Faces

Being in any new place for an extended period of time, you get to learn the looks.  The street names, the graffiti, the buildings, the people.  At first, they all blend into one overwhelming bubble of visual stimulation combined with new excitement.  However, after a while, things start to make sense.  After walking the same street a few days in a row, you come to expect that part of the sidewalk with the giant crack or the plant that fell over and no one has put back up.


When it comes to faces, the first ones that I remember are the stray dogs, wondering the neighborhood streets.  For instance, I met Max while he was relieving himself on the corner of La Nina and Riena Victoria.  I was waiting for the traffic to let up, so I could cross the street and continue on towards work.  Max didn't mind the crazy Ecuadorian drivers and weaved through the cars life a professional, leaving only a pile of green excrement as a sign he was ever there.  I wondered what he had found to eat.


Milo only has one eye.  I just finished reading Jack London's, 'Call Of The Wild', so when I see Milo, I picture a brutal battle for the rights to a certain section of town.  The other dogs looking on, coming to respect Milo for his bravery and strength.  I'm sure the loss of his eye was not that dramatic, but it is fun to pretend.  The one eye that does work is constantly bloodshot and Milo walks with a pretty severe limp.  I can't imagine the life of these dogs to be too long.


These are the faces that greet me everyday as I walk the streets.  Never begging or harming, but there, simply surviving.


After a while, you start to remember human faces too.  Once again, it starts with the faces that do not have homes. The homeless and the beggars.  The people who walk with their eyes rolled back, talking to themselves or come into a restaurant while you're eating lunch, asking for money.  You don't forget those faces, but I don't like to give them names.


There is one man who does not ask for money, but has a way of making you feel uncomfortable as you walk by.  A very dark skinned black man, with large black pupils in the middle of his beat red bloodshot eyes.  He is always wearing loose clothing and always talking to someone, whether there is anyone next to him or not.


On one particular evening while I was waiting on a couple from Vancouver, outside the restaurant's south facing windows, there was the man.  Looking as if he was on some kind of drug, he laid on the ground, sweating profusely, stripping off his clothing.  In Spanish, he cried for his mother.  The man was accompanied by 7 or 8 uniformed police officers.  They tried in vain to use their feet in moving him to the sidewalk next to my building.  He would not budge.  I do not know if it was so much that he would not budge or could not.  Occasionally, one officer would attempt to lift the man by his arm, but each time the dead weight and sweat slid through the officers hand, leaving the man to fall to the hard concrete ground.  He still screamed.  Louder and louder.  He still cried for his mother.  Tourists and locals alike stopped for a few second to watch and laugh before continuing on to the next bar.  I stood in that window of the restaurant for much longer than a few seconds and failed to see the humor of the situation.


At this point I'd just like to say that this is not Quito or Ecuador.  This is everywhere in the world.  This is a part of life.  It is often more visible in large cities, but those people out in the woods have their stories too.  For so many, homelessness, mental illness, drug abuse, sadness... it's just a part of the commute to work.


I try to remember the faces of the police officers.  I make a point to  smile and say 'good day' each time I pass one.  I figure if there was ever a time I needed the help of an officer, it couldn't hurt if they recognized me.  Luckily there has been no such need and I do not foresee such a circumstance. 


I recognize the faces of the short natives wearing those Bolivian style hats that Rob Kelly was telling me about before I left.  They walk around the plazas, in between cars stuck at red lights, on the streets and sidewalks, selling gum, cigarettes, fruits.  Many of the women have their children working with them.  This is their education.  The children will often juggle lemons or avocados infront of the cars stuck at the red light.  Anything for a few cents.  It is hard to remember all of their faces, but there are a few I know for sure.


There are so many faces to a city.  My travel book tells me that Quito has 1.5 million people here, but who knows for sure.  It is a large city, but doesn't feel so large.  Walking helps.  Tomorrow I'll travel to a new city with new faces.  I will only be there for 2 days.  Only long enough to get to know the faces of the stray dogs and maybe the man I buy cafe con leche from.  However, this city has a pretty cool secrete to it... there is currently a volcano going off.  Tomorrow, I'm going to see what lava looks like.  How awestricken is my face going to look then?