The Difference Between Being Rich and Having Money

Every morning, as the sun is rising, I take a moment to count my blessings. I’m thankful for so many things in my life. I have a beautiful house, custom-built from my own blood, sweat and tears. Over the years, as resources trickled in, it gradually became a comfortable home. Even though it’s still a work in progress with quite a long way to go until it’s “finished” as a construction project, I’m extremely grateful to have my own space, designed specifically to suit my lifestyle.

The fruit trees in the garden surrounding the house are also a source of immense gratitude. From the beginning, each tree was planted from seed and nurtured to bear delicious fruit. They’re still carefully cultivated, fertilized with the residue of the organic waste generated in the kitchen, and treated with natural pesticides made from a selection of medicinal plants growing in the garden to protect them from aphids and mealy worm.

My five cats are a constant source of gratitude, keeping me sane and grounded in a world that often doesn’t seem real. Every day, our kitty time matters to all of us as we roll on the floor and fling around home-made toys, or lounge on the sofa snuggle into each other as we enjoy a moment of peace. My gratitude list is endless. It includes family, friends, health, food, clothing, shoes, sand, sea and sanity. Since I began this particular part of my journey, I have considered myself rich.

While it sounds ideal, there’s another side to this life that all those Facebook friends, Instagram and Twitter followers don’t ever see. It’s the reality of a harsher side of life that is never talked about; the severe lack of money. The slow death of tourism in Mompiche means that particular stream of income has all but dried up. There have been no paid reservations at Secret Garden for months. No one comes for the magnificent $5 breakfast that is advertised all over town. No one turns up to learn how to cook traditional foods, to make coconut oil, or to learn how locally grown chocolate is made.

One or two horrific incidents on the border between Colombia and Ecuador, over 300 kilometers from our tranquil fishing village, got national and international press several months ago. Mompiche suffered for being in the same province. More recently, a couple of criminal incidents in nearby towns were reported by national news outlets as taking place in Mompiche, even though they didn’t. People have stayed away in droves. Domestic and international tourists are avoiding our village. People in other towns around the country are warning them not to come, saying it’s dangerous, but it isn’t. Mompiche is safe for tourists, and there is much to do. But our hotels and restaurants are empty. Family businesses are closing. The entire village is suffering. Those of us who once survived on tourism are now wondering how to make a living. Everyone is broke.

Despite all that, we are all quite rich. We live by the sea, on a clean beach. The weather is amazing, with comfortable temperatures all year round. We have adequate water, reasonably constant electricity, and the internet service isn’t that bad—when it’s working. We have access to several food sources that are inexpensive, or even free; fresh seafood from the fishing boats each day, fresh fruit from the trees along the river, as well as red-claw and land crabs, and bananas in abundance. Most people eat a lot of rice—known across more than half of the globe as a staple belly-filler, even though it contains very few nutrients—and there’s no one in our village who goes hungry. When cash is low, the lack of variety in our daily meals may be a source of frustration, but no one is starving to death. Isn’t that the very essence of wealth?

When it comes to the types of food I’m eating, I prefer to keep it simple; mostly vegetarian, and almost always cooked at home. As the money dries up, and hard-won income comes in drips and drabs, eating out becomes a rare luxury. These days, even the $3 lunch menu is beyond reach, but the $1 dinner (two corviches or empanadas from a street vendor) is still doable from time to time.

Even then, regardless of where it comes from, food that is too hot or too cold is impossible to eat. Extreme food temperatures hurt my teeth. My gums are sensitive. The cavities are slowly growing. It’s been years since I stepped into a dentist’s office. While dental care is “super cheap” here compared to other countries, when you’re constantly counting pennies and having to choose between one necessity and another, the dentist is the very last thing on the list, if it’s on there at all. My entire mouth desperately needs attention, but it cannot be a priority. Between eating soft warm foods and stuffing whole cloves between my teeth when they hurt, this is what coping looks like when there’s no money.

