CRITICAL UPDATE: Joselito Watch

We're pushing Day 4 on our lovely adventure through my intestinal tract. This morning I attempted rejoining my fellow TBBers at the university, but nay. It wasn't meant to be. On the walk to school I could tell something was amiss, but it wasn't until partway through our morning lecture by Lina, a blind masseuse working in Kunming, that the tremors really began. The worst part about the experience, I reckon, is that it's so darn painful. And maybe if it was the other exit I could just get it out and spray some Febreeze and be done with it. But no. We must instead transfer onto the traffic-jammed highway of up-chucking and then promptly fainting just to irritate the other drivers. Naturally this process operates best when it is in the wee small hours of the morning, so when I regain conciousness, alone, 15 minutes later, I can happily crawl back to my double bed in a relatively lessened state of embarrassment.

And now, I have been in this temple of World of Warcraft for a solid 6 hours as I await my homestay family's return to the apartment so I can, hopefully, indulge in some well-deserved repose. And maybe some Lord of the Rings on tape.

Wish me luck.

Getting Shotgun, Dumplings, and Joselito's Revenge

What is it about taxi rides here? For some reason, I am perpetually in the front seat. Even when there is enough space for me in the back, it's as if I'm drawn to being shotgun. The unobstructed view of the charming Kunming cityscape, the cabbie's cheap cigarette smoke conveniently blowing out his window, the cold yet elegant curvature of the links in the metal barrier between me and the driver; I relish the entirety of the experience. Not to mention the power. For reasons unknown to me, my fellow passengers always seem to think that whoever's in the front seat magically obtains Mandarin fluency and is therefore the only one qualified to communicate with the cab driver. Ah yes, my throne of linguistic mastery!

Here are some things I thought many of my audience (I'm using that word optimistically considering my prolonged absence) would enjoy being updated on. I'm enjoying off time right now. That means I'm not pushing myself to the limit as much anymore as I concentrate on just enjoying China for what it is: an utterly different, mind-altering experience. If I let it be. Traditionally that would mean that you never see me at all, and my absence makes your hearts grow fonder, and then I appear again with my next arbitrary outburst and we all get grooving again. Things have changed a bit, and the decision, or should I say situation, to slide on and off your radar isn't necessarily my own anymore. Maybe it's China's? But I'm too young to stomp my feet about it. All I can do is concentrate on keeping my heart and soul correct and then redecorate around it.

So the life you see in pictures of me (posted by others of course) might not resemble the one you saw when you first picked up the story of my little-big adventure, but I'd be willing to bet your life looks different since then, too. All that matters is that the evolution of being a person stays correct, and I think when you read these next chapters you won't regret a thing.

I definitely won't begin to apologize for all these absences, but I understand. No, seriously, I do. I just think sometimes in the middle of all the parental gossip madness and worry and excitement you just need to hear my voice to let you know that I'm still here. So here I am. Well, sort of. By voice I mean the voice your mind has invented for me as you read this. And maybe from now on I'll give you some more updates so that you don't feel as if I've disappeared and been, as a great man once said, 'replaced with a robotic clone, like in that movie "The Last Starfighter". Though if I had been, I'd want you to know that I'm very happy where I am defending the great planet of Rylos, long may she prosper.'

Asia... It's easily one of the most humbling and beautiful places I have ever been. There's just so much history, even in Tong'hai, the little town a few hours outside of Kunming. And what with language, outward appearance, mannerisms... it's as if I can do nothing not to stand out. And also, I have never in my life felt more like a tourist everywhere I go. My only respite is in the temples. I'll sidetrack here for a moment, because I'd like to note that, although they can be somewhat cumbersome to access, the temples here have provided an extrinsic, alluring solace for me the likes of which I've also never experienced before. Especially when alone, I've found these places of multilateral veneration to be not only humbling in a historical sense, but also somewhat alleviating. There's something to be said for having a place like that, even if it's just to play Mahjong with your fellow elderly friends or just to be in is such a foreign concept to me. Or perhaps it is only foreign now because I am seeing it as if for the first time; with "new lenses" as Robin would say.

In any case. The weekend was marvelous. John, Alexandra, and I cashed-in our Independent Travel tokens to, initially, experience first-hand the mystery and controversy that is the Tibetan border town of Shangri-La. Unfortunately, the relentless rains this past week had led to serious landslides along the bus routes to the area, so our only alternate means of transport was a $69 plane ride, two-thirds of our party unwilling to foot the bill, we were inclined to invent a different 'adventura'.

