Day of the Defunct

"Here are some baked 'babies,'" the waitress said "just out of the oven. You can choose the red boys or the blue girls."

"OK... Thanks!! But I can´t tell them apart."

"Doesn't matter. And while you are here, I´m going to give you the drink called mora colada, something special for the Day of the Dead, Dia de los Difuntos."

"Cool. Muchas gracias."

The blackberry drink was a thick, sweet juice, made from cinnamon, cloves, pineapple, currants, and some kind of flour paste. The babies and drink are highland Ecuador traditions brought here from the "continent" for the first day of November. Nationally, this is day to honor the dead and involves trips to the cemetery, cleaning up lawns around graves, and preparing food for the ancestors. Luis told me that the neighboring grave caretakers eat your food for the dead, so that, later, you imagine that the dead appreciate your generosity.

I am glad that today is overcast. Less sun means less sunburn and I am a roasted marshmallow if there ever was one. I have gone past the state of tanning, past the usefulness of sunblock, and I am now in a perpetual state of nut brownness. Some from Quito are so horrified to become deep brown that they wear long sleeve shirts and long pants, even when the sun is blasting. I just get darker.

I have been living in the highlands, about 2,000 feet above the seaside village of Puerto Baquerizo Moreno. Due to a lack of water for 6 weeks I had not a single shower. My friends in town gracioiusly offered their bathrooms.

My new apartment is in town, close to work, 10 degrees warmer and vulnerable to the sounds of roosters, dogs and cats. One night, over supper, I described my prior highland home, and I found out that there is plenty of intrigue up there. I wonder why we always find out these things after whaving left...

The land was owned by a couple, the story goes. A fight broke out, and the wife killed her husband. The local officials did not arrest her but she was forbidden to own the property. Soon thereafter, she left to live on the continent.

Later, a friend and I are chilling, drinking beer. A lovely woman says hi and we invite her to sit down. Shiny lip gloss, glowing smiles animate her. She is gracious, funny and well read: "I love to swim, travel and eat supper with a couple of friends." She is from the continent, but she has business interests in the islands, etc.

After she entertains us with talk of spiritual awakenings, she leaves. Then a nearby acquaintance comes to me and whispers in my ear. "She is the one who owns the property where you were living. It is she who cannot get access to the houses or land. Be careful!"

Could it be that this is the woman who sent her husband to the next world? Is this an urban legend? I will keep you posted...