the hard truth of their existence.

I'm transported into a world that seems only to exist in the past.
Could it be that my 20 minute bus ride didn't take me 10 miles out of the city
but 10 decades backwards through time?
And every day, like the shock of realizing that you're dreaming
I realize... I'm not in the past but the present and the future
See, they all look the same here
so its hard to tell.

With every advance there seems to be a setback so
what should be a one way, paved road leading forward into development
is actually a winding dirt path dando vueltas
cycling eternally through a heritage of poverty and tradition
Maybe thats the secret of the green bus
Flying through the mountainous roads
circling past generations, loosing track of time as in arrives in the plaza
always back to the same spot where it left me the day before.

I remember thinking that first day, this pueblo smells old.
But now when I get off that bus
I breath in the town and the memories fill my lungs
fill my whole body,
this pueblo smells like Juanito, Kenner-ruscho, Quishpe, Sancancela, like home.
Mountain air, smoke, dirt, wrinkled hands and sweat.

Dirt that defies gravity to permanently rest in mid air
left there by the children who,
with a few marbles, and a warn out soccer ball
have little use for the latest ipod or video game.
Fruit was meant to be picked and trees meant to be climbed
and well, childhood is over as soon as you learn to grind out a dollar
so I stare that sweet innocence in the face just dare it to dissapear.

Sweat dripping off the faces of three generations of women
abandoned mothers caught in the merciless cycle of machismo
as they sweep the dust off their floors,
shoo the dogs out of their kitchens
stir the soup to feed their sons and daughters
daughters upon whom I wish motion sickness
dizzines that gives them the will to battle the endless circles that have left their mothers and grandmothers oblivious to abuse and injustice

Dancing and laughter linger in my head from a late night fiesta
but my smile turns dry when I see that the celebration has left its mark
Old men sprawed out on the street drunk and bloody and
Somehow, still too prideful to take the the water from my hands.
They leave it to their women to wear their shame
Strong women.
Ribbon weaved into their tight braids,
They are adorned with the pride of withstanding.
Without a word she gets him to the bed.
Head on pillow
Body covered with the cobija she made with her very own hands.
She is an expert at forgetting, swallowing, holding her head high.
Hiding the problem like she hides the scars.

Hoping to understand I follow the road, winding, twisting its way downward.
Passing house after house, cement walls,
bright colord paint faded and peeling
My sound track Reggeaton, Salsa, Meregue and Musica National
Blasting from each window comes a new rythem for my Journey
With rock in hand I pass a pack of starving dogs
Like their human counterparts they are Immune to the feel of flys on their faces or the sound of threatening words so
The rocks only purpose I realize is to feed my need for control.
The smell gets stronger the farther I go.
A heard of cattle pass by on my left.
There smell is distinct from the one that drives me on, down, farther.
Eyes catch sight of me, gently hold me with their gaze
One pair handing me off to the next, carrying me, I'm floating on their curiosity.

Downwards I walk, further further until I hear the sound
The noise a perfect fit for the puzzle peice my nose is holding.
And then sight, ironically the last of my senses to register
I see the River, deep in its basin, its movements flawless, swift and poderosos.
It is the sound of life and the smell of death intermingling
As if to tell me that they are kin.
Here exists that line I've heard about, so fine it is missed by many.
Life, it's joy and its suffering, separated from death by a mere breath of air.
A breath I now take in, gulping it down as if it were scarce.
How many lives these waters have taken,
but how many more they have nsustained
To live in recognition of death is to breath intentionally.

Time seems to laugh as I stand in awe Its greatest juxtoposition
Being and then so suddenly not being.
My mind tired from the search for
Answer that exist in such simplicity
I refuse to accept, to understand.
The fight to move forward is stilled by the river’s control
I am powerless against it and yet
I find strange comfort in such weakness, such closeness to death and to life.
This is the secret of my bus.. The story of this pueblo
Winding through the familiar, the safe, stearing clear of the unknown.