And so it began. Sam, our Virginian-now-15-year-Chinese-citizen NGO rep, gave us a few ideas of locales in the form of a 30-minute long instructional lecture which consumed much of our lunch break to Alexandra's disdain, though we surely walked away significantly less hopeless about our situation than before. We decided, eventually, on an excursion to the Stone Forest, about 2 hours outside of Kunming, and a recently crowned World-Heritage site. After some debating about the quality of our potential lodging, we settled on a hotel my host mother had Googled for us and departed at around 4PM Friday afternoon.

Unfortunately, we were so unprepared for the mob of privately-owned car companies awaiting us at the bus station that 300 Yuan later we found ourselves in the saran-wrapped backseat of a lovely new sedan all because of the prompting of a stout woman in a pantsuit wearing a red sash. So much for trusting official-looking people. No, no, she didn't necessarily lead us astray, though the proprietors of said car company certainly did, I thought, as we criss-crossed street after street to reach different parking lots and deliberate over the relative crappiness of each potential mode of transport.

The journey didn't seem to take too long, I mostly played video games, Alexandra stared out the window thoughtfully as she iPodded, and John... stared- And also enjoyed the Asian pop-techno thumping from the polished side-door speakers. Before we knew it we were politely yet speedily exhumed onto the busy intersection of an unknown city-town and were told, in charades (the native language of the area) that it would be wise to hail a taxi if they were us. And we did. And it was good. about 40 Yuan and 15 minutes later (ridiculous in our eyes even though it was really only about 6 US dollars) we found ourselves at a wonderful hotel which may or may not have been the hotel my host mother had chosen for us where the Chinese tour guide of a group of Parisian tourists communicated to the desk clerk for us our needs and we finally witnessed a situation where John's French skills were useful. Our room was lovely and exceedingly cheap (once the conversion rate was taken into consideration)and the Stone Forest itself was even lovelier. We wandered about unchaperoned and paying no mind to the beaten trail, a risk we were often rewarded with hidden lagoons and caverns and little places of such stunning beauty and wonder that it was difficult to instigate ourselves to keep moving, but I suppose sheer curiosity urged us on more than anything else.

And, naturally, now that I am back in Kunming, our delightful lunch of fried eels and marinated mushrooms on the return trip, the most probable cause in my mind, has striked-back and I am paying for it dearly. Honestly, you Gods of Unfortunate Bowel Movements, will you never allow me a fortnight without vomiting!?

....

Thanks to ancient Chinese secrets, I am on the straight and incredibly narrow road to recovery. Oh, and also thanks to the Kunming Science and Technology University Hospital's head doctor's assistant who informed me that the most logical diagnosis of my ailment was the result of the mild yet occaisionally rainy climate here in Yunnan province has led to my stomach getting cold because, like all Americans, I don't dress nearly as warm as I should considering the weather is practically the same as it is in my beloved Avila Beach and didn't I know that the cold would make my stomach uncomfortable and, as a result, would cause it to revolt against me? But of course! Why didn't I think of that. Nothing an antihistamine injection in the upper ass region and about 40 tablets of Chinese traditional medicine won't take care of.

Oh China. I love thee so.

A Wise King Once Told Me...

It is as if I have been placed in some peculiar, uncertain purgatory. What with my charming new parasite friend, the wrapped gauze still taped to the back of my hand, and my stomach aching and empty (save for a plain roll of bread; the first piece of food I've had for days) I doubt I have left the hostel more than twice since we arrived here. Perhaps sooner rather than later I will get up and eat another roll of bread (oh my!) but I suppose I shouldn't be hasty. Honestly, what I wouldn't give for a Caesar salad from Novo's right now; what a wonderful thought! Anchovies, sun-dried tomatoes, freshly sliced parmesan, all on crisp and succulent romaine hearts with the perfect amount of savory, tangy Caesar dressing.

Oh my.

Alright, disaster avoided, I have discovered another roll. Unfortunately my stomach doesn't appear to like the look of it so we're having a bit of a face-off until one of us decides the best course of action.

