Street Shoes

On every bus journey I take here in Ecuador I see at least one shoe in the road: usually tatty leather childrens shoes, and not the pair just the one. The person who started the lost shoe project: http://www.thelostshoeproject.com/ thought that there was something really intereting about this phenomenon. does the person not realise that they are missing just one shoe? How did it come to get abandoned by the side of the road?

Some of the shoes are old and worn out, like they´ve been to a lot of places and have been a part of someones identity for quite some time. Others are creaseless and shiny, as though they´ve found their way out of a shop and are on their way somewhere!

I always wonder who they might have belonged to; as Forrest gump says, you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes; Where they´ve been, where they´re going :)

Here is an intersting pair that I saw abandoned in the street where I´m living. I think that the lady they belonged to was one of the Ecuadorian ladies in pastel suits I see working to work on the morning; with bright lipstick and shimmer tights. Not old but not young; the kind who likes Salsa dancing at the bars in the Mariscal on a saturday night; only ever dancing with her husband even though she is bored.

On this particular night the lady was walking home and had a sudden moment of realisation; about what I couldn´t say. She took of her shoes and threw them into the roots of a nearby tree. Smiling, she walked all the way home with no shoes, laddering her tights on the gravel and singing a song that she thought she had forgotten.

Avenida 12 de Octubre- Quito, Ecuador

One of the main things that has struck me about Ecuador is how passionate people are about the politics. At the weekend the population will vote Si or No for the New Constitution, and I haven´t met anyone here who hasn´t read the Constitution in full or in part. Even I have read it after being here for a month; it´s so widely referenced and talked about that I was genuinely interested. I must admit that I am a bit apathetic back in England, as a lot of people are. Being here has made me wonder why that is, and I think that one reason is that day to day life here isn´t as comfortable for most people and so

the need for change is more obviously on the surface; young children still work in the streets shining the shoes of businessmen for 25 cents; disabled people beg in the roads with few rights or means of support.

The president Rafael Correa has had a bit of a marmite affect;in the family I´m staying with alone there is a strong divide between loving him and hating him. 95% of the people here

claim to be Catholic; and religion is another thing that people here take really seriously. I have a big

Jesus on the cross above my bed, and my bedside lamp is a porcelain statuette of two children praying!

With liberal articles like legalising gay marriage and pro choice abortion laws a large portion of the country is outraged, some chaining themselves to crosses in front of churches and such in Guayaquil.

I can´t help but think though that those who claim to be protesting for the rights of children by contesting the pro-choice law might better spend their energy helping the kids who are already here and not having a great chance at life.

Grafitti calling for Si is all over the city, and stern- faced men in smart clothes wave giant ´No´flags at the main intersections. Bars and night-clubs are closed this weekend, and you can´t buy alcohol in the shops because the country is taking the vote so seriously.

I´m really interested to see what the outcome is next week. From what I´ve read I´m personally hoping for Si!

Sea front: The coastal ghost town (Sua)

When we asked if our friends had arrived she started flicking through a pad of crisped yellow paper, licking her index finger to seperate the pages.

´German?´she asked, ´There have been some Germans here´

´No, French; They arrived yesterday.´

She shook her head and inverted her mouth to resemble a dried prune. Her daughter sat on the tiled floor of the dining room cutting out pictures from an old cereal box with a butter knife; her pink frilled carnival dress spread out around her like a blister; the hem dark with sand and salt.

The sun was licking the corners of the sea out of the frosted window and so we asked for a room anyhow. She looked at us doubtfully. ´There is one´ she replied ´Right at the top, if you want it.´The wooden key rack behind the desk was missing only two keys, but we agreed and followed her up the dusty concrete steps to the final shallet which slumped against the brow of the hill behind the hotel. She handed us two small pieces of dirt streeked soap, a couple of used towels, and a small silver key with a bird cranium as a fob. ´There´s a television´ she remarked in a tone of consolation, walking away as she said it.

The room was dark and damp; the bamboo celing had decayed in the centre and sagged precariously over one of the beds. As I sat down I noticed a trail of talcum powder dotted across the moss green blanket; along with a shallow vale of dust. Above the curtain rail a clot of termites swelled from the wall. It did not strike me so much that the room was unclean, but that noone had been here for a long time yet we found it exactly as it had been left.

We could hear the murmer of cocktailed music, and not wanting to stay in the room for much longer we decided to head down to the water front.

A low night mist had settled over the town heavying our hair with salt. As we walked towards the white concrete arch at the bottom of the steps two snarling dogs with enormous paws emerged from the shadows and blocked our path, sinking back on their haunches with an instinct to attack. As we startled back an old man in a wax fishing hat stepped out from the shadows and kicked one of the dogs in the back leg with his tough rubber boots. ´Where are you going?´he spat in gap toothed hostility; his accent was thick and dry like flour. We nervously pointed at the arch, and at the same time noticed the varnished rifle slung over his shoulder. He shook his head in the same knowing way as the woman, but produced a set of brass keys from his pocket anyhow and advanced towards the gate, which we now realised was secured with a heavy chain in the centre.

Along the line of the beach small bamboo shacks stacattoed the road. As we drew nearer it became apparent that the low wooden bences and swings for seating were empty, yet behind each bar was a staff of two or more who looked at us vacantly as one might look at fog in the line of vision. The sea wind caught the swings and they mimed the movement of the absent people who had one sat there, creaking as though under the pressure of a body. The bars were adorned with various types of ripe tropical fruit; other curiosities such as animal skulls and gnarled driftwood were strung from the rafters as decorations.

On the other side of the street tiled restaurants filled with plastic garden chairs cast angles of light across the empty pavement; faded chalk boards all boasting the same seasonal menu. The whole town seemed to be waiting to begin, but for what I couldn´t say...........