No More Mondays

No more “Monday Morning Blues”, or “Over the Hump Wednesdays” nor those glorious “TGI Fridays”. Starting today, they are all the same. The thought of losing this time-honored regiment is beginning to disorient my thoughts and confound the purpose for the ticks of the clock. I don’t know whether to bust out in a jig or panic about the loss of this strict tradition which calibrated my days.

OMG, how will I fare without a need for a TGIF compass? I have been so caught up in singing my ‘countdown to retirement’ song that I hadn’t considered the implications of readjusting the honorable discipline to which I have been faithfully adhering while simultaneously dreaming of this: Retirement Day.

Today is TGI Tuesday, and OMG, it is time for Jan and me to board our Copa flight for Ecuador where we begin our new life on the playas, where there are ….. “No More Mondays”.

Blueprints

a>For nearly twenty years, we have been captured by the view from our home in Vantage, WA which overlooks the lazy currents of the magnificent Columbia River, and there’s no doubt that the varying vistas throughout the days and seasons have laid claim to my heart’s residence. But I must confess I have been wooed away by Ecuador’s allure, enchanted by this small South American country’s temperate weather and low cost of living. It has been three months since our last sunset stroll on the warm playas of Canoa, Ecuador. If the saying “Home is where the heart is.” is accurate, this would explain why, at the moment, I feel a void within my chest.

(For those who might be joining Jan and me for the first time on this blog, we should note that last year we purchased a beachfront condominium a few miles south of Canoa. We stood in the warm sand at the project site, staring at the blueprints of different plans, and we fell in love with a 2 bedroom/2 bath model that seemed to be designed just for us. Our future home is currently being constructed, though at a rate which appears to be moving, like the river outside my window, at an excruciatingly sluggish pace. But, in all fairness to our builder – he is well ahead of schedule by any South American standard.)

The plan: Build a new life in Canoa starting in June of 2014.

By design, our blueprint for the future did not include full and immediate retirement. I enjoy working (a fact that completely befuddles my wife), and I’m not ready to completely nail that door shut. Our proposal was that our son, Jeremy, would take over the day-to-day operations of his and my company, while Jan and I handled much of the paperwork while basking on sunlit Ecuadorian shores 4000 miles away. After the winter months, I would return to Washington State to show off my dark, off-season tan and work during the three summer months helping Jeremy through our busiest season. I could start collecting my hard-earned social security benefits in 2015, and combined with my summer earnings from work, we would enjoy a comfortable income to get us started in our new life.

The original strategy seemed simple enough, but now that the departure time is inching closer, Jan and I are realizing that some of our plan’s specifications were inadequate and poorly written. We are having to admit that the foundation of our dream-come-true retirement plan was being poured with a dangerous mixture of blind desire and comedic ignorance. (For example, we discovered that if one opts to take social security at age 62 there is a limit to how much one can earn without incurring rather serious financial penalties. Oops….so much for the summer work plan. How did we not know that? And what else do we have yet to uncover?)

Our schema was not so poor that the resulting structure would completely crumble, but there are some discernable and disconcerting cracks and some very complex configurations to work out. And so, we find ourselves forced back to the drafting table to redesign some of the more questionable aspects of our architectural drawings. We need to ensure that our choices (like our condo!) will stand up to the test of time, and at our age, there is little room for serious errors.

As we work our way through the issues, Jan and I will be taking our blog’s focus away from the pleasures of describing our adventures in Ecuador so that we might zero in on the mundane – our attempt at untangling the crisscrossing clusters of rules, retirement options and the perplexing international regulations that, jumbled together, have pushed our retirement plan out of plumb.

We welcome readers who may have come up against retirement plan hurdles to share their ideas, findings, failures and successes.

Cruising

C

Check out these three guys we just passed on the highway to Manta. They were flying at 100 kilometers per hour, with not a care in the world. What these delivery men don’t know is that just two kilometers up the road they will be sharing the pavement with this loose herd of cattle we just had to avoid. As you look over the picture don’t miss that there is a yellow “curve ahead” warning sign!!!