Alas, the Internet access this evening is unascertainable and hopefully the folks here at Otavalo Huasi will have called someone by 8 and organized some sort of armistice with the web gods and allow me to update you on all the haps. Until then, I will continue my vigil on the signal strength bar and continue to type away in the mac-version of working offline. There's very odd sounds outside; I can't tell if it's gunfire or fireworks. There's also quite a bit of people noise, but I suppose it's more suggestive of harmless revelry than anything else.

Well, the hospital experience was far more pleasant than I would have thought, if pleasant is near the description I'm searching for. Sandy and I had a wonderfully charming taxi driver, though admittedly my state of enfermedad weakened my Spanish comprehension somewhat, who inquired very politely and interestedly about our epic journey before charging us 3.50 for our cab fare. The entrance to the institution was surprisingly flash and modern, with majestic potted plants and sleek, stylized interior design, and somewhat imposing with it's high, arched ceilings segmented by various floors of the atrium. The emergency room, directed to us by a lovely Information Desk attendant, was guarded by a policemen who looked us over briefly and ushered us in via his infra-red security card, was surprisingly different than the lobby. Although the admittance desk was well-staffed and positioned openly to the waiting area, the rest of the emergency room was, truly, one very large room partitioned-off by tall white curtains emblazoned with "Hospital Metropolitano". Each of these "rooms" held an examination table, sink, cabinetry, and a few chairs. After obliging to reveal my cringeworthy passport picture, a nurse escorted Sandy and I into one of the curtained rooms and I promptly changed into a gown (on request, thank you) and reclined on the table. Everything, even the sheets, were printed with the name of the hospital, and were often accompanied by other, less comforting, little reminders of where I was. After the usual blood pressure check, the nurse excused herself and the doctor rushed in and performed a relatively thorough examination, thumping occasionally around the back and asking if it hurt. Afterwards a distinctly humbling moment which I´d rather not record, blood was drawn and my very first IV inserted, and four hours and multiple white patches on my arm later I was released with three different types of medication and "Parasite" branded on my mysterious affliction.

If anything, now pushing day 5 of this wonderful state, I've learned to always, always, purify water. Not just boil. Purify.

Definitely Maybe More Soon

So. Just letting everyone know that I am most certainly still alive, although I have contracted an intestinal disruption for the third week in a row and I continue to perpetuate my Irish gripe and support Ecuador's flourishing Kleenex industry. As the US Presidential Debates rage on downstairs and Obama's welcome gravelly rhetoric echo up to my lonely hostel bedroom, I write with the intention of assuring people that I will write. Soon.

A Swift Return

And we´re off.
After the brief respite of Sua´s very Avila-like ease and tranquility, in cohorts with the consistent whistling and hoots that accompany our daily walks through... well, anywhere, we are now in the final hours of departure. And then, on to that wonderful bus ride and Wilson´s glorious truck. As always, gringos se vende.
Last night was relatively productive in some respects. We set off with the intention of prospecting the grand opening of a new Karaoke bar in town, but before that potential adventure we needed dinner, and, naturally, our male counterparts made reservations at the very empty seafood restaurant a few blocks down for eight, which isn´t very productive when there are eight other hungry students wandering the streets. So, disbanded, our plan was abandoned and the other half of us dined, instead, at the cafe we saw the other pack of gringos eating at the night we arrived. It was a delicious, if not somewhat cold, meal of seasoned beef, rice, and lentils with fried flowerettes of plantain (by the way, the author would like to mention that contrary to popular opinion, plantain is absolutely delicious.)

We left the cafe after a brief deliberation over the cuenta and wandered back to the hostel where I played a few songs for some of the group and Emily and I went over her instruction of the song "Plane" by Jason Mraz. Which reminds me how useful some new guitar tabs would be!!!

Speaking of Emily, she is awaiting use of this beautiful machine. So I must soon relinquish it to her. But before that I wanted to mention what followed after.

John, Alexandra, Emily and I meandered our way down the beach around midnight and played intimidating Once Upon A Time In Mexico soundtrack songs to a pack of young Ecuadorian males who were headed our way, which seemed to scare them off relatively quickly, and discussed the most successful methods of frightening an attacker in a difficult situation, the conclusion of which was to make trilling sounds and dance like a crab before singing "Nooo, rapist!" in a lovely falsetto and luring the pursuer towards a body of water and engaging into a fatal death roll via crocodile. I think it would work, but it has yet to be put into action as it is still in a working state.

