South America to Scotland on a guitar string!

When I first cast eyes on my hubby he was singing A Hard Day's Night by the Beatles, strumming on his guitar and sporting a suit topped off with a red Santa hat. Well, alright, that's not strictly true.

The first time I ever saw him was actually earlier that same day, walking off in the opposite direction carrying a bulky guitar case (it's a standard size - it just looked overly large beside his small frame). I never saw his face until that night. I only remember seeing him earlier that day because of the blonde dreadlocks. They were hard to forget.

If you've read A Darwinian Love Affair, you'll know that my first impression of his Beatles cover was not most favorable. Admittedly I was in full Brit 'crit' mode at the beginning of his performance when he opened his mouth and a painfully slow version of the Liverpudlian band classic came crawling out. In spite of a somewhat sketchy start, it didn't take a second song to convert me. I was hooked before he made it through the opening cover. We now have a Beatles poster of that same track hanging on our bedroom wall.    

I was a wannabe groupy from the get-go. Half way through the show he came down to meet his audience. We were a handful of backpackers who happened to be hanging in HVH, Quito, Ecuador that night. I remember feeling thrilled when the vocalist with the dreadlocks looked me straight in the eyes and asked me my name. Like he even cared or would remember.

But he did remember - and it soon became abundantly obvious that he cared also. Our romance developed over the following five days in the Galapagos Islands - as did my groupie status - culminating in a seemingly premature invitation for me to move in with him in his apartment in Quito. The rest (as they say) is history.

I don't know if he's ever truly known or believed just how blown away I was by his voice and his performer abilities. To me he was simply incredible - like no one I'd ever met before. I knew if he'd really wanted it he could have been famous.    

He said he did want that - but he also wanted to do lots of other things too, like travel the world, learn 15 different languages, be a photographer - and a painter too. He described himself as a Jack of all trades, master of none. I begged to differ. He seemed pretty damn masterful at anything he turned his hand to (maybe not so much the painting). Singing was such a significant part of his life while we lived in Quito. I'm sad it's taken such a back burner since the kids came along. 

As it turns out he's a damn fine Daddy too ('Jack' my ass).

In South America he earned his living as a teacher, but he tried to supplement that living as a singer, although when I first met him he was little more than an on-stage busker. Other than earning a few dollars in tips and scoring a heavily discounted Galapagos cruise ticket in exchange for providing evening entertainment on our boat - he hadn't really reaped any financial rewards from his music.

Los Confundidos playing in H.V.H, Quito

In the few short months we lived together in Quito he formed a band Los Confundidos with an Ecuadorian Guitarist and a fellow American teacher who played the banjo. The band took him away from me a lot and I hated that, but the gigs got bigger and better - I absolutely loved that.

I soon jumped on the band wagon, promoting them by distributing fliers and pinning posters in various internet cafes and restaurants around Gringo-Land. We added a cover charge and I collected the dollar entrance fee at the door. All friends were free of course, so they still didn't make very much even though the bar was packed. 

His year in Quito was coming to an end, and he was yet to determine where his next 'long term' teaching position would be. There was, however, a vague interim plan to head towards his uncle's home in Sao Paulo, Brazil in the hopes of joining a band and singing for his supper for a wee while. 

Band groupies (I'm red eyes on the left)

It sounded like an adventure to me, as did the crazy (cheap ass) plan to get there - but that's a whole other story (gettin' on a boat). I was in. He'd had me at 'cheap ass'.

Before we headed across the continent Los Confundidos stumbled across some affordable studio time. It was too good an opportunity to pass up, so the hubs was pretty much missing in action for the best part of a week while they recorded their one and only album. It mainly consisted of cover songs, but it also had three original tracks on there - written by my hubs (Jack) of course.  

Head groupy - yours truly - was put in charge of the album cover photograph (see pic below). The band were pretty broke - my hubs in particular - so once they'd generated the master CDs, they only made a small number of copies (I think close to one hundred in total). I'm not sure how many ended up in good homes, or if they still exist today.

