Vilcabamba's Shadow

How long can I stay here?

I wake up every morning to a beautiful sight. Lush, rolling mountains paint the landscape of the low Andes green, and a biodiverse Eden sits below. The sun chirps, the birds shine and the sky somehow remains blue as a cocktail of lingering Ayahuasca, Tobacco and Cannabis slowly vacates my system. I look forward to walking past the San Pedro cacti and actually proceeding to write, rather than extracting mescaline from them in my never-ending search for the meaning of life. I put on my socks so that in a moment, I can walk down to an adobe house I’ve labeled an “office.” If the office’s walls could talk, they’d note that I’ve sleuthed through the metaverse more than I’ve produced real words there, but they might at least notice me trying.

I’m in paradise, with no possible way to externalize my dissatisfaction with life — no boss to complain about, monthly expenses so low I don’t have to think about them, and all the time in the world to get in my own way. I can’t stretch myself to be delusional enough to abdicate responsibility for my own predicament here. The beauty of Vilcabamba is that it reveals who one is, clearly and relentlessly, for better or worse. Perhaps that’s why most people here are wanderers and transients, forcing those of us who do stay to grapple with the endless goodbyes that come with the place’s impermanence. We also must grapple with the relentless reflection of ourselves. Those who come here for the cheap cost-of-living find their scarcity mentality reflected back to them in a town so gentrified (local labor is $2.50/hr, while a smoothie at the gringo watering hole is $4) that it makes U.S. gentrification look soft. Those who come here to sport their enlightened wardrobes and fully shine as… Spiritual People ™… find plenty of other scammers with spiritual egos to make them feel right at home. Those who come here to start their cult find that their neocolonial energy isn’t unique, and a bunch of women have already beaten them to the punch, posing as the Goddess in town.

Energies I’d describe as neocolonial span not just Vilcabamba, but the globe, in the form of smartphones, social media and all the soul-sucking technologies birthed in the West. The resident Ecuadorians must face this, and skyrocketing development — new apartment complexes, newly paved roads, even a gas station — while simultaneously facing droves of woke expats purporting to be above such things. The expats here fancy themselves the forefront of human health and consciousness. They operate as channels (of the cosmos), and they’ve evolved past worldly channels (like social media), except of course when they need those channels to promote themselves as channels. They are connected to everyone and everything, except of course their Ecuadorian neighbors who’ve lived here their whole lives. Their channeling is so world-class that they can check the Akashic record and tell me all the secrets of the universe. They might not be able to tell me how they’ll pay the rent next month, or how they’ll pragmatically, you know, do anything, but they can probably solve these trivial 3-D concerns in the fifth dimension. Manifesting, baby. Abundance. Light bodies and breatharianism. In the fifth dimension, Vilcabamba is probably the magical land I fancied it when I moved; locals and gringos probably integrate seamlessly. The expats who sit around drinking their lives away and still haven’t learned Spanish after a decade — in 5-D, they’re probably transformed into Guanyin-faced unicorns. The angry local young men who beat and rob people — in 5-D, they’re probably transformed into philosophers winning the Nobel Peace Prize. In 5-D, Vilcabamba is probably the New Earth ™.

In 3-D, though, it’s an open-air insane asylum.

Whoops, I almost forgot my central thesis; I can’t really blame Vilcabamba for any of my dissatisfaction. The sea of mediocrity here is at least more self-aware and less superficial than the sea of mediocrity in L.A., and truth be told, I’m probably conceited enough to perceive anywhere as a sea mediocrity. I’m probably lazy enough to procrastinate anywhere. I’m definitely hurting enough to be in pain anywhere. One time I was talking about relocating with a cab driver in Chicago, and he said, “I find it funny when people think they can move and all their problems will somehow get better. Okay, you moved. Guess what? You’re still you!”

I’m still me. I’m me, living in a paradise whose idyllic nature exists only in the air, and whose shithole reality confronts me every day on the ground. The people here spout all kinds of inspiring ideas — in the air — and then lie and steal on the ground. I think about leaving most days, but do I really think I’ll find pastures that are greener anywhere else? There are shitty people everywhere. Almost everyone is asleep. At least here the people are interesting, and moving toward authenticity. And, aren’t they mirroring back to me exactly what I need to see in myself to finally grow up? I’ve lied and stolen; I’ve just done it in ways subtle enough to be conceived of differently. I’ve pontificated on thousands of inspiring ideas and ideals, and well, you can see how much real writing that has produced. Like Vilcabamba, I’m probably awesome in 5-D, but I’ve been very disappointed with myself in form. I have an incredible potential sitting up there in the ether, but I’ve been letting it blow away in the smoky wind. Is this not the perfect place to confront myself, to build something out of the ashes of a life that wasn’t working?

Vilcabamba calls on me to grow into a doer with no examples to look to. It calls on me to create purely from the inspiration within myself, and to build a new reality.

I could sit around talking conspiracy with the others here who got addicted to staring into the abyss, but what does that solve? I could have the loveliest esoteric conversations about the spiritual ideals of the new earth, but will that lead to action? Actually, talking conspiracy or spiritual esoterica could constitute great solutions and actions, if I record the conversations and start channeling Vilcabamba’s empty air into fuel for a creative fire. I don’t necessarily need to be the one planting potatoes, laying bricks or designing retreat centers to be a part of what this community is capable of creating. Writing and recording conversations could be enough for now. Maybe I will start a center, and maybe I will ultimately work with medicines (offerings of a “downward path”), but for now what feels right is working with people, listening, speaking and writing as I rebuild my meditation practice and find the middle way between the spiritual paths up and down.

I’ll still fantasize about moving to the coast, to Quito, to Mexico or even to the U.S. of A., but I won’t actually leave.

It’s too damn interesting here.