Dispatch Number 65 -Mechanic

Mechanic
"Mile" the weathered and wrinkled drunk mechanic prattles on something bad with insufferable monologues. Deaf, too, the way drunks are. He was important to befriend for he showed the way to Nazareth over a befuddling maze of dirt track roads. It is so easy to get lost out here. It was how we met Mile in the first place, we got lost and drove into the wrong town.

On the way to Nazareth nearly all the people we passed were members of his family. Men in pickup trucks loaded with cargo and small groups of women walking hunched over with bundles tied to their backs in traditional long dark skirts and white blouses.
With a beer in his hand from the back seat he'd holler in his scratchy voice at them then tell us, that's my cousin, that's my uncle or nephew, and on like that for 10 miles of dirt track.

Once that beer was drained we reached a wood shack, more like a chicken shack that sold snacks and beer. Mile ordered a stop, hopped out and took a drink order at 10am. He frowned, hopped back in the truck, the chicken shack was out of beer. Mile's 10 mile routine was disrupted.

In Nazareth he made introductions, for in these remote and sparsely populated parts of the Guijira desert it means something, it changes they way people interact with you. His introductions and references were extremely helpful.
On second day members of his large family were driving by to say "Hi", people we never met, yet knew who we were. It made the small pueblo more welcoming and less hostile (much of which is in your head). In remote places like this the presence of a stranger is felt like a stone tossed into a calm pond.

David
Otavalo, Ecuador