The hubs and I were further limited by how many we could backpack across the continent with us, so we only bought thirty copies or so, a handful of which the hubs shipped home to his family

A few CDs were punted - 10 dollars a pop - at the boys' final gig in Quito, and the proceeds split. The rest of ours went with us in the hubs' guitar case, in the hopes we could sell them along the way.   

Los Confundidos posing for album pic!

From unpaid on-stage busker to small scale sell-out professional lead singer/songwriter of Los Confundidos - with one album release under his belt - my fella had come a long way. From rags to..... well he was still in rags, but his musical accomplishments in such a short time - in a far away land - was incredible to me. He was my guitar wielding hero and I would have followed him across the world - which I did.  

Unfortunately my hero didn't have much moolah to show for his masterful skills. Before I met him he pretty much flew by the seat of his pants when it came to earning a living. Getting across South America on a shoestring budget would have been a luxury for us.

He wasn't supporting his groupy girl - I'd just ditched my career in the dirty oil industry, remember - I had plenty of my own cashola to cruise around the continent with, if I'd wanted to. Instead, I was hell bent on sharing my hippy hobo's lifestyle, so we made my stash 'off limits' from the get-go, agreeing that I would match my man dollar for dollar along the way.

We made it to the Brazil coast via the Amazon and stationed ourselves in a backpackers paradise called Jericoacoara. In 2003 Jeri - as we fondly dubbed it - was a fairly unknown location, somewhat off the beaten track. You didn't just happen across this place along your travels - you made it there via a raft crossing and a jeep ride through the sand dunes. We were led there by a traveler in the know and it was worth the trek. We rented a beach house for a month. We should have stayed a year.

It didn't take long to secure a few paying gigs in a beach bar. The hubs had a little hostile competition from a local entertainer, who begrudgingly befriended us once my man proved himself to be a worthy adversary - keep your  friends close keep your enemies closer. There were only 5 or so bars in the 'resort' and before long we managed to sign the hubs up at all of them.

At some point along the way I had promoted myself from groupie to manager. My fella didn't seem to mind. I neatly wrote out a kickass playlist then taped it to the top of his guitar so that he could follow it live. He was on fire at the beach in Brazil - literally (but I'll get to that in a minute). I could hardly believe he was mine and we were fulfilling one of his dreams together. The hubs' mantra:

 Better a life of dreams fulfilled than dreams of fulfillment.

At some point earlier in our travels - perhaps we'd been in Peru - I'd been wowed at the beach by a fantastical fire show put on by some local performers. My guy had stood up and asked for a turn and the hippies didn't hesitate.

I watched in fear and fascination as he spun those burning coals magically around his head. 'Jack' my ass -  he was the bomdiggy! The coals were attached to the end of chains with leather strap handles. They were called fire poi, and it appeared my hubs was proficient in this also.

In Jeri he made me a set of 'girl' poi to practice with. Although his intentions were admirable I was pretty pissed at the gesture. After a few hours swinging my 'girl' poi around (unlit of course), he soon admitted he'd underestimated me, and he made me a set to match his own.

I soon became a familiar figure at the beach turning my hands and making my poi dance, mastering as many moves as the hubs knew. It was quite a work-out. My enthusiasm for poi rekindled the hubs' passion and he invented a unique and dangerous move all of his own, which included a forward roll. All well and good, unlit and on the soft sandy beach.    

Finally, after weeks of practicing, we set our poi on fire! After dark, we waited - just the two of us - until the sand path behind our beach home was deserted, then (with our buckets of water on stand by) we lit up the night sky with our fiery circus act.

Final gig in Jericoacoara . My hubs is the one on the left.

The night sky wasn't the only thing that was lit-up that night. As the fire balls flashed around us, I was lost in the flames burning bright in my singer's eyes. I could have gotten stuck in that moment forever.  



Toward the end of our month in Jeri we were approaching local celebrity status. We planned a final concert inviting our frenemy the local entertainer, and some other local musicians to perform alongside the hubs, or take their own set if they wished.

It was a knock-out gig. The best I'd seen him yet. He'd already voiced his intention to light-up his poi during the show. I wasn't ready to join him in front of an audience. I begged him not to try and wow an already sufficiently psyched audience with his fiery forward roll maneuver - of course he didn't listen.

