A slow stagnate stench rises from the muddy, garbage-filled streets of Puerto Lopez. Never sunny and always overcast, the weather insists that we remain stolid while we wait for the triumphant return of our heroes, Alex and Aleana. I don´t know what kind of fucked up journey they are on, but it seems that when the shit hits the fan, it really hits it hard and doesn´t stop flinging around, all over their backpacks and heads.
Tom likes the weather here. The one day that the sun actually shone, Tom looks at me and says, "I need to find a dark, low-lit bar to sit in all day." Tom found one.
They call this the Ruta del Sol. Today it misted for nine hours, slowly wetting everything. Ruta del Sol, my ass.
Everytime that I ask a local when the sun shines, like everything else, I consistently get a different and contradicting answer. Some say August. The Lonely Planet says June through November. I´ve also been told that its only sunny one month out of the year. Marcelo, the Jingus slinger in Montanita, told me December or January. A man last night named Juan told me that there´s a cold current coming from the north making all this wet, hazy weather and that the clouds continue down the whole god damned west coast.
They are all meteorologists, yet noone really knows a god damn thing about anything. They all claim to know, but they don´t.
As this weather drowns the mood of the gypsies, we wait for some semblance of communication, each day, back from our comrades. Everytime I come back from the computer, "News?" They ask. Sometimes I have some, but most times I don´t. It´s a slow process, waiting.
Writing about the weather doesn´t compare to the trials faced by Alex and Aleana, but it relates the mood here, closer to the middle of the world, in Puerto Lopez.
Happy Fourth of July, Alex, wherever you are.