If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

As Eric learned the hard way, I have a thing about hair. That is, other people's hair.

In the tub. On the pillowcase. On a wall, in a corner, or, worst of all, on the dining table (can you imagine?!) Good Lord. I don't know if I have what it takes to survive in this world. Much less the Third World.

I have had cups of coffee (Nescafe, usually) in dwellings with no windows, with huge gaps between the wooden slats that make up the walls. Places where chickens feel perfectly comfortable walking around indoors. Places that bats inhabit, under roofs that don't even pause before letting the rain pour on through.

And yet, a day and a half ago, when Eric and I checked into a luxurious (for Ecuador's standards) hotel, to indulge after our four wet, cockroachy, tiring days in the jungle, I couldn't keep my mind off the anonymous hair I found in the tub. Oh, western world, what have you done to me? To us?

I read a letter to the editor today, in the Miami Herald, that referred to housing as a human right. While I tend to support any social service that has the potential to improve lives, for some reason, that phrase jumped out at me. A human right? Not a need, not a basic human necessity, but a right-- just like Americans' right to bear arms, our right to speak our minds, our right to drive gas-guzzling cars and make lots of garbage... To me, there seems to be a fundamental difference between needs and rights.

I have seen and met people here who don't recognize the concept of a "right." They just use their hands and minds to get what they need. They build their shelters out of leaves and bamboo, because that's what's there. They raise chickens and pigs and kill them when they're hungry. They drink water, because they're thirsty--nevermind the parasites. And, as I mentioned in my last post, when they need land to grow food, and establish their communities, sometimes they just plain take it. As I imagine it, they see soil, and trees, and maybe a stream, and think, simply: "Why, that would satisfy our needs!" Does needing something badly mean you have a right to take it? Do these people have the right to be provided housing? Or the right to seek it on their own?

Forgive my ponderousness today. I dropped Eric off at the airport at 6:00 this morning, and his departure sort of took the wind out of me. Why am I traveling again? Do I really have to sleep at this hostel I just checked into, now that I've glimpsed two anonymous hairs on my presumably clean pillow? Sigh. At least they're clean hairs.

But oh wait-- I do have a purpose now. I discovered it yesterday. I'm going to travel to a mountain village to learn how to make earrings and purses and lamps out of a reed that grows in volcanic lakes. Sounds random. It isn't.

We stumbled upon this amazing women's cooperative yesterday, that sells the most knock-out purses, jewelry, and artsy lamps that I have ever seen. And they're all made out of sustainably harvested local materials. The women who sold us our rather hefty pile of goodies was smart and articulate (in Spanish, of course) and agreed to let me accompany the group next week as they harvest the materials, dry and process them, and make them into beautiful, beautiful things. And I'm going to write about it. For anyone who'll print it.

But before I do that, I'm going to head down to Cuenca, Ecuador's most beautiful colonial city (they tell me), for a few days, and then spend a day or two in Saraguro, known for its dramatic, traditional, Easter ceremonies (involving watchmen dressed in white on horseback, says my book).

And if I have time, I'm also going to sneak a tiny little glimpse of Peru, in the town of Piurna, known for its ceramic tradition. Eric and I met a great fellow who told me where to go to find someone to teach me how to make stuff. He even pointed it out on the map. He was one of our favorite parts of the last 10 days.


Speaking of the last 10 days, we went to the jungle. And it was quite remarkable. Dark, muddy water, tall, tall trees with weird birds called hoatzins (also known as "stinky turkeys") flapping around in them, caimans, pink river dolphins (which are beautiful and ridiculous at once), toucans, grasshoppers so big that they must have come straight out of one of Grimm's fairytales, and, last but not least, the biggest, most brilliant rainbow I've ever seen. This photograph is a poor substitute for floating beneath that majestic arc, with scarlet macaws flying overhead, and the pink light reflecting in the inky water below. Wow. One of my favorite moments yet.

I'm in the last stretch of my trip now, with an ETA of April 15. Hovering on the horizon is a image of home with all of the peace, joy, and comfort that go with it. And alongside that sweet anticipation is the reality of saying goodbye, for now, to this place that millions of other people call home. Leaky roof or no.