..a very happy Heather gets her dolls house..

..conquering small fears…

I sometimes get very very frustrated with myself, being afraid of doing things resulting in me putting them off and never doing them.

Fear is a funny beast; the unquantifiable unknown, it stops us in our tracks, it takes away our freedom. So it’s a particularly unhelpful emotion. You could say so but how do we use it to our advantage.

If you chose something you thought you could never do, something you fear greatly, there is nothing so satisfying as achieving it. Conquering fear is to opt for the difficult path rather than the easy but on every count is worth it. Can we say therefore that fear helps us? It makes us identify the things that are challenges for us, makes us realise our self imposed limits and how we can extend these and ultimately be more satisfied and feel less restricted.

We can, quite unbelievably so, convince ourselves of anything. If you tell yourself you’re not afraid; if you run ahead of yourself and do the thing you feared in spite of it, you realise you are free to start doing everything you believed you once couldn’t. So in this way, when we realise we’re afraid, we use fear positively, getting the better of it and its potential to remove our freedom.

So it’s become a bit of a life motto to conquer the small fears.

It’s safe to say white water kayaking was one of those. To roll a kayak, to be underwater and fighting to get upright again was one of those. I went, I did and I conquered! The adrenalin was fun. I understand now.

Descending the river my heart started racing as we approached the first set of rapids, small in comparison to the week before when I’d been rafting, but significant in comparison to the size of my kayak. My biggest concern was not turning over and the concentration needed was intense. My kayak instructor said he would always go kayaking before exams to empty his mind of other things. He’s right. It’s impossible to think about other things when you are concentrating so hard. We descend the river further and with ever set of rapids comes the fear but with now way of getting round it, I enter, negotiate, battle the current and exit with a delirious whoop!

I would say Ecuador tends to do this to me, makes me feel like I can conquer the fears. Cross bridges with no sides, go down whitewater rivers. Most things we are more than capable of doing, we just allow fear to stop us.

SUBTEXT

Really it was the shorts that did it.. how could you not have confidence with shorts like these!!

…building a dolls house

My God daughter Heather has been using my bedside cabinet as a dolls house for 2 months now, ‘tidying’ all my worldly possessions and arranging them as she goes in place of my book she uses it for a bed, in place of the sewing set she makes this the table. So I decided to design and make a dolls house.

And luckily for me I met a carpenter who’s very much a doer, rather than me; a thinker and procrastinator! So it got completed inside two days. I wanted to leave it with a natural wood finish (I got my way with the floors) but there was an incident with some pink spray paint which as rather unfortunate. Ultimately I love it and it’s not the kind of thing I could send in the post.. nor find in the shops here. And now the carpenter wants to start a business making dolls houses. A nice memory to leave behind.

...so I finally uploaded some pictures

search the link below...

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=155672&id=509169414&l=c0c73efb08

…being on top of a mountain

A week or so ago I went and sat on top a mountain. I got a lift for the 3 hour journey in a friends car. It was small car, not designed for off-roading and we struggled up the winding lanes and the over deep chunks missing from the roads, only narrowly avoiding them on occasion. We spent most of the journey listening to heavy rain and the radio fuzzing in and out of signal. We left early and I drifted in and out of consciousness, waking with a feeling of malaise and disorientation.

When we stopped the car at the top of the mountain, just below the volcano Tungurahua, I opened the door and got out. And it struck me like a bolt. It was silent. Absolutely silent, almost like being in a vacuum. It was incredible. It made me realise I had been used to some sort of high or low level noise since I got off the plane in Quito. Ecuador is not generally a quiet place. Certainly living in Tena in the Amazon region, if there’s not music playing (which is almost always!) then there’s the noise of the rain and the constant high pitch scream of insects, frogs and birds. This was the first time I had experienced silent in about 2 months. It was quite, quite exquisite.

I wanted to wallow and bathe in the beautiful silence. Lying down on the grass, looking up towards the great expanse of blue sky with the clouds floating past I thought of living just here. How would it be to wake up every day and see this view. The friend whose land I was visiting had plans. Plans to build a hostel right there on the top of the mountain. My concern initially was the active volcano sitting just above us on the opposite side of the valley. A mere stone’s throw away. It’s an incredibly powerful feeling to be so close to an active volcano, seeing the scorce marks down the side of it but know you are not standing directly in its path. It’s like a monster churning out ash, lava, smoke and flames. But on this day it sits, at least for the hours I am there, silent, pausing, taking in a breathe before it belches forth once more.

And we need time for reflection. A pause. A break from the constant noise, the rhythm of work, social events, recreational activities and chores. To think we need time, and space and silence and to remove ourselves from the distractions we surround ourselves with. And so I’m off to the mountains for a few weeks, hopefully from next week. Some time to reflect and put together all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle.

…. Sangre de drago.. (dragon’s blood!)