I could barely look as he took on the tricky tumble on the small concrete slab, which served as the stage - at least his dreads gave him some head cushioning. I had visions of patrons throwing their alcoholic beverages over him to douse the flames. Of course he nailed it. The man was on fire - in more ways than one - how could I not melt around his heat?

Celebrating a successful final gig. Jeri, Brazil (hubs far right,
his frenemy in the middle) 

It's always good to leave on a high note. That's not why we left though. We'd made plans to be at the uncle's in time for Christmas. That could only mean back-to-back bus rides, from the quiet balmy beach in the North, to the gargantuan over-crowded city in the South, Sao Paulo.

I knew nothing of the Brazilian capital save for its record population and its notoriety for muggins and gun crime. I wasn't really looking forward to the upcoming phase of our adventure, my hubs', however, had his aspirations of fame and fortune pinned on this next leg of his life journey - at the very least he hoped to find a band and be earning an honest penny by New Year...

Christmas was wonderful, and we found ourselves included in all the gift giving and celebrations. My hubs wrote two songs for me - one fast; Rollercoaster Blue, and one slow; Little Lullabye - the lyrics of which are branded across my heart. He surprised me with these on Christmas day. Those days he wrote and played all the time, and even though we lived in each other's pockets he somehow composed these tunes without me noticing.

Unfortunately searching for a paying gig turned out to be like searching for a needle in a haystack, and my superstar was suddenly the tiniest fish in the biggest pond in South America. Like Bugs Bunny, we'd definitely taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque. There was no quick fix to replenish the travel kitty which was being fast burned up by our living the high-life on the wrong side of town.

I think we both harbored regrets for leaving Jeri, especially after sharing humdrum fantasies of setting up shop at the beach, whilst snuggling together in our hammock at night. Neither of us wanted to go back though. The Gentle Winds of Change had brought the hubs' to his knees once again. We needed to keep moving onwards and upwards.

Wanting to knock Jeri from our pedestal the hubs' uncle hospitably took us to their holiday home in Ubatuba - a Sao Paola beach resort, which was nothing short of paradise. But it was no place for a backpacker band hopeful attempting to make a few bucks for bed and board - at least not the upend part where these fancy folks resided.

As we were forced to fork out 'only' 10 bucks (ONLY 10 BUCKS would have covered two nights for the pair of us in our usual class of accommodation) for a basket of calamari that neither of us had really wanted, we knew it was time to say our goodbyes. Free digs was turning into a mindless money pit, the extent of which the hubs' high class uncle could not begin to fathom.    

The first step was to escape from the bosom of our Brazilian family without causing offence. We couldn't stay in Brazil then - unless we fibbed of course. We played with the idea of staying in Brazil for a while, and finally thought better of it. While we still had enough cash to make the journey, we purchased bus tickets to Iguazu Falls. Our course was set for Argentina.

As soon as we arrived in Iguazu we hit the streets looking for a suitable bar for my singer to shine his light in. We soon found one. He demoed a few songs for the bar manager and between themselves they worked out a fair gig price. Our digs were basic, but we were much happier being hippier. Especially as the hubs was back to being breadwinner.

The hubs and bar manager, Iguazu Falls, Brazil

On the border of Brazil we chopped off his dread locks. They'd been dreaded by a dreadfully amateur crew of teachers back in Quito, and his regrowth had never taken to dreading properly. The roots were somewhat stale and rotten from being permanently water logged by salty sea and sand. Any attempt at washing his scalp was causing the top of his head to fuzz up in a mass of frizz. Not the look he'd been going for.

Sadly for the hubs - just like his dreadlocks - his days of singing for his supper were numbered. I sometimes wondered (much later) if chopping off those locks took away his mojo...

Once we reached Buenos Aires, Argentina his veritable vocation became abundantly clear: He'd tried his hand at busking, but a close brush with the law left both of us feeling vulnerable and exposed. Working in a teaching establishment (or a bar for that matter) was illegal but it wasn't quite so obvious a misdemeanor as busking without a permit. We didn't need a second warning. With the musical career taking a bit of a nose dive, the resourceful hubs turned his talents back to teaching. 