Whenever we play the “if I won the lottery” game, I always say I’d fix my teeth first. It’s not just teeth. My glasses were recently repaired for the third time this year with a couple more dabs of superglue to hold them together. Now there is probably more glue than actual frame around the lenses. On the plus side, I can still see through them. As for any kind of health insurance, forget about it. Also, I haven’t paid the land taxes on my property for several years because there is no extra cash lying around. That debt is accumulating and won’t go away, but there’s nothing to be done for it right now. I’m also owed some money, but that debt hasn’t been paid either. There’s no point in pressuring someone to pay up when they don’t have any money. That just makes the situation more stressful. If the debt is paid, the money is already spent; teeth and taxes. It hurts my soul to think of myself as “poor” but the reality is that when someone can’t afford all the basic necessities of life, regardless of whatever riches they do have, they’re still “cash poor” and struggling to get by from day to day in a world where having at least some money is essential.

Every time I make $20 selling cookies on a weekend, it’s reason to celebrate, and it’s something significant for which to be super grateful. It certainly keeps the wolf from the door in a hand to mouth existence. There is enough to buy food for the week, and I always stash enough to buy ingredients for a fresh batch of cookies. However, there will be no visits to the dentist or the optometrist, or any shopping trips to purchase shorts acceptable for public appearances during the summer.

Being cash-poor may mean having to make difficult choices about where money goes, but the riches flood in when I’m out there on the street with my cookie jar, making connections with people, stopping to say hi to friends, and meeting new ones, whether they buy a cookie or not. This is the difference between being rich and having money. Every day, I tell myself it will be okay. I remind myself not to feel stressed or depressed. I take deep breaths and remember my gratitude list. How important is it? I ask myself. After all, it’s only money. Right? I have many other riches besides money.

Even so, there are still times I struggle to avoid the vision of myself as a toothless old hag dressed in rags with broken glasses perched on the top of my nose. It’s extremely difficult to ask people for help, but I do. With swallowed pride I put out my hand and beg on the streets of the internet. Some generous people have chosen to give me a hand. It’s not much money, but it does make a tiny difference each month. It gives me great pleasure to post stories just for them, and also provides motivation to keep working, to keep trying, to keep pushing on. To continue to have hope for a better future is a treasure worthy of gratitude.

Recently, I traveled with a friend to his farm in Puerto Quito, about 4hrs drive from Mompiche. We spent time cutting banana branches, picking fruit, discussing the variety of trees, planting, fertilization, and future crops while walking around the property. Later, we went into town for a delicious lunch of steamed tilapia. (He was buying.) While in the bathroom of the restaurant, I noticed in the mirror that my “good” shirt was full of holes. I hadn’t seen the holes when it put it on half-asleep at 4am. Horrified at my ragged appearance, I resolved to go through my wardrobe and see what else had holes in it.

I’d worn a summer dress out in public all weekend before I realized it had not just one hole, but several poke-a-finger-through-sized holes on the front and back. In my wardrobe, there were holes, stains, broken zippers, frayed edges, fabric threadbare from wear. Some of my clothes I’ve had for years, and a lot of things were still good. However, more than half of it was only fit for rags, perfect attire for shipwreck survivors. Whatever couldn’t be repaired or renovated from the pile was designated for recycling into dog and cat toys, bathmats, shopping bags, fabric beads, and some will be incorporated into recycled art projects. Some of it became designated as “work only” clothing. It doesn’t matter if that stuff gets ripped or stained, or if the zips are broken. It won’t take long before they’re covered in paint, tiling cement and wood glue as I use up materials I already have to keep working on projects for the house and in the art gallery.

It’s been at least a year since I bought an item of clothing, new or used. There’s no room for luxuries with such an austere budget. While I’m thankful to have clothes on my back, and I’m fully aware there are people subsisting with much less, I noted that one of the first things to go whenever cash became scarce was new (or used) clothing. I own four pairs of shoes: sneakers, crocs, gumboots and flipflops that have been repaired several times. Considering I spend most of my time barefoot, and fully connected to Mother Nature, I’m okay with that. New shoes aren’t even on my wish list. The upside about being this rich is that I will never be a slave to the latest fashions. It’s also a blessing that I stopped using shampoo, conditioner, and skin-care products years ago.

A new blender is on my wish list. Mine is ten years old and could die any day. It’s been repaired a couple of times and is showing signs of fading out. There are currently no resources to repair it again, so I take really good care of it, making sure not to burn out the motor with each use. I can’t imagine life without my trusty blender, mixing up my fresh juices and soups and sauces, but when it does finally die, I will find out what that’s like too. Sadly, there will be no more hot sauce to sell.

