Packing
(Part 1 of 2)
Upon leaving Ecuador, my friend Tanya, who had been traveling for three months said, "If I see one more backpacker, I think I'm going to lose it."
I knew what she meant as in my hostel 20% of male backpackers (a generous estimate) come to breakfast wearing shoes, and I would argue fewer than 10% have showered, let alone shaved.
Tanya and I could both be stereotyped as backpackers. We came to Ecuador with nothing but backpacks, one large one for our clothes, and one small one for the plane. Valecia also could be mistaken for a backpacker. She sported an even more traditional look. Her bag was a highly elaborate camping number that was as long as her body, and equal to her weight. Valecia's backpack was the kind of backpack made for the most backpacking-iest of all backpacking adventures like camping in the Andes, or biking along the Pan American highway. At first glance, Valecia looked the part of a backpacker, but since the idea of Malaria pills and Yellow Fever shots paralyze her, it's merely an illusion. Instead of being filled with first aid kits, water purification tablets, moisture wicking clothing, and mosquito nets, Valecia's mochilla was filled (at least from what I could decipher) of hair products, and shoes.
Valecia would take exception to this, and point out that I am in no position to talk.
I'm not.
On our first (and last) camping trip to Joshua Tree, I brought only my down comforter (from my bed), a yoga mat I had thought might serve as a makeshift air mattress (it didn't), and a travel kit of Dermalogica face products (the desert is dry after all).
At my worst, I can be that minimalist traveler who arrives at a place to find that I've forgotten a jacket, or money. Worse, I often don't notice until three days later when I wonder why I'm freezing, and have no money. I also often forget real shoes since I like to wear flip-flops on the airplane (and everywhere, honestly).
This time, I came to Ecuador with a backpack of clothes, and a plan. I filled the mochilla with the type of outfits that have major advantages, and major disadvantages. You know, the kind of clothes that you pull in and out of the Goodwill Donation bag because it's difficult to weigh the cost benefit of them.
I chose clothing I felt mostly ambivalent about. Gifts I've never worn with the tags still on them; Capri pants; the type of clothing your family buys you when they find out you're a lesbian, she's a lesbian, she must wear khakis, or she's a lesbian, let's femme her up a bit by buying her a horrible blouse with gigantic roses all over it; the off color items from Banana Republic's (no pun intended) sale rack, I liked it in black, but the bright peach is 75% off; my favorite pair of yoga pants that have a hole in them from when I fell and broke my elbow in three places; several other items of clothing with tiny holes in them, but holes that are apparent enough to worry my father when I visit him, why do you insist on wearing clothes with holes in them; flashy clothes that make me fit in with other Latin Americans like the white shirt with silver snaps and zippers down the front; a perfectly good, cute raincoat with torn lining because my cousin, Eloise was so astonished when I asked, does a raincoat have to be dry cleaned, and she said, listen to yourself, it's a fucking raincoat, it's meant to get wet (no it wasn't); a cashmere sweater that is just too damn hot for California and makes me feel like I'm being strangled; the last piece of clothing left over from my late teens; the cute blazer I bought at a street sale in Santa Monica for twenty dollars, and couldn't figure out why it was too big, even though it was labeled a size medium with a tag that said, made in Italy, but also, when I was paying closer attention, trying on the blazer with shirts and sweater combinations underneath to make it fit better, read the receipt, stylish clothes for the mother to be; two cute sweaters my housemate shrunk by putting them in the dryer; anything black that had faded; anything white that had yellowed; everything I own that is made out of fleece; and a pair of board shorts I wore only once before the dirty pacific ocean stained them with just a little bit of tar.
I know what you're thinking, I must have wandered around Ecuador looking like and indigenous orphan, but by combining these items with some of my basic all time favorite pieces, I was able to assemble a somewhat-workable wardrobe while giving me the chance to deliberate once and for all if these clothes truly belonged in the Goodwill pile by forcing myself to wear them... everyday for two months.
Plus (between you and me), it's astonishing what a good bra can do for a hideous shirt.
I found a place to shed most of my clothing (except for the favorites) at El Centro de Accíon Social's donation box in Cuenca, where people waded through old, dusty, stinking shoes, so they could fight over the American brands that had just arrived.
This plan, I thought, would make room in my backpack for exactly two hand woven indigenous outfits: one from the Northern Andes, with an ornate blouse and long, conservative falta, topped with a Humphrey Bogart Hat; and another from the southern Andes, with a green velvet falta, sequined shawl, and Panama Hat.
I would still have room for ridiculous regalitas for my friends in North America. In addition, surely, by the end of two months, I could shed all of the face and hair products I brought with me because they will have been all used up. I could also throw away the bottles for my anti-depressants, because I brought just enough pills for the number of days I was staying in Ecuador. (I under counted, but that's another story).
Used up sooner than I expected was the only soap I'm not allergic to in the whole wide world, which I had to share with Valecia who admitted upon arrival, "Babe, I forgot soap." To her credit, she tried to buy soap at the farmacia, but came out gagging from the floral smell. This reminded me of my winter in Mexico with my grandmother who yelled down the street when I was on my way to the mercado, "Make sure you don't get the toilet paper that stinks like roses! It's hard to tell at first because the whole store stinks like roses, so take it another aisle and smell before you buy it! Remember, SMELL BEFORE YOU BUY! SMELL BEFORE YOU BUY!"