I worked on the reception at a hostel in exchange for free digs and I tried my hand at teaching too, but between us we earned peanuts - barely enough to get by, let alone enjoy our time in Buenos Aires. After struggling for 6 months we finally let go of our brutal budget and our break-even aspirations. It was time to dip into my sordid stash...

For our last few months in South America we became budget backpackers like everyone else - a little more bohemian perhaps, and the hubs' still sang for his supper whenever he got the chance. Our last night in Argentina we basked in 5 star luxury before taking to the air Texas bound. It was time to meet the hubs' folks.

The hubs put down his guitar, and we dallied in his home town for a while, before crossing the Atlantic to meet my folks. He brought a much littler guitar with him. Christmas came and went once again, and with our International romance stunting my hubs' travel capers, we needed a mutual plan. Spain and the sun beckoned, but in Barcelona the same sticky problem arose; the hubs' couldn't legally work in Europe. 

I was back on the 'game' - the dirty oil game - with my sights set on a Petroleum Engineering gig in Houston. Spurred on after reading Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand), I'd started the application process while we'd been 'dallying' in Texas. 




To me it was the obvious solution to all our problems; we'd be rich and legally allowed to live together - well, at least in the same country. Living together 'legally' - and not over the brush - required a contract of a different sort.

It didn't pan out, the location that is, not the dirty oil gig - that I got. The hubs, however, had a more permanent solution in mind. Beneath a fluorescent star spangled ceiling, he pulled out his more proportionate guitar and sang to me a song I'd never heard before. The best part went something like this...

I've got stinky feet, a bad memory, and I'm particular about how I like my rice,
But I'm still hoping you'll be willing to be my wife...
So I propose, how many times must I ask you to marry me - before you know it's true?
How many times must I ask you to marry me, before you finally say "I do" ooh, ooh
Do do do do do do do do....
(Getting onto his knees, putting the guitar to one side)

"Will you marry me?" asked my Jack of all trades - master of my heart.
"Of course!" I didn't hesitate. That's all I'd wanted for quite some time.

I still accepted my dirty oil gig, and as man and wife we semi-settled in Scotland. Later that same whirlwind year, out of the blue, my hubs was contacted by a film maker who wanted to use one of his original songs Disculpame in a movie... IN A MOVIE!

It was a low budget, gay flick, with the only proffered form of payment being possible prestige and a warm fuzzy feeling. Of course he gave them the rights to use his song - who in their right mind wouldn't have?

The moment we watched the movie East Side Story was a true triumph. His song plays for such a surprisingly long time over the most moving scene. I was stunned and so incredibly proud of my husband. That studio time in Quito had been worth every penny.

The hubs recently stumbled across an Ugly Betty montage on YouTube which uses Disculpame as background music. How cool is this?



After this brief glimmer of stardom, our lives took on a semblance of normality in Scotland. I worked for a large oil and gas corporation, and the hubs taught English at the college. He rarely picked up his guitar anymore. Instead he flexed his hidden acting muscles. Would this man ever cease to amaze me?

The hubs playing Fleet in Titanic

I watched in wonder as he sang his hauntingly beautiful Titanic solo center stage in his His Majesty's Theater, Aberdeen. It was a packed house.

During our last year in Scotland, an established local rock band Sanctuary lost their lead singer. My hubs auditioned for the gig and of course they snatched him up. It was during this rockin' time that I got to witness the full force of his performance prowess.

Guitarless, with a stand-up mike as his only prop, his talent for wooing the audience knew no bounds. I was shocked, impressed, embarrassed and brimming over with pride all at the same time! I was a groupy again along with my best friend. We were Sanctuary's  fledgeling following - and we rarely missed a performance!     
  

Lead singer in Sanctuary, Aberdeen

Some of these Aberdeenshire gigs were the biggest and headiest I've seen him do - especially when Sanctuary performed within Aberdeen city limits. They made pocket change, which paid for the beer - and band expenses. They all had their day jobs, so the money didn't matter - much. Profiting from a performance was a splendid slap on the back though - and I think they'd have all dropped their day jobs to play professionally if some music label had signed them up. Alas, it wasn't to be. 

