Worth A Thousand Words #2 — Up Around The Bend
The last time I was this close to death I was trying to kill myself.
I had just left my hotel after a great night’s sleep. I took good care to pack my things tightly in anticipation of the rain I would surely encounter. At these great altitudes of the Ecuadorian mountains you are living among the clouds, and among the clouds you are bound to get wet.
But for whatever waited in the distance, I only had blue skies overhead. So I set out with the bright promises of a new day. I entered the first curve in my descent from the mountain — a very sharp curve — and the brake pedal fell flat to the floorboard beneath my foot.
Knowing this to be the worst time for panic, I worked within sensibility. My little Willy’s Jeep gained speed intent on meeting the guardrail. I pumped the brake pedal. I downshifted and downshifted again. There was no slowing.
And when she was ready to tumble, I knew. As I felt inertia face a fundamental change, I didn’t pray to my god or worry over unfinished business. I didn’t see a race of childhood images speed before my eyes. I only felt the jeep begin to tip and I thought, “well; here we are”.
I felt my shoulder hit the pavement. I heard rancid sounds of screeching steel. I awaited the inevitable. And then the jeep was over and away from me, resting upright in the middle of the road.
Good people were quick to my aid. For all her scratches and bruises, the jeep only erred in her brakes — and they seemed to be working again. Having no interest in a new near-death experience, I kept her in first and made my way.
A few miles up the road she gave creedence to her name. The transmission gave out on a steep incline and the brakes followed suit. Rolling in reverse on a harrowing decline, I thought for the first time in several years to be afraid. I quickly thought better of it. I steered the jeep over a curb, through a fence, and into the muck of wet mountain turf. Who’ll stop the rain, I wondered.
A whole village poured into the street. After handshakes, cordials, and a handful of polaroids captured on my newly purchased retro machine, we got down to business. I was told I’d need to purchase 26 posts. They came in at two bucks a pop. Then, of course, the claves. “Clah-vays.” I think they call ’em staples in english. Three pounds I purchased. Far more than necessary, I knew. I offered my time and labor, but the man was happier with my money.
A neighbor invited me to betray my dismay and instead rest. We passed the dripping clothes that lined a soiled yard. Guinea pigs raised themselves for slaughter. Fires inside were logically concluded under the smoke that rises. A table was set and a bed made. “Rest,” they beckoned. The three children insisted in having a hand in drawing the covers. The grandparents called them to calm. The mother gently smiled and I closed my eyes.
The mother prepares for me a chicken broth while the grandfather, sporting a bomber jacket with scattered patches of unrelated professions and places, approaches with a jagged smile. ‘Have you eaten?’, he asks in a dialect of spanish that I barely understand. The grandmother interjects ‘soon’ and prepares the plate.
I am in the home of José and Maria, I learn. José and Maria that guard their wayward grandson, he being called Christopher. He is ten years old and living with his grandparents. He cannot live with his mother’s husband because the boy is not his blood. So his mother comes each day with the younger son in tow and tends to the daily chores, tending to both sons until sundown when she returns to her husband with only his. His mother guides Christopher to my side, and she trades me his hand for my empty bowl. ‘More food?’ she asks. I decline for fear of being brought more children.
Christopher shares with me all his interest in science and ecosystems, hoping someday to work in the sciences of life. ‘Like a doctor’, his cousin says. ‘Not like a doctor’, Christopher says. ‘I want to save the world, not people.’ His cousin could appreciate the sentiment at least, he himself hoping to someday be in the military.
The day passed to sunset without my noticing the mother’s departure. After a wonderful meal of cui with lentils and rice, I invited José to share in a whiskey — an idea he thought better of. No stranger to drinking alone, I raised my glass all the same. Dinner done and the sun well settled beyond the horizon, my gentle hosts offered the option of two beds they had prepared. I, only a half-day free from death’s clutches, reckoned it better to make my way again up the mountain, this time in a conductor’s care. I had a strong feeling I would need the company of music and liquor and steel keys striking hard the pages. They were gracious to my rejection of their hospitality and I promised an early return.
A pandemic was on, a quarantine underway, and a mechanic seemingly unavailable. The morning passed industriously — the children being children; the neighbors rebuilding a fence; and I awaiting a tow truck.
Christopher’s mother insisted I take her number, that I not forget to call, that I not forget my godson. A number comes with a name, and hers is Luci. A fitting name in the construct. A light or fallen star, I wondered. A smile like hers could go either way.
When the flatbed arrived, no one wanted to say goodbye.
And after many, many photos, climbing out of the village with my busted burro in tow, a smile grew bigger than my heart could contain. Yesterday I faced death. How happy I am today to be alive.