Valecia says, "you'll break out in hives just sleeping next to me if I buy that soap," and follows up with, "Babe, I forgot toothpaste," and "Babe, I forgot deodorant," and "Babe, I forgot a razor," and "Babe, we're out of toilet paper, so I'm using your witch hazel pads to bridge the gap if you know what I mean." Thankfully for Valecia, there was absolutely no danger in having to bring any products home with me. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
What Valecia didn't forget was face cream (and I didn't either so we were overstocked), but after being blistered from the Equatorial sun, and wondering why Valecia's skin looked even more perfect than normal, I asked, "Isn't the sun bothering you?"
After which she replied, "No, because my special face cream has 30 sun block in it because I anticipated the sun at the equator would be quite strong," and then she rattled off a mathematical estimate supporting her hypothesis.
It's important to note here that Valecia is a master anticipator of sorts, and having never been to Ecuador remembered sun block. If needed, she probably would have counted her own medication more accurately with the precision of a pharmacist (a pharmacist, of course, not my pharmacist who often under fills my prescriptions, and says things like, take a free diet coke, and I'll owe you ten pills for next time, baby).
Back to the soap.
One of Valecia's romantic statements is, "Hmmmm, you smell like nothing," which I know is a compliment, after she clarifies, "you know, like nothing. Maybe fresh is a better way to say it." And I've heard of worse gaffes. For example, I have a friend whose partner told her wife, similarly, "Hmmmm, you smell like corn," only to follow up the gaffe with, "What? I really like corn. You know how much I like corn. What?"
As Valecia lathered herself each morning in the shower, she'd come back into the room saying "Hmmmm, that soap is really special. I smell like nothing!"
Four days after Valecia's departure, I found myself washing my body with shampoo, which worked just as well (albeit more expensive), but I would have no danger of having to carry anything home.
So, one day, after buying both a guitar, and considering a replica of a human skull for my desk at school (so I can fit in with my fellow English professors), Valecia Skypes me.
"What are you doing?"
"Right this second?"
"Yes. Right this second."
"I'm thinking of buying a full size, wooden replica of a human skull," I say.
And then, my lovely girlfriend who hasn't questioned anything since my 121 Commutes on a Vespa (social experiment last December) says the dreaded, "Are you ever doing anything normal when someone calls?"
The first (but not last) person to say this was my cousin Eloise who also called to say, "What are you doing?"
"I'm bidding on 9 burkas on ebay, to fit the mannequins I bought in Portland, so I can finish making a new menorah for Hannukah," I say.
"Are you ever doing anything normal?" Eloise says.
"Like what?"
"Like I don't know, watching television, or opening the mail?"
Opening the mail?
She should see the list of face book statuses that didn't make the cut.
So, Valecia continues, "I anticipate, you'll have to buy another piece of luggage because you won't be able to fit a skull in your backpack. I saw a place at the Mercado 6 Diciembre on Mariscal Lamar that had some pretty cheap bags," she says.
"No, I don't think I'll need a bag," I say.
"Why, are you reconsidering the human skull? Do you really need it? I'd probably pass on the human skull if I were you. The guitar you can carry on the plane, but a skull is a little creepy, no?"
" I can absolutely not pass on Yorick," I tell her, "You know I just got tenure. I absolutely need Yorick," I say.
"True," she says. "I'm afraid you do need Yorick after earning tenure."
And then for the first time, I reveal my plan to Valecia that I plan to leave most of my clothing in Ecuador, replace it with indigenous clothing, a skull, and regalitos for friends and family.
Valecia, ever more anticipatory, decided to buy her friends jewelry instead of maracas made out of coconuts and filled with beans from the Amazon. As she packed, she happily reminded me that maybe I should reconsider a couple things because jewelry fits easily into luggage.
"Can you take home my New Year's Eve mask from the effigies?" I say.
"Okay," she says.
Since most of my friends are gay men, artists, or academics. They tend to appreciate the stranger gifts. For example, I think many of them would appreciate a giant box of sheepskin condoms (useless FYI) that say together in our love without worry with a naked Ecuadorian couple fucking on the front of the box.
Valecia understands the regalito dilemma because last year, we came home from Chile with 24 bags of Carne Asada, onion, garlic, and tomato flavored potato chips, 18 boxes of cigarettes with the package covered in a full size mouth of rotten teeth (the back of the box said, go ahead, smoke, and it will rot your body, organ by organ, a little bit at a time.
And two kilos of Nestle's Little Black Girls...
"You'd think I'd be more surprised to hear that you're planning on leaving all of your clothes in Ecuador, but I'm not," she says.
"That's what I love about you," I say.
"Well, where are you going to donate them?"
"I don't know, I think I found a place near the university called Accíon Social on the internet, but I'm not sure if they take clothing because their website says they desire household clothing, and I'm not sure exactly what that means."
"Probably clothes. It's probably just a bad translation," she says.
"It's not translated, it's in Spanish," I say.
"Okay, well what's your back up plan because I'm not sure I consider your clothing household clothing."
My back up plan is to walk into a sketchy neighborhood in late afternoon, and leave the clothes in a bag on the street with a sign that says, libre, exactly like I would do in Los Angeles.
"I don't have a back up plan," I say.
Stay tuned for Packing Part Two
Still Coming Soon... Catholic Existentialists and Other Entrepreneurs!