Also on this wish list is a washing machine. Imagine! I don’t have—or need—a fridge, freezer or any other appliances apart from my blender. A washing machine would change my life. Not just for clothes, also for washing the hammocks, the bathmats and hand-towels, and all the sheets and towels when I have guests and volunteers. I could also use it for some of my recycling projects; washing all the paper-making screens, for example. From this vantage point, a washing machine feels like an unattainable dream. Mostly, I just try not to think about it too much. I try to focus on all the riches I already possess, like fresh unpolluted rainwater and a large tub for hand-washing clothes.

Every day, I work hard doing a variety of activities all designed to generate income. From promoting tourism activities to advertising my books online, flogging cookies and chili sauce in the streets, writing stories, and creating recycled art for sale at home, I’m quite busy most of the time. It’s possible I have my fingers in too many pies. People often tell me I work too much. Friends try to encourage me to take days off and go to the beach. Struggling to get the bills paid, it feels like I don’t have that luxury.

A few days ago, I had to make a tough decision between paying the internet bill or buying fresh food for the week. I thought about it all morning before I paid the bill with my last cash. The internet is a potential source of income, so it matters. There is fruit on my trees and a few veges left from last week. There are lentils and beans in the cupboard. I still have a few eggs. The fishing boats still come in every day. I’ll get by on what I have. I’m a creative cook and will make it work. The undiscovered riches inside my cupboards will find their way to my plate.

A long time ago, I learned it was worth having more than one source of income so that if one stream dried up the others could fill the void. But what happens when they all run dry? That part wasn’t in the instruction manual. I keep hearing mantras like, “If you work hard, the rewards will come.” So I keep on working. Daily, I tell myself that someone will want a bottle of the best hot sauce this side of the equator, a well-written book or a good travel story, a comfortable bed in an eco-house, a fantastic breakfast, a traditional cooking class or a recycling workshop. They don’t. No one does. They haven’t for a long time. At best, they might like a really good chocolate-chip cookie for fifty cents. You might be surprised at how many people don’t want one, or how many do but can’t afford one. These are tough times.

I could choose to feel despair, and there are moments when I do feel like crying, but that won’t solve anything and it certainly won’t pay the bills; internet, electricity, gas for cooking, food. Instead, I put one foot in front of the other and keep going. I choose optimism. I choose not to worry and to believe I’m strong enough to survive this struggle. I choose to use whatever resources I have available to keep producing whatever I can, and to keep hoping that something somehow somewhere will bring in a decent pay day. Every day, sometimes every hour on the roughest days, I remember to be thankful for what I have and I tell myself that it will be okay. I’m sure that it will be. Won’t it? After all, I’m already pretty rich when you think about it.

 

Life without a fridge

When I first moved to Mompiche, the tiny cabin I rented was pretty basic. It was a small 4m x 4m grass-roofed hut with a tiny balcony, and it had a bed in it. Soon after I moved in, I bought a new mattress to replace the lumpy old one. Then, I built a table on the balcony and put a stove on it. That became the kitchen. Many wonderful meals were cooked on that stove. Over the two years I lived in the “Love Shack” (named so by a previous resident), I grew fruit and vegetables in a garden I built at the side of the cabin, and set up a small covered dining area between my cabin and the next one. During the entire time, I didn’t own a fridge. It didn’t even occur to me to buy one.

Every day, I would go to the beach and get fresh fish for myself and my cat. Actually, the cat went and helped himself to fish sometimes, fleeing the scene with a disgruntled fisherman on his tail. Mascara always escaped with his fish. I’d bring fish home, clean it and cook it immediately. There were never any left overs because I only got what I needed for one meal and there was never a reason to store food. The fridge wasn’t necessary.

Fruit and vegetables were stored in baskets I made from a coconut palm leaf. Eggs were kept in there too. I didn’t need to buy a ton of food in advance while I was shopping daily, and I avoided buying food in packets, jars, or tins, except for things like lentils and quinoa. Everything I ate was natural and made from scratch.