Bua, I return to you, and with all my wishes of never handling chicken wire and wet concrete simultaneously ever again.

Pura Vida And A Brief Apology

Breakfast is sincerely lacking here in Ecuador, in the this small seaside gringo haven of Sua, from both my stomach and the towns limited eateries, but I will find the time to ignore my impatient group members and pound this out while I can.

Up to this moment, the stifling heat has yet to really bother me, and the bus rides, very sardine can-like, have actually been quite enjoyable.

I have, in fact, enjoyed nearly every minute so far.

And the key to it all has been, I believe, adapting the role of what Robin, one of our fearless leaders, would describe as a "participant observer". Because this experience can be so very much like camp in the way that there will always, always be drama and disagreements, groups and solitary wanderers, and in the midst of it all I aim to be immersed and apart.

Where do I begin after this long delay?

I will start at the present, because to backtrack now would only perpetuate my already undesirable situation of reliving all these moments, and will allow me the time to muse on Orientation and my preconceived notions of people dashed (or fulfilled).

From Bua, one of seven functioning Tsachila communities in Ecuador, we took a five-hour bus journey to the small seaside village of Sua, though I doubt there is any real connection between the names.

During the bus ride, I sat next to Sean, affectionately dubbed Frodo by a handful of us in regards to his unruly, Hobbit-like hair, and we read articles from Adbusters about China in the darkling glow of the evening as we passed through cookie-cutter Ecuadorian city-towns which all have the same basic landmarks: nook after nook of CABINAS flagged by a stripe of red paint and the letters outlined in white, naturally with only one functioning international telephone; whole streets of cart vendors who will stubbornly sell the exact same goods and snacks at exactly the same prices in close proximity to one another, skeletal outlines of re-bar and concrete that mark government housing in five-to-ten-year purgatories of incompletion, and a centrally-oriented park which always far outdoes the town itself in regards to cleanliness and is entirely deserted until nightfall when four-year-olds mount ATVs and uniformed schoolboys and girls emerge in droves to mingle outside of campus walls in the dim obscurity of an Equatorial evening.

Sua is hardly different, though in a way it reminds me of what I hope Avila will never be. Bar-huts competing for the attention of travel-fatigued foreigners dot the street parallel to the ocean, which is turquoise and relatively empty this time of year. Most bar-huts have second levels which, equipped with black lights and re calibrated PA systems, function as miniature clubs during the evening. Despite the fact that each of these institutions are no more than 6 or 7 feet away from one another, the air around them pulses with the music they use to draw the gringos in. It appears to usually be a successful combination (cheap alcohol, close proximity to salt water, and loud reggaeton) for most Westerners, as we discovered on our way home from dinner last night (an excellent typical Ecuadorian meal of perfectly seasoned beef, rice, and beans, although lacking in soup which is usually the go-to accompaniment). A young blond woman, part of the group of foreigners we hailed on our way in, staggered over to the entrance of our lodging, Hostal de las Bougainvilleas, and invited us to join her and her friends for a night of revelry. Unfortunately, even the prospect of "a gringo party in one of those hut things" was not an adequate nightcap for us sober travelers. I opted, instead, to beeline for my room, in which I share a double bed with Katie and enjoy the luxuries of a pillow and functioning shower.

And all I really desire is food. Belgian waffles with whipped cream and strawberries, buttermilk pancakes and Aunt Jemima´s maple syrup.... It´s often said in TBB company that the first thing you miss is food. I really can´t argue with that. But... it seems that proximity is a detrimental concept in many situations as well... As much as I enjoy our group and our shimmering differences, there will always be moments in observation or confrontation where I can´t help but feel as though I tremendously miss Midland and the easy assimilation of Midland life and culture. This experience, however, is perpetually about the present and the future, and it is only our reflections on the past and how it has shaped us that should be weighing on our minds. Though, that mindset is something I have yet to truly accept, on this journey at any rate.

I have optimism. And ample interest. And a conviction that this is more than a vacation and much more than a mission of faith than it is of hope and growth.

News of Bua and its own little wonders will come in little time, as access to internet is both frequent and prevalent here in Sua, and I will attempt to make use of it often.

As for now, I am in search of a baño. And waffles.

Pura Vida