With Sanctuary in full swing and our feet dangerously starting to take root, we took flight once again. We left on a high note - musically speaking. Scotland had run its course for us, and for the next few years we set our sights Across The Pond, to a small Texas Hill country town, just outside of Austin; the music capital of the world.

I could have been a contender George....

Old band buddies of my hubs are now a headlining rock group in Austin, pulling in massive crowds in the larger venues. With frequent radio airplay and their music featuring in various box office hits, they're starting to make their presence known worldwide. The hubs can't help indulging in a wistful dream of how it could have been him...

I've no doubt it could have been if he'd stayed put. Instead he chose to travel and see the world. Then he found me. With our third baby on the way, most of his time and performer skills are monopolized by being 'The Daddy'. He may only have the littlest audience in the world but he's a hero in their wide and wondrous eyes.

I know the urge for center stage still burns inside of him  - and he's managed to satisfy his itch with the odd local play here and there. His most recent role as Jesus certainly laid to rest a few demons for the past year or so. But I can hear an ominous beating of a drum. It's only a matter of time before once again the performer breaks loose.

It's bound to happen and when it does, the kids and I will be ready for him.

A Darwinian Love Affair

For those of you that haven't already heard the tale of how I met my husband, here's a little love story about a hippy hobo and a lost lady destined for love......


9 years ago I worked offshore in China. I was a Field Engineer in the oil industry, but after a short stint on the rigs I'd had my fill - enough to last me a lifetime. I resigned unceremoniously and hopped on a plane across the world - my destination Ecuador, South America. I had a few University friends running around on the Gringo trail. It was as good a place as any to start living again.

After a reckless few weeks backpacking off track with an old uni buddy, we flirted too close to danger and were held up at gunpoint on a quaint fishing village beach. Thankfully the biggest casualties were a pair of Sketchers and my Fossil watch - my buddy fared roughly the same. But heeding fair warning we headed back to the relative safety of Quito and Gringolandia, licking our wounds and thanking our lucky stars.

The mugging was a major bummer, and it left a nasty taste in my mouth for backpacking - and unfortunately my buddy also. Feeling like I was in 'checkmate' I wandered aimlessly down a street in Quito passing myriads of internet cafs and fabric vendors, digging fruitlessly in the bottom of my local woven bag for some matches for my Marlborough Light - wishing fate would step in and lend a helping hand, which of course it did.

A fellow traveler and smoker (a trustworthy stranger in these parts) sitting on a bollard on the pavement offered his lighter, and we got to chatting. He was Canadian, and I liked the way he sounded. I needed a friend and a new travel buddy with ideas. He had great ones, and in a few hours I was accompanying my new friend to a small tourist office to book ourselves on the very next flight and boat tour to the Galapagos Islands.

Buzzing with excitement we headed back to our respective hostels to pack for the next day, passing by a small restaurant bar called H.V.H along the way. Danny, the guy that ran the joint, was outside punting the place. A band was playing that night  - he indicated down the road to a small, (and oddly) suited-up dude, with blonde dreadlocks, who was hurrying away carrying a guitar that looked half his size - and the food deals were great, so I made a 'date' with the Canadian for that evening to celebrate our imminent cruise plans.

I remember my hair was braided. I remember I was the slimmest I'd ever been in my life. I remember I was wearing a pair of  well worn 'Jesus' sandals, handed down to me from a friend. Faded flared jeans sat low on my hips, and a brief yellow tank top showed off my tan. It's not hard to remember as those were almost the entire contents of my rucksack. I'd neglected to buy a bigger backpack, and so the only clothes I had, save for a denim skirt and bikini, were the ones on my back - my trainers had already been nicked!

Dan gigging in Quito, 2003

I don't remember many details about my new found travel companion. His name was Mark, and together we made fun of the kooky lead singer on stage. I remember everything about that kooky singer. The suited hippy had taken off his jacket, but was still wearing a necktie, and his long wayward blonde dreadlocks were sticking outwards from beneath a Santa Clause hat - it was the first day of June. He strummed slowly on his acoustic guitar watching the audience over a pair of wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses, as he slowly and deeply bastardized the intro to the upbeat Beatles classic 'Hard Day's Night'.

