pathless through the wild

I have been reduced to the understanding of a child, yet even 4-year-old Marigracia understands more then I. Reduced to the level of an infant then perhaps, yet I’m sure 6-month-old Juan Martin would take offense to that statement should he find his voice during my stay. It is infuriating and humbling to be reduced to simple sentences and wild pantomimes.  Never will a quiet moment in English carry the same weight  two humans share over a meal with no language of understanding except that of silence. But Ecuador is anything but silent, its rain chatters on the rooftops, its motorcycles rip through the streets, its birds whistle overtop the ringing laughter of its women, but its cars are loudest of all demanding attention in short angry beeps. As I try to adjust to my newfound silence I relish all that can be communicated from a car horn. Everything from “Move” to “Hello” to “I’m parking behind you” to “I’m having a heated discussion in my car and need to make my point which has nothing to do with anyone on the street” is expressed by a honk. This language I understand, there are no verb conjugations, no irregular stem changes, only one noise communicated through a variety of pitches. I never stopped to consider the importance words hold in my world until I moved to a place where my pointing finger has become more important than my mouth and I understand a car horn better than a human.