Healing Powers

Spitting. I once found that I underestimated its powers. When living in Japan, I would take Ruck (my bike) to the bikeshop when having problems. This man perhaps had the most unclear Japanese I have ever experienced in my life, consisting only of grunts, and it seemed that he would usually come to the front of the shop in his pajamas. I never could quite figure out the scene. But the shop was reletively close to me, and so I kept on with it. But if I had trouble with my brakes, or if my tire was leaking air, his solution would be to spit on it. And, miracously, it seemed to work, well enough, anyway. When I was in China (or am in Chinatown in SF, for that matter), even though it is probably not true, I attribute all the spitting to health and healing as well. I like to think they are clearing out the mucus and smoke from their lungs because I think Chinese ciggerettes are the worst smelling ciggerettes around.

This takes us to Ecuador. It is bright and early one morning in Canar, a city in the Andes mid-way (more or less) between Alousi and Cuenca. I had noticed the day before, much to my chagrin that my tires were sorely lacking air. In order to prepare for the climb (I was assured there was only one!) I thought it would behoove myself to fill those bad boys up. It is amazing the difference it makes when your bike ways approximately 867 million pounds. No exaggeration. 867 million, if not 868. Then we encountered a BIG problem. My pump was broken. Somehow the peice at the top had come off. I have no idea how or when. I have lots of spare parts, but no spare pump.

So off I go, with low pressure, thinking that at least it is more down than up after the first hour or hour and a half. Well, I didnt´t get very far before I was having a total mind fuck and decicided that this hill was going to eat me alive if I didn´t get some air in my tires. But nothing was open as I was leaving Canar because it was so early. Not to mention the fact that they do not generally have presta valves, so I would not find a pump in a small town, and they do not have 28¨ wheels in Ecuador (even in Quito), so I would not be able to simply replace the tube. But I hoped that in Cuenca there would be a cycling store where I would be able to buy a new pump (even though the blackburn handpump I saw in Quito cost $50!!). But first I have to get there.

I stop and ask a few indigneous women on the side of the road where they think the next bike shop is. They point me down a dirt trail to an indigenous village, indicating that I should ask for Manuelo. I show them my valve, they say ¨no problem, no problem, he can fix it.¨ I knew this wasn´t likely true, but out of sheer hope, and the thought that it would at least be entertaining, off I go. Jake is once again trying to strut his stuff on the rocks, sand and dirt. Trying to entice me to take him to his homeland.

After a million stares and about-faces, I find Manuelo. He cannot put air in the tire. Not a shock. But then he notices that I have dried blood all over my hand and knee. Now, I failed to mention that I had a bit of a mishap earlier this morning and cuased the cuts I had gotten from my previous fall to re-open. So he offers to clean it with soap, I say don´t worry, it´s fine, but then eventually give in.

His wife comes back with a glass of water, or clear liquid in any case, so I figured either water with soap or alchohol in it. I couldn´t quite tell. Manuelo has me hold out my hand, then takes a big swig from the glass, then SPITS all over my hand. I think my jaw must have dropped. And then he does it again. And then proceeds to spit all over my leg after several successive swigs. At this point, I am having trouble not laughing, becuase what else can you do, and think that I suppose the mouth is supposed to be the cleanest place. Isn´t that why cats always lick themselves? And then he asked me if I wanted to drink any of the alchohol, since it probably burned a litle bit. I declined.