After two years in the “Love Shack” I moved into my own house at the back of the village. At that point, it had no doors or windows, there was no kitchen or bathroom, and my bed was a mattress on the floor. Apart from being unaffordable on my extremely skinny budget, buying a fridge was definitely not on my list of priorities. I’d already learned how to live without one. I weaved a new set of baskets with palm leaves and that became the “fridge” at Secret Garden. While I camped out in my new home, building the kitchen and bathroom, planting the garden, having doors and windows built, the thought of buying a fridge never entered my mind. It didn’t even occur to me that my lifestyle might be odd until someone came to visit.

“Where’s the fridge?” she asked, holding two bottles of beer. Maybe if I drank beer, a fridge would have been higher up in the list of priorities. In the end, we borrowed a tiny space in a nearby friend’s fridge to store beer during her stay. Next time I was in town, I bought a large cooler. One large block of ice lasts for at least 24 hours. I rarely used the cooler myself, but always suggested that guests could buy their own ice (for $0.50) if they needed to keep things cool; it was mostly beer.

On 1 October 2018, I will have been living in my own home for seven years. There is still no fridge, nor even the thought of buying one. I don’t need it. The same—albeit slightly battered—cooler still sits in its spot between the living room and the kitchen. It gets moved downstairs for BBQs or parties. I still buy vegetables and harvest fresh fruit daily, making my meals from scratch, and visit the boats on the beach to get fish from the fishermen. Sadly, Mascara is gone, but now I have other cats who eat fresh fish every day.

Life without a fridge isn’t that complicated. In fact, it’s simpler. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I Haven’t Washed My Hair For Five Years

On vacation in the Galapagos Islands in Ecuador, I had an epiphany. The relentless pollution of our seas, rivers, waterways and precious water supplies by plastics, chemicals, and contaminants is also my responsibility. Apart from the fact that my hair was a perpetual frizzy uncontrollable mess for which there seemed to be no solution. It appeared I was doomed to live out my life looking like I’d just put my fingers in an electrical socket. I’d long since given up trying to tame my wild locks and resorted to making feeble—and spectacularly unsuccessful—attempts to keep it contained within the confines of a scrunchie.

During a scuba diving expedition in Ecuador’s magical archipelago, a live aquarium-like experience which included observing several species of sharks, manta rays, sea turtles, dolphins, sea lions, octopus, seahorses, and even the elusive sunfish, I realized how devastating it would be if our oceans were devoid of all this fantastic marine life. On the spot, I decided to quit using all hair and skin products. Effective immediately. Every shower, every hand wash, every time I did the dishes or the laundry, I was actively contributing to the death of multiple species, both in the water and on land. For several years previously, I had tried the bicarb soda and apple cider vinegar method with disastrous results, ending in dry brittle ends and even frizzier hair.

Like every other home-improvement project I’ve ever embarked upon, I jumped in feet first without looking. Sink or swim, as it were. A week later, my usual halo of hair had transformed itself into a dripping limpid disaster which contained more oil than the local greasy spoon. Holy smoking chip fryers! Was this supposed to happen? According the the internet, it was perfectly normal. My research concluded it could take anything between four to six months for my abused scalp to restore itself to its natural condition. Studying the personal hygiene habits of various native indigenous tribes, I discovered that natural hair-care included brushing, rinsing, and a lick of coconut oil if the tips felt a little dry.

Determined to succeed, I purchased a good quality wooden hair brush, several large silk head scarves and a decent supply of scrunchies made from natural fabrics. Almost every morning, a glance in the mirror confirmed that my hair looked as if it was preparing to leave me. Frequent brushing relieved the itching. Scarves and scrunchies hid the awful lankiness. Hot water—that I could comfortably put my hand into—washed away the dust of the day. Left to dry naturally, my normally curly mane returned to its lanky, haggard state. I could have fried eggs with the oil dripping from each strand. My hair screamed and squirmed for four long months, stoically enduring its painful withdrawal from harsh chemicals and unnatural substances.