The forest is full of surprises. And one of my favourites is ‘Sangre de Drago’ - dragon’s blood. It totally appears like dragon’s blood but is in fact a wonderful cure for so many ailments. Here I am using it as an antiseptic. In the humidity here open wounds on skin takes days/weeks to heal properly. Covered in Sangre de Drago they are almost covered by a scab and healed within 24 hours. It’s remarkable. The substance stays on the wound protecting it till the scab falls off.

Note to self: lesson learnt..

Do not use on face the day before a baptism. It makes you look a bit odd!

…how to be a good Godparent Part 2

I wake on the morning of the baptism. I am not well, in fact I’m rather sick. I lay for what seems ages before I realise I am actually going to be sick and then I am.

Damn, that’s 3 times I’ve been sick on a Saturday. I lie there. Hell, I think this is all I need.

I can think of few occasions in my life where I’ve been so integral to proceedings that my absence would render them obsolete. The baptism is at 4pm, my call time is 11am to help with preparations. It’s now 7am in the morning and as the hours pass I pray to feel better.

It’s now 10am and I’ve still to find something to wear, buy and present and write a speech.

12.30pm I can’t eat but I’ve managed to iron my trousers with something from the stone age, find a toy that has some educational value and will not (hopefully) fall apart with 3 seconds of my Godson opening it. I have written a speech and have memorised it. I think.

The hours that follow are passed arranging flowers, folding hundreds of serviettes and arranging them in spirals, wrapping cutlery, changing children and then changing them again. It is a full time job trying to keep children clean.

Everyone climbs in the family’s taxi. My Godson’s grandmother is squashed with two other people in the front seat of the cab. We arrive and roll out, I am worried we are late but in fact we are not by any means the last ones to arrive.

The ceremony passes without too many tantrums. The church is full of children ready to be baptised, the boys dressed in miniature sailor suits and the girls in pretty white dresses and headbands.

But such a tiny part of the day is actually the baptism, what seems the most significant part is what happens after. The music, the food, the drinking.

The party officially starts at 5.30pm. Our second guests, other than close family, arrive at 9pm. By this time I have been distinctly envolucrada in Ecuadorian drinking (see post – xth Feb!). The party continues past 12pm, whereby my friend Emily, also invited, makes her polite exit. I am God mother I cannot make a polite exit. I am there till the last. I’m learning to get better at saying ‘No’! You have to tip the glass of Pilsener beer (that’s all there is to drink) to your lips take a sip, says ‘Salud’ and return it. If you play the game carefully, no one can understand why 9 hours later you’re still standing. When it becomes obvious at 2am that I am struggling but clearly not as drunk as my co-madre (the mother of my Godchild), then attention is concentrated on making her fall first.

At 3.30am after the 3^rd beer run of the night for 2 more crates of 12 large bottles of beer, the small group of remaining family members start dancing raegatton and I am sure the end is in sight. I am gobsmacked when I notice 2 more crates turning up. How can any more beer possibly be consumed, faster than the crates before and with less people. Beer is being poured like it is water.

At 4.30am when my co-madre is no longer able to walk, it’s accepted that I am allowed to go to bed. The party continues below me. I shower and crawl into bed. Even though I have no chance of sleeping I can at least rest.

The party continues till 7am, a small hardy group of male family members strumming at a guitar and singing in dulcet tones.

I sleep till 8.30 and descend the stairs.

My Godson is the only one there to greet me. And he sits there merrily in his now less than white sailor suit amongst the debris from the night before. And I think, I'm not sure about this Godparent thing as I change him into shorts and T-shirt and start removing armies of ants from the leftovers.

…how not to be a good Godparent Part 1

Two days before the baptism of my Godson I am required to attend a session at the local church. There I will learn how to be a good God parent.

I arrive and no-one is there but one of the nuns, I am late but exactly on time even perhaps, as it seems, still a little early. The parents arrive finally too and gradually the pews around me fill up with groups of parents and god parents. Role call is taken. I realise I cannot remember my Godson’s surnames. It’s ok, I pass the test. The nun is rather Mumsy, she does not pick on me but rather saves me from the rigmarole of public speaking. A request is made by her for a donation of $5 or whatever you can give, “$20, $50, $100” she says. One by one people sheepishly hand over $5. There’s some psychology in this. If she’d just said whatever you can give I doubt she’d have ended up with $5 per child. But hey there’s enough there to pay the key note speaker at least.

Just settling down for 2 hours of teachings from the kind looking nun when she retreats to the back, introducing as she does a monster of a woman. This woman has presence and her presence is highlighted by a rosary in her right hand and a palm sized bible in her left. Little as I like to comment on people’s physical appearance, on this occasion it is unavoidable. She is an unattractive woman with an enormous pot belly dripping from her trousers. I’m quite sure if her smile and voice had radiated then the rest would have gone unnoticed.