It was funny - but only to start with. And then it got really really good, and I was singing and dancing in my chair to the groovy little cover-band we'd happened across. My day had turned from hopeless to happy in a few short hours. We stayed until the band took a break. And that eccentric little hippy with the big voice came and sat right behind Mark and me. Our morning flight was early, so we hadn't planned on staying later, but lulled by the band's presence in the bar we hung out a little longer.

Dan and Jo, H.V.H. Quito, 2003

He asked who we were, and it was a little unnerving to return his intense gaze. He really paid attention. After some lighthearted discourse we soon discovered that the Musician/English Teacher (hence the suit) was also Galapagos bound the following morning - school was on a break. The coincidence didn't mean much that night. The Galapagos islands are pretty big, and many boats of all shapes and sizes set out on tours each day.

But it was fun for us all to have a common journey in our sights. The singer went back to singing, and Mark and I - after listening politely to a few more covers - left the little bar. I put a meager tip in the band's collection tin on our way out - and earned a thrilling 'Thank you Josie' in a quiet low timbre. A little disconcerted I avoided eye contact and smiled goodbye.

The next morning I think I arrived with Mark, but when I got to the boarding lounge I was alone. And the velvet toned "Josie" that welcomed me was unmistakable. In the light of day, the hippy singer was less mysterious, but just as intriguing. The suit had been dropped for a Guayabera shirt over a wife-beater, thai fisher pants and some funky strap sandals that I soon learned were Chacos.

'Dan' was good-naturedly beating himself up for having just dropped his new camera lens. It was a large professional looking camera - and not a digital. Lucky for me my new standard digital camera had survived the beach robbery. This enigmatic hippy had only recently permitted himself such an elaborate purchase after banning himself previously for committing the same blunder. His self discipline was a little alarming, and not so in line with his dreadlocks. I admit I was fascinated.

Mark's arrival put an end to further discovery, and he was surprised and perhaps a little disappointed to have last night's singer in our midst once again. The flight was not seat allocated so Mark sat beside me and Dan sat behind Mark, who it turned out suffered acutely from fear of flying.

A mischievous side soon emerged from Dan, which was incredibly infectious - if a little obnoxious - and his merciless teasing of Mark was hard to resist. I was attracted by how easily he was to be around and the laughter in his eyes and lips. I didn't want to have to say goodbye when the plane touched down in the islands - not just yet.

I don't remember how he came to be in the seat beside me. But I remember him leaning over and showing me an oil related article. I thought I detected a hint of disapproval in his demeanor, and I knew then I liked him as I wanted to lie. I wanted to deny my treacherous oil background, and pledge allegiance to all hippies - in particularly this one. But I didn't lie. I told him where I'd come from, and what I'd done. He surprised me by showing intrigue. There was no hint of disapproval, just interest, and something more that made my heart beat a little faster.

When our plane landed he waited by our side. And when our pick-up truck arrived he tagged along with us in the bed of the truck, until we arrived at our unnervingly small boat. It wasn't a coincidence. The musician/hippy/photographer hadn't prebooked on a tour - he was hoping to score a last minute deal, and (as I learned much later) he already had his sights set on more than just our boat.

We all boarded, and Mark and I checked out our above deck shared quarters. I could hear Dan's voice belting out 'Hotel California' from below deck. The guy was more interesting than anyone I'd met in forever. I'd been blown away by the fluent Spanish that had come tumbling out of him when we climbed on board and introduced ourselves to the boat tour guide, and the subsequent banter and negotiations that followed between our guide and Dan thereafter. He was singing for a discounted ticket - on the premise he would provide live nightly entertainment.

Ship mates, Galapagos, 2003
(left to right: Jo, Mark, Nadav, Dan) 

'Please let him stay' was all I could think over and over. The world was looking more vibrant with this man in it and I didn't want a grey shadow to fall over the great Galapagos Islands. Inevitably we all got we wanted (accept for Mark) and from then on, Mark may as well have been chopped liver. I guiltily sensed he was feeling sidelined, but there hadn't ever been any promise of romance - even though we were sharing tight quarters on a most romantic voyage.