I wish I could say that this scene is unique, just teen boys being dumb, but I see this type of “crew cab” every day. It’s no wonder that Ecuador is second in South America in road-related deaths. Keep that in mind if you plan to visit Ecuador and rent a car for a quiet, relaxing drive up the coastline. Trust me, the driver must be, at all times, on full alert, eyes fix and prepared for oncoming traffic, semi’s, taxies, small cars, loose horses, cows, the ever present donkey, half starved (actually, fully starved) dogs, slithery boas, green iguanas, pedestrians of all ages and worst of all, motorcycles that weave either side of you, (with helmet wearing father, bare headed, mother, daughter and baby all wedged on the seat in a tight row – I’m not exaggerating!). (And believe me, it’s no picnic for the passengers either.) It is friggen’ nuts. What’s scary is that it’s so crazy, however at the same time, so commonplace here, it now seems completely normal.

Our thanks to our fine and extremely safe driver, Jorge Perez, owner of Expat Compass, and is lovingly called by expats here as the “The Gringo Nanny”. Jan and I both highly recommend him. He speaks pretty good english – bonus!

P.S. The guy sitting at the top reminds me of Granny on the old TV series The Beverly Hillbillies

Kabourophobia

Crabs. Millions of them. Literally. As far as the eye can see. They are all around me – in front, flanking both sides and bringing up the rear behind me. I am not kabourophobic. In fact, anyone who knows me is aware that I am hopelessly drawn to critters, large and small. But even I am a trifle unnerved by the sheer numbers of these three inch, blood orange crabs. As we take our daily stroll down the beach, their sun baked legions split like the parting of the Red Sea as they begrudgingly give Jan and me slim passage through their coveted territory. Thank goodness! They are retreating, ducking by the hundreds into personal bunkers while thousands more flee in all directions, building our confidence that they fear us.

But wait! Do they? Doubt begins to crawl into my mind, snipping, nibbling, with each scissor pinch consuming my logic. When Jan and I glance over our shoulders it becomes clear that these clawed combatants aren’t in withdrawal at all. Hell no! Myriads are tip-toeing around us, regrouping in the rear and at our flanks in a regimental formation, their tubular eyes erect and alert with weapons drawn. Let me state in no uncertain terms – having two trillion jagged pinchers raised and readied is intimidating and truly creepy!

Memories of the Hitchcock thriller, “The Birds” seep into my consciousness. But, a vivid sci-fi imagination is not needed to envision a battalion of avengers, provoked by human encroachment, descending upon two lone, foreign travelers, their ferocious appetites bent on devouring humanity straight into extinction.

Okay, okay. I know these sideways skittering creatures are harmless, but there really are millions of them on the beach every day. The reddish ground is quite literally moving when they are out and about hunting the dead, delivered by each morning’s high tide. Honestly, they are quite adorable. (I think this one is winking at us – or – is it a signal to his comrades?)

 However…. if you are an arachnophobe, it’s a different story!

“It’s Not As Bad As It Looks”

We have all heard the consoling line:

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Most likely we ourselves have used this non-persuasive sentence only to have our opinion rebuffed by the equally familiar phrase:

“If you say so.”

Please allow me to start this story first by moving backwards in time in order to color in some details and then I shall return you to where the story is headed.

Yesterday morning, Jan and I hopped on the bus to Canoa for a surf trip. I use the two words “surf trip” in the most optimistic way possible. Here is how that adventure played out:

I rented, for $5.00, a surfboard from an Ecuadorian waiter at an American-style restaurant called the Surf Shak. (It seems nearly all businesses and individuals here in Ecuador have multi-functions, many times in ways that, to me, don’t make sense.) Oddly, they didn’t sell surfboard wax. I was instructed (in Spanish – requiring much hand waving) to walk back up five blocks from the Malecon to an internet café where wax is sold – go figure. Plus, the sticky stuff cost me $4.00, nearly as much as the rental. What’s up with that?

Wax and board in hand, we headed to the beach. Jan settled down under a rented bright blue canopy (negotiated to $3.00/day) to escape the sun, quite amusing as the sun itself was completely hidden behind darkening clouds. No matter – it was helping out Canoa’s economy and it gave her a comfy, plastic seat.

My anticipation was running high, for the Googled surf report (researched by Jan) had stated that the waves were to be two meters plus with a five star rating – the highest possible. I became a bit perplexed when I scanned the cresting waves and could find no bobbing heads. Ecuador has some extremely talented surfers, and Canoa boasts a number of their own, but not one was riding the left- and right-breaking curls.