However it appears she is quite angry with us. She is a recovered alcoholic but she found the church and hasn’t looked back since. She ‘talks’ to people and helps them learn from her experiences. She tells us she accepted being a God parent on numerous occasions caring more for the party that followed than the children. Apparently this is our fault. She is running on the premise that we are all sinners, and naturally do not a clue how to act responsibly with children. She walks up and down the aisles her voice rising and falling, her hands waving vigorously and as her voice rises to a crescendo she clutches both objects in her chest. She doesn’t appear to be speaking to her audience, she appears to be assuming an awful lot about us. It’s very difficult to listen to. She goes on and on and on. I am terrified to let my mind wonder lest she pounces on me with a question however I cannot help but imagine what I would love to say to this beast of woman if only she pushed me a little further. It seems after 45 minutes she’s had enough and is losing her audience, just as I am considering wrestling her to the ground with a wet fish.

Just to hammer it home and make us realise the significant importance of what is going to happen the next day, as if the past 45 minutes weren’t enough, we are greeted by the priest. His appearance resembles that of a caricature, he is short with an enormous nose and glasses and he is light hearted and joking. But this is all rather irrelevant when he’s telling us our children will be passed by and not saved by the great one if they are not baptised. ‘Will they be saved?’ he asks. “Yes” I think, surely there’s an exception for innocents. “No they will not”, he booms. Well that’s quite harsh, I think, I mean they’re innocent and everything, but no they will get nothing, the Great one will be too busy and will move right on over. I think despite the woman’s ranting managing to get alcoholism and baptism in the same sentence, I don’t think anyone is up for the fate the priest speaks of for their children.. so we all proceed to the baptism. A nice 2 hours of fear inducing Catholicism. Good good.

….what’s in the mountains over there…

It’s sometimes difficult to explain what I do here, how the time passes so quickly, where the time goes. Every day I walk along to same road and gaze out to the mountains on the left. The days don’t change in length and seemingly the seasons don’t either but the visibility of the mountains does. Some days the clouds obscure them totally and it seems as though there are no mountains and other days as I descend the hill down the road towards the house, that we are living in a valley with a vast range of mountains sweeping across the landscape, distant forests of trees clinging to the mountainside and my imagination runs riot with huge rivers and wild animals..

But no day is really the same. It seems every day is full of things I want to do and things other people want me to do and somehow usually it just about works out. And things can be so unexpected. Last week I went over to the far side of Tena, further than the airport and even closer to the mountains and there my friend lives. Well more accurately many of my friends once lived too. I passed happy afternoons in the river there, New Year parties, my birthday, taught English songs to friends of family members. Today I was there to help translate some material for a webpage. As usual, like any favour takes, it took at least triple the amount of time you think it’s going to!

As I left at 6.15 it was getting dark. I had a sneaky suspicion I had the missed the last bus. (Local buses seem to working after dark?!) As I approached the corner where the bus stops next to the football field a gentleman walked towards me with a child in tow. I greeted him ‘Good evening and asked if he knew if the last bus had gone. He replied ‘Ya mismo’..meaning right now (or possibly within the next hour!). Subconsciously knowing I was in for the long haul, I launched into some mountain chat. I am always curious to know what local people say is in the mountains. From the Amazon in Tena there are no roads or communities living further than an hour out of Tena to the West towards the mountains. The area is uninhabited and by all accounts inhospitable. I’d heard stories of people going in search of gold, of some thrill seeking tourists who’d contracted a helicopter to take them and all their rafting kit into the mountains to some of the wildest rivers and there one of them fell victim to the spirits of the mountains and was killed. The spirits do not take kindly to ones they do not know.

How many days does it take, I asked. And it’s cold at night, right?! This much I had gathered. We continued to talk and the myths and legends continued.

We talked, I waited, it got darker and darker and the mountains became silhouettes on the horizon and then eventually lost their definition completely. Conversation turned to language. It appears I had chanced upon one of the Director of the Bilingual Kichwa/Spanish education system who was battling for the betterment of the authenticity of Kichwa spoken by youths nowadays. I found myself engrossed in a conversation about linguistics and the development of language. He was firmly in the camp that language should not change, I was sitting on the fence between the camps, but with one hand gently stroking the new developing language camp.. at least it’s language being used, I thought.

When it was dark, he suggested he was going my way and as if from nowhere (well actually a rather convoluted conversation with someone on the corner who later appeared to be his wife) a brand new shiny pickup truck fresh from the factory floor appeared. A very welcome gesture as I was less than keen to be stranded by a phantom bus.

And as things turn out, I knew the family. As I got in the car I saw a familiar face. A lovely girl, a friend of a friend (well my ex-boyfriend’s cousin) who had celebrated my 22^nd Birthday with me, welcoming me into the traditions of Ecuadorian birthdays by pushing my face into my birthday cake. She’s now married and the boy in the front of the car her son.

Tena is a very small place sometimes, perhaps made to appear smaller by the giant mountain parimo. I don’t think most people ever think about going there. People huddle safe in the town but I always gaze out towards the mountains planning an adventure… one day….