The Dark Side of the Valley

by Amanda Lay (Ecuador)

Making a local connection Ecuador

"Vilcabamba... it's a dangerous place. Things are badly not right" I rolled these words around my otherwise untroubled mind as I sat in the Juice Factory enjoying a tropical smoothie and savouring the spicy lemon smoke of Palo Santo as the sunlight bounced off the glossy leaves in the Parque Central on the Town Square. The cheerful candy colours of the Catholic church were reflected by the smiling faces of the people idly leaving it; young children were loudly chatting and playing as their parents stretched out on nearby benches. It was midday on a Sunday and Vilcabamba was in full bloom. Locals and gringos alike were sunning themselves. Queues began to form outside the ice cream parlours at the northeast corner of the square. I struggled to make sense of anyone having such a dark opinion of this joyful little Andean town in southern Ecuador. The warning had come from a former long-term resident and I'd heard it when I was already a week into my stay. Another month had gone by since then and I was still trying to decide whether or not to take it seriously. The Juice Factory was a good place to ask anyone about basically anything so I began by asking Tom; a tall and severe-looking UK retiree who had lived here for the past 8 years. He adjusted the rim of his Panama Hat as he considered his response: "Sometimes there are problems. There were some attacks a few years ago. Although many of the locals are open and friendly, many think we should not be here." Even to a relative newcomer, it was obvious that a division existed between the gringo expats and the mestizo locals: Gringo-owned businesses saw heavy daily footfall but the many native-owned tiendas and restaurants lay empty; their signs and menus faded, their stock visibly low. The expats were a mix of retirees, New Agers, free-thinkers, conspiracy theorists and hippies. Some were harmless, others clearly unstable. All were either advertently or inadvertently gentrifying the town and preventing the locals from being able to buy land in the valley they were born in. I could understand how this could create bad feeling. Consequently, I often found myself trying to play a small part in improving the gringo reputation around town; "Lo siento, necesito mejorar mi español!" - my standard apology as I struggled to remember basic words. "Si, mejorarás. Poco a poco" - the typically kind and patient response. Another patron had heard Tom's thoughts, but had a different perspective. His name was Ethan, a young Californian who had moved here 3 years ago to study shamanism: "I dunno man. Every time I have heard of someone getting hurt, it's been the work of a crazy gringo. Either they drank too much or they got involved in some bad juju. Datura has really messed some people up here. Like that guy - he used to be a shaman." He gestured across the cracked, dirt-lined cobbles of the street beside us to a very small, hunched, feral man moving around the benches of Parque Central as if he had lost something very important to him. He approached a young couple while holding out a coin. They shook their heads and he left them. I cringed as I saw him drink from a series of discarded cans and bottles. He turned sharply and I saw the expression scored deeply onto his sun-cured face for the first time; the most arresting look of pained anxiety I had ever seen. Shaken, I thanked my new friends and left. As I did, it struck me that both of these seemingly contrasting theories on the dark side of this valley were, in fact, connected; reckless plant medicine experimentation and western gentrification swallowing up sacred land for foreign profit both arose from a lack of respect for the valley's natural resources. As I walked back towards my apartment on Mandango mountain, I couldn't shake the image of his anguished face. Cautionary tales of 'plant medicine' misuse abound in Vilcabamba, and I had heard plenty. But never before had I looked one in the eyes.