Seventeen weeks in, I noticed a small difference. It dried softer. It was slightly bouncier. It shined, just a little. A week later, my curls came roaring back. They were no longer frizzy. They framed my face and sat there, behaving themselves. I felt like someone else’s hair had snuck in during the night and settled on my scalp. The results were far beyond my expectations. In a rare and daring move, I wore my hair loose one day. Friends asked if I’d had it done at a salon. As if I would be caught dead in a salon! This sealed the deal. I would never wash my hair with shampoo again. Conditioner would never again grace my bathroom shelves. I made organic coconut oil, rubbing a tiny bit into the tips if they felt dry. I sought out chemical-free soaps sold in eco-friendly packaging, and made lovely exfoliating face washes with plants from my garden (aloe vera, moringa, and tea tree). I bought bamboo toothbrushes (in recycled paper boxes), and made toothpaste with ingredients I already had in the kitchen, storing it in a small glass bottle.

Water would never feel violated by my actions again. Plastic shampoo and conditioner bottles in my trash can were no longer an issue. During the process of learning to maintain natural hair, I ditched all types of ecologically disastrous packaging. Revising my entire shopping culture, I realised that recycling is a path paved with good intentions, but does not actually solve the fundamental problem of excessive plastic that we face on planet Earth today. However, eliminating plastic packaging from my shopping basket was a step in the right direction.

Five years on, my scalp is no longer itchy or greasy. It’s neither dry nor flaky. I continue to brush daily and rinse my lovely locks weekly, adding a dab of organic coconut oil from time to time when it’s needed. I also invested in eco-friendly dish and laundry detergents. Meanwhile, I spend a lot of time campaigning manufacturing companies to change their packaging from plastics to glass, metal or recycled paper. And now, instead of looking like a crazed Medusa who escaped a psychiatric ward, I can do it with gorgeous shiny chemical-free hair. I have no doubt, if we all made a combined global effort, between us we could stop contaminating our water, reduce our plastic purchases, and brag about our glorious natural hair on social media. Are you up for it?

Ya Mismo: Preface

Author’s note: Below is the original preface I wrote for Ya Mismo: Thirty Minutes North of Zero. I was thinking of starting the book with this description of events and going the long way round to figure out how we got here, and then continuing from there. Keep in mind that Ya Mismo is not a work of fiction; it’s a book about life experiences and memories. At the end of the chapter is a link to a video relating directly to this experience. Please share your thoughts and ideas about this preface. And thanks for reading Ya Mismo: Thirty Minutes North of Zero…

Preface

Mayor lunges forward, his long fingers wrapped around the handle of the machete. He is enormous, looming over me. Six feet tall at least. Steaming with rage, he seems much bigger. Broad shouldered, thick set. His blue-black skin gleams with sweat. His eyes are wild and crazy, the whites streaked with red fury. He roars and shoves me through the door opening with his free hand. There is still no door on the half-built house. I can’t keep him out.

Yelling at him to go, I stumble backwards into the storeroom. He raises the huge knife above his head. Backed up against the wall, I instinctively put up my hands to protect myself. I shut my eyes. Thinking this is my final moment alive, I wonder for a second if there will be enough pieces left for someone in my family to identify my body. A scream freezes in my throat.

My brain shrieks, “No! No! No! No! No! No!”

Then I feel the slap of the sharp blade. I hear the metal thwack against my skin. The rush of adrenaline surging through my veins blocks any pain. A warm trickle of blood instantly tickles the back of my arm. Enraged and terrified, I yell even louder for him to get out of my house, that he no longer has permission to be there. Quickly scanning the room for a weapon to defend myself, I almost cry in despair. There is nothing. Even if there was, both my hands are almost useless, broken and bleeding from being smashed with the axe during his first assault.

My mind frozen with terror, every syllable of Spanish I’ve ever learned vanishes into thin air as I shriek in English, “Get out! Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out of my house!”

He raises the machete above his head once again.

“I’ll kill you!” he hisses, spittle flying from his snarling lips.

I believe him. I’ve never been so scared. Every muscle in my body tenses, instinctively ready to run. His huge form fills the doorway. The only way out is straight through him. One eye on the sharpened machete blade, the other looking for an escape, I hold my breath. There is barely time to think, but still I wonder: How did my life get this insane?

I guess it all started on the bus…

Back to the bus story:

The Magic Circus Disco Bus – where the truth just keeps getting stranger…

Go to the video:

No More Violence Against Women