Undaunted by these empty crashing waves and undeterred by the six (yes, I said six) sets of individual breaks with no measurable quiet time between them, I valiantly snatched up my newly waxed board and headed out.

Jan, camera in hand, watched with baited breath as she saw off her brave, tanned, surfer boy. (Yes, yes. I know I’m sixty, so “boy” doesn’t exactly fit, nor does, even less so, the surfer adjective, but I do sport one hell of a dark tan. Oh, and as I soon found out – I was not brave. I was just dumb.) Anyway, back to the off-subject topic so I can eventually return us to the subject of the post. I paddled and ducked dived. I paddled and turtled dived. I even head-butted the relentless, white, foaming barricades ….. Well, since there are no photos immortalizing my athletic prowess you may well deduct that I never made it out. Jan quietly put away the camera and waited for my humbled return whereupon she sweetly attempted to resuscitate my drowned ego.

But, back to the real subject of this post.

Afterward, Jan and I were inside our rented condo on the sofa enjoying ourselves. With my head in her lap, her hand gently caressing my forehead, she was reading Dreamers of the Day to me from her Kindle. Thinking I had fallen asleep, she closed her page-less book. My floating imagination was pulled away from 1920’s Cairo and back to present-day Canoa. I stood up and stared out at the surf, my mind not fully returned from the story Jan had been reading.  Suddenly, as my eyes focused in on the moment, I found myself stunned by what I saw. Completely bewildered, I exclaimed,

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT???”

 Jan and I walked out near the shore’s edge and sat on the dry sand, not daring to touch anything wet, and we found ourselves stating and restating in disbelief:

“What is that?”

With noses scrunched and mouths turned down, we repeated the question in barely audible tones while dreading the answer. Deep within the recesses of my darkening thoughts I began to fear that this was why the locals, back in Canoa, were not ripping up the waves. Yuck! I was in a daze, worrying about what I had exposed myself to and what exotic disease might be in my future. Jan, meanwhile, sought out the condominium’s groundskeeper/guard (Luis) and asked him what it was that was turning the waves to baby poo. He replied, without hesitation, “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He went on to inform us that what we were seeing was “tierra” (earth/soil) from the Chone River, and he assured us that it was not dangerous.

My silent response? “If you say so.”

(Note: Jan, feeling equally dubious, decided to do some Googling to research Luis’s claims.  Apparently, this muddy surf is laden with “suspended sediment” and is reportedly a common occurrence in coastal areas where large river mouths merge with the ocean.)

Whatever! Determining that my body was not going anywhere near THAT, Jan and I opted to hunt for seashells.

Playing Possum

 

Let me warn you. I have taken enough photos of vultures to bore everyone to death (which, by the way, would delight these feathered scavengers to no end). Every day I enjoy their presence as they soar just three to four feet above the playas displaying wingspans up to six feet wide. They are impressive. Some may think these consumers of the dead are just plain ugly (I get that), but I have found them to be lovely and extraordinarily graceful as they scan the beaches for decomposing life.

Turkey Vultures live in family groups and like most families they often squabble while at the dinner table (theirs being a mite sandier than our gleaming tabletops). I find myself plopping down to watch them flare their wings, tip feathers spread wide, as they nip at each other. Completely amused, I chuckle. Their bickering reminds me of spoiled children who are determined not to share dessert with their siblings.

I admit, more than once I have laid down on the wet sand, playing possum in hopes of luring down these red-crowned birds that hover, circling above. All I want is to snap the perfect shot, but they just won’t cooperate. Not once has my trickery worked. As it turns out, the reason they fly a meter or so off the ground is that this height allows them to sniff out gases that waft from the rotting corpses. I  wonder…. if I could smell like decomposing flesh would that bring flocks swooping in by the droves?

Alas! If only I were more dedicated to photography I would snatch up that dead fish I just stepped past and rub it all over my bare body, head to toe, and then for a little realism, flop around for a minute of two before lying limp with camera pointed skyward. If these dang buzzards don’t start to cooperate, I may just do it!

Fluid Graffiti

(The scenic image above of Isla de la Plata – a must-see island off Ecuador’s coast – has nothing to do with the subject of this post. As you read on, I’m sure the reason for the idyllic photo will be appreciated.)