Jo, Galapagos 2003

Dan showed no mercy to Mark, who had never been a potential suitor in my eyes. But Dan never knew that. As far as he was concerned, he'd met a couple traveling together - and berthing together, but no honor code made him step back. Much like Darwin's 'Survival of the Fittest' developed on these Islands, all was fair in love and war. It didn't matter - although I don't know if I even realized it at the time - I was already smitten with our 'off the wall' cruise crasher.


The next few days were the most magical of my life, with each dawn offering a different once-in-a-lifetime experience. We had dolphins racing the nose of our boat - just beyond our reaching fingertips as we laid bellies flat on the front bow. We swam with sea lions, turtles and penguins (on my birthday) - and even over circling sharks! One day the sea before us erupted into a thousand flipping rays - somersaulting to rid themselves of some pesky parasite.

'eccentric hippy' Galapagos, 2003

The nights offered backpacker banter and relaxation, and romance was hard to resist. After the others had retired to their bunks, Dan and I would sit at the back of our boat, watching sea lions pop-up - cheekily hitching a ride inside the towed rowing boat if they dared. The fast moving black sea was hypnotic beneath us, with the shiny fluorescent plankton catching the moonlight. We shared our stories, hopes, fears and dreams. It didn't take many nights before I kissed him first...

The week passed by too quickly, and each day was filled with laughter and love - although it was way too early for either of us to label it so. He nick-named me his 'oil girl' and it thrilled me. He comforted me when I recoiled from the Tuna bludgeoning, and made me hot lemon tea when the cold water overcame me. He hated me smoking. I loved being around him and I felt protected in his arms. I missed him for even the briefest separation...

Dan, Galapagos, 2003

But I was liberated by such a short term romance. I already had my connecting flight booked out of Quito to Cuenca, in the South of Ecuador, so we knew our days were numbered. It didn't hurt - yet - but it made our time all the more special, and I didn't want to waste a second.

Our inevitable goodbye was easy (stiff British upper lip and all) and after a heartfelt hug I refused to look back. The timing of our encounter had been perfect, and I couldn't have wished for a better pick-me-up. I would not allow myself to want more - he hadn't offered it and I already had a plane to catch.

By the time I reached the Galapagos airport I was eager to be seated and on route to the next chapter of my worldly adventure, but the Travel Agents had messed up my flights. My connecting flight out of Quito looked to already be boarding before I had boarded my flight out of the Galapagos. The time difference had been overlooked and there wasn't another flight to Cuenca until Monday (it was Friday).

I didn't want to be hanging around in Quito all weekend. My holiday romance had stayed on in the Galapagos for an extra two days and wasn't returning until Sunday, so there wasn't anything left for me in Gringolandia. I was experiencing a severe comedown after such a wonderful week, and without a new adventure to distract me from my feelings, my withdrawal symptoms were starting to hit hard. I missed my dread lock hippie dude - a lot.

Again I wandered aimlessly through Quito's central tourist grid known as Gringolandia, Marlborough in hand - hoping for fate to throw me a bone. I soon found myself logged on in Papayanet, the cornerstone internet caf and tourist trap of Gringo-Land, ironically situated across the road from H.V.H, which was all of a sudden shrouded by a painfully magical memory.

I opened my Hotmail account and my spine started tingling at the topmost email. It was from 'him'. I clicked on the message eagerly and slowly read the unpunctuated text. If my memory serves me correctly, it read something along the lines of:

hey guirl

heard you missed your flight...

howd you like to come hang out at mine for a couple days/weeks/months?

you could learn spanish, do some yoga, paint a little...    
just a thought                

dan

So I waited nervously for what seemed like hours, on the corner of H.V.H and Papayanet, on a Sunday afternoon for my hippy hobo and his guitar case to show up. After a shy 'reunion' kiss we made our way together out of the safety of Gringolandia. Huddled side by side on a rickety bus belting techno-cumbia, I was unusually quiet - awed by the spontaneity and recklessness of my own actions, and scared to be once again off the beaten track as we headed to a very real district of Quito called La Vicentina Alta, where we would start the rest of our life ... together.

Dan and Jo, H.V.H, Quito, 2003