As I mentioned in my last post, Jan and I had gone to The Surf Shack for breakfast. Our plan was to take some needed time to jot down and discuss how we were going to finance our retirement in Ecuador. You may remember, we were sitting at a table outside. As Jan and I were completing our delicious, American-style eggs and sausage, I was silently watching an industrious, elderly man. He was pushing a rusting wheelbarrow, and with a broom and shovel at least as old as he was in each hand, diligently cleaning the dirt street. My vision was obstructed when a vehicle pulled up and dropped off one of the Surf Shack’s owners. The passenger’s door squeaked open, and a tall, fair-skinned man we had met a year ago casually stepped out onto the dusty street. Never looking our way, the restaurateur turned and opened the rear door and carefully lifted up a skittish puppy (one-ish) and gently set her down, her leash falling to the ground.  This was the first time I’d seen a leash in Ecuador, not that it seemed to matter, because the puppy’s master walked without snatching up the other end.

There was no denying that the awkward, tiny Irish setter was adorable as she clumsily bumbled toward us. To our delight, she stopped in front of our table. I thought she halted so we could pet her silky, long red hair. But, before I could reach under the table, she spread her oversized paws side to side, lowered her tail end and released a splashing deluge. When fully relieved, she lightly trotted off dragging her leash through the puddle that was now draining toward our bare feet. In more familiar surroundings, I might have been a bit disgusted by this action, but I have been in Canoa long enough to process my thoughts through different filters before arriving at a conclusion. This outpouring from this little creature struck me as endearing and so “Ecuador”.

From the corner of my eye I glimpsed the owner as he dropped his head, exclaiming, in a rather low and disapproving tone, “Really?”, and then he disappeared inside his restaurant, retrieved a bucket of water, and, with no apologies offered, he tossed the water under the front side of our table, diluting the puppy’s misdeed.

Critters openly urinating anywhere they choose doesn’t seem to turn heads in this part of the world. No vertical sign or structure goes untagged. But it is not just hydrants (as if they have any here) that are used for potty needs. Just a few days earlier, I was alone, strolling along the tide’s edge, lost in quiet serenity while writing a poem in my head. I was startled out of my rhyming meditation by a herd of cattle. As the troop noisily passed, driven relentlessly forward by two horsemen, one cow, just as she was passing me, stopped, lifted her scrawny tail with a fluff at the end and peed. All poetic inspiration was lost.

Public urination is not reserved just for beasts of burden, territory-making dogs or cute little puppies in training. Oh no! It seems that anyone in need is free to relieve him or herself if a baño is not to be easily found (and trust me, they are few and far between.) Which I guess is why it’s not that big a deal to turn one’s back to view and let loose. Several times now, Jan has witnessed men whipping it out and peeing against cinder block walls. I’ve even seen, while walking the beach, a woman squat and pee on the sand. I wasn’t horrified, like I might have been back home. Actually, I was impressed that she could accomplish such a task and not expose her bottom or wet her feet.

There are many things I’ve learned from my stay in this small country that straddles the equator. Here are two more: If there is a wall, I’d be wise to think twice before sitting and leaning my weary body against it, and, at all times, wear sandals. Fluid graffiti is everywhere.

Subculture

Earlier this morning, while relaxing at one of the Surf Shack’s three outdoor tables (all of which are constructed of hard, butt-aching cement) Jan and I, already finished with breakfast, were earnestly discussing our decision to move to Ecuador. There is no backing out. We have far too much money invested.  Fortunately, we are not wavering on our desire to move to South America. But it would be untruthful to state that we don’t have a few doubts. (Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, I should confess – lots of them.) Making financial mistakes at age sixty is far more dangerous and brutal than the same blunder when one is thirty. But each time we go over the facts and figures of retirement in the states versus Ecuador, the numbers on our ledger keep adding up in Ecuador’s favor.

But I am way off subject. Back to the title – subcultures. While enjoying my over-medium eggs and spicy sausage, I was observing a number of street vendors, their appearances stirring memories of Leucadia, California during the sixties at the pinnacle of that generation’s counter-culture rise. (Curiously, these days, Leucadia is a center of latte-drinking, designer-dressed, hip yuppie-ism) Good grief! I drift again.

The long-haired, dread-locked, 1960’s-looking sellers were quietly stringing beads, weaving hats from green palm leaves and re-arranging handmade jewelry for colorful display on rickety tables held low off the ground by repurposed bottle crates. Obviously, many of these counter-establishment entrepreneurs are not Ecuadorian, and they live what I would perceive as a sub-culture life. It is my understanding that many of these trinket sellers travel up and down the South American coastline following tourists in order to hock their wares.

As I studied their movements, I was contemplating the “freedom” that these individuals must enjoy: No roots, no alliances, no cultural obligations. There is a question I silently harbor but I don’t dare ask:

“Is it marvelously grand or desperately lonely?”

Then it dawned on me that soon Jan and I would be, for the first time in our lives, also a subculture. And no matter how broadly our Spanish vocabulary expands, or how dark her and my skins tan, she and I will always be outsiders to the main culture. So my held-within query, meant for others so different from myself, needs to be added to the many questions Jan and I need to ponder as we examine our retirement plans.

What’s This?

Morning blue streaks splitting up the grey gloom? Is this a coffee time torment? Or am I finally going to get to squeeze the unused sunscreen that has been sitting ready on the crowded bathroom counter between the half-used toothpaste and deodorant?

Jan and I have been here for two-and-a-half weeks and have not, as of yet, seen the daytime sun. Oh sure, one evening, a week ago, an orange ball flashed us like a stripper’s tease, using clouds as her laced veil, before cruelly dipping behind the sea’s curtain, never fully displaying her unadorned beauty.

I shouldn’t whine. This is Ecuador’s winter. But, then again, in the middle of last night I had to steal the blanket off the guest bedroom’s bed to warm Jan and myself up. That just seems wrong!

Uggg. Before I could even finish the three paragraphs above, the thick seaward clouds consumed my tiny bit of blue hope.

I guess I’ll wash off the sunscreen and pour Jan her first cup of coffee and tell her about what she missed. (Sigh)

Huntress In White

Thanks to National Geographic we have all witnessed in fascinated horror the lioness, her defined, muscular haunches flexing with each deliberate, silent step, slinking under the cover of tall grass, stalking a grazing gazelle. Let’s admit it – most all of us are strangely torn between two opposing appetites. There is the tender heart that gazes through the long eyelashes of the unsuspecting gazelle. We admire and fuse our souls with this lovely creature, even noticing her subtle quaking as she wards off annoying flies. Our eyes dash back and forth between the hunter and the hunted, and we want to leap up and scream so she might take flight, escaping unscathed. But, if we’re honest about the darker, murkier predator that resides in each of us, we will admit there is also a voyeuristic desire to witness the power of the lioness as this majestic beast lunges into her attack. We stare in anticipation as she outmaneuvers her chosen meal, grasping it by the hind quarters, dragging the frightened, squealing animal to the ground, and then finalizing her assault with a powerful crunch to the prey’s neck. After the slaughter is complete, her whiskered face fringed in crimson, she lifts the limp, lifeless carcass in prideful display.

When I first came across this tiny, silky white angelic snail, I thought, “How beautiful! She’s like a young bride elegantly draped in flawless, white satin, her train wispily waving upon the sand as she makes her grand debut.”

Well, let me warn you: This white angel has the heart of a lion as she races down her prey at a tortoise speed of .0002 miles per hour!

This Disney-like Snow White may be stunning, even pure, but make no mistake about it. Her intention, as she crawls on the salty sands of Canoa is not to find her Prince Charming. This beauty is a ferocious, hungry huntress, and she is on the prowl!

I witnessed this snail, in slow motion, slip into the zig-zag trail of a smaller, lackluster “cousin” whom I thought was only attempting to plow its way back to the surf’s receding edge. But, in fact, it was fleeing for its life!

Like the lioness of the dry grasslands, the white devil slid along her prey’s wet depression and raced at a rate only snails could find exhausting.

(If you would, please take another look at the “bride in white”, shown in the first photo and you will see what I, and possibly you, missed, protruding from the crown of her neck, a dark – rather poetic, don’t you think? – erection of sorts, extending beyond the snail’s moistened lips.)

As the attacker, out-pacing her target, drew near, her protrusion, as if in erotic anticipation, protracted even further. When her feeler touched the fleeing snail, her white lips, like the lioness’ paws, widened, lunged forward and grasped the prey.

Then, with dizzying speed, she threw her milky, opaque train, like a fisherman’s net, and engulfed her catch. Once the entrapment was complete, she flipped herself onto her back, and displayed a shadowy view of the struggling combatant, a prideful display cover-worthy